Fairy tales and human emotions

I learned about love, sincerity, and sacrifice from Beauty, and the power of laser hair removal and plastic surgery from the beast.


I believe that children start to develop their own self-actualized, non-stimulated inner emotions ranging from fear to anger and sadness to happiness through bedtime stories and fairy tales. This early emotional development helps them acquire their own concepts and strategies in dealing with obstacles and problems they encounter in their daily lives from childhood to old age. It also makes them wonder and understand their own feelings.

As far as I can remember, the earliest sources of my fear were devils, witches, dead people, thunder, forests, and others I usually had in my nightmares. I learned about their imagined existence from my mother's stories and saw their exaggerated images on children's books. The thought that dark places were scary was best illustrated to me by my mother's mention of cemeteries, haunted castles, eerie storms, dark caves, and even villainous characters who were usually in black, and dwelt in dim, mysterious, dangerous places.

I also feared my father's spanking and belts, but it was a kind of fear I consciously knew, and could control by behaving according to his strict code of discipline. Fearing a devil, for instance, lurked in the subconscious level of my mind. It had no tangible cause or material stimulus, and I could not control it. My parents used to scare me that a dead man would come and get me if I did not eat my greens or take my nasty Scott's Emulsion. They always succeeded that way. Scaring me with a whip did not usually work. I always warned them that if I got welts on my butt, I would show them to Mrs. Johnson at school, and that they would go to jail.

My childhood was like hell plagued with scary figures. There were zombies for not eating bitter gourd and Dracula for Brussels sprouts. For not taking my cough medicines, I got the witch flying on a broomstick. When they saw me wear my sister's dress was the scariest experience. I usually got spanked and threatened with a one-eyed giant or a jealous, ugly queen who would ruin my flawless face. These particular characters made me sweat and gasp for air at night when I had a nightmare. Ghosts were the cruelest ones. They made me hide under a thick blanket or lock myself inside a closet. It was a hell of a childhood, indeed.

Every time I read and heard the overused cliche, "and they lived happily ever after," was the only constant moment in my childhood that always made me feel joyful. It gave me hope and made me wish my own perfect prince. I dreamed of a white castle too. I also wished I had many pairs of glass slippers in different colors and styles. I thought I would have lots of chances finding my prince charming that way. I also started to have my own view about God. I really thought He was so nice and powerful for answering all my prayers. When I begged him to intervene, He helped Cinderella. The fairy godmother appeared. God also answered my prayers when Sleeping Beauty woke up. I could not have forgiven Him, had Snow White perished from the poisonous apple. I cried and prayed hard for that one.

I was happy too when I got dolls and girly stuff from my grandmother, when my mother took me to a beauty salon with her, or when I was allowed to take ballet lessons by my father instead of tae kwon do, but I knew the reasons why I became happy. When Belle turned a mean, ugly beast into a nice, handsome prince, I cheered. I was very happy. Though I didn't know why, I felt as if I won, and was vindicated. It seemed her triumph was mine too. Looking back, I think that's how I developed my notions of good and evil. I also started to understand and imbibe human virtues such as patience, honesty, sincerity, and perseverance. I understood humility in Cinderella's story, love and sacrifice from every prince who rescued a damsel in distress, and real friendship I felt between Snow White and his little friends. I saw the goodness of men among the kind-hearted fairies and the seven dwarfs and the wickedness among the scary witches, evil stepmothers, and cruel sorceresses.

My very first deep feeling of anger was towards my father when he told me I was not a girl. It felt like I was being told Doggie, our sweet Labrador, was not a dog. It did not make sense to me that time. I thought my father was joking or lying like what he did about Santa Clause. I did not sleep one Christmas eve trying to spy on Santa. I wanted to see him when he would fill my sock with toys. I did not want his robots and matchbox cars again. He did not arrive, but I caught my father putting a Batman and Robin duo in my pink sock. I found out the truth and protested that I wanted what my sister got- plastic cooking pots and pans for playhouse, cute umbrella, and Barbie dolls. I got none of them.

After my father forcefully turned my shoulder-length hair into army cut, gave all my dolls to my sister, threw away all my collection of red nail polish our neighbors and my girlfriends gave me, and pulled me out from my tutu to wear jerseys for soccer summer camps, I found out he was serious. I realized the painful truth but also learned about the nature of my anger. Most of my childhood anger after that were directed to Cinderella's stepmother, the witch who gave Snow White the poisonous apple, and the sorceress who cast a sleeping spell on a beautiful princess. I hated them extremely. I realized later that their characters existed, so I would know how to control my self-hate when I got tired of living and surviving and understood my hatred towards others when I was bullied and rejected.

My earliest experience of sadness was due to my mother's silence and tears. After my father reprimanded me for my girlish manners and behaviors, I sulked and banged my head on the floor. He wanted me to be like Superman. As far as I knew then, it would be like teaching Ming, our Siamese cat, to bark. He made me undergo his brutal boot camp of catching balls, climbing trees, and pushing gardening carts, instead of jumping ropes, playing house with my sister, and watering roses and daisies. I could no longer bear the cruelty of my father's intentions. I ran to my mother for help. It was so inhuman of my father for making me look horrible in a baseball cap. I thought my mother would understand me. I showed her my cuts and bruises from balls, gloves, and bats. I thought she would sympathize with me. She was just silent. Oftentimes, she would cry. She made me very sad.

Through my mother's bedtime stories and fairy tales, I fully understood sadness and learned to hope. I knew then that every after gloomy winter, colorful spring comes. I knew sadness from Cinderella's lonely nights of doing all household chores and Beauty's sorrow of being away from his father and alone with the beast. The seven dwarfs mourning for Snow White helped me understand the pain of losing someone. I also learned from Sleeping Beauty that even if death comes knocking, I should not lose hope.

Next: Fairy tales and gender relations

Life

Deja vu in bed

Rahul was right. He looked like this model, but Rahul was slighty more handsome and muscular, and with manly, fine, soft body hairs.


It was around five in the afternoon today when I woke up with a wide smile. I felt like I was a dry earth wet by a long-awaited monsoon drizzle. I was filled with joy after almost three weeks of longing for a hot man to explode inside me. He was what I see every time I read Kama Sutra. His looks must be from a lineage of Hindu gods and Maharajas. His hard, muscular body was like a perfect sculpture of David in bronze. He was the classic tall, dark, and handsome. His sex appeal hypnotized my gaze. His musky scent was a sensual aroma I seldom smell on a man. With few words, he spoke with confidence like a minimalist poet. His mind perfectly complemented mine. Rahul was my perfect man, dream, and fun.

I went to a trendy club here in the city around two in the morning. They close at five on weekends. I always go to this club for after-hours partying. I don't queue in line, nor do I pay for anything except my cigarettes. It is the same club where I got and tried ecstasy before. The music was loud and good. Hot, fashionable people go there for drugs, booze, and yes, sex. With a newly lit cigarette in my hand, I was enjoying my Pinot Grigio and swaying my hips to some techno when Rahul approached me. He asked for a light. I later found out he had a Cartier lighter in his pocket. What a pick up! He smoked Benson and Hedges, and had a vodka cocktail. He looked like a male model. He was a perfect example of a metrosexual. I did never know a hot man like Rahul could ever come from India. He indeed gave me a lesson on race, culture, and male hotness and sex appeal.

Around four, the dance floor was becoming bare and empty. Rahul invited me to his hotel. He promised wine and a nice chat. I could not refuse such an offer from a nice, handsome, educated guy I seldom meet in my life. While we were in his rented car, I told him the truth about myself, so he would have the chance of deciding either to drop me home or make love with me all morning. "Don't worry, Babe. I know. You are sexy anyway. I like hot, pretty hijras in my country," he assuredly responded in his slight British-accented perfect English. I guess transsexuals are really all over the world. We kissed before we drove off, and kissed passionately again and again at every traffic stop. His mouth did not taste and smell curry or onions at all. My stereotype was wrong again.

His lips were soft. Their pout was sensual. They reminded me of a delicious, puffy Indian naan bread I had before. I could not have enough of Rahul's lips and kisses. His tongue was not brutally lustful. It entered my mouth and touched my tongue like they were meant to meet. There was no haste in his kissing. His lips expressed his unbridled sexual desire like he was in meditation. His eyes closed like he savored the moment, and would never forget it. His teeth played my lips in a controlled lust to bite. Every move of his mouth was erotic. By the time we reached his new, classy hotel, my lips were slightly swollen and red. I took my lipstick and retouched my lips. I added pink to lighten the obvious traces of Rahul's kisses and desire.

This man was something. He occupied a suite alone. His room was clean and spacious. His stuff was neatly arranged. An Arundathi Roy novel was bookmarked on one of the side-tables. His clothes were bulking Louis Vuitton garment bags. He was almost packed and ready for his flight back to London. Everything he had was all designers. I could tell; I am a label whore. He took off his silver wristwatch. The design looked like a Panerai. Rahul, without a doubt, was a rich, educated, good-looking, young man. I did not ask anything related to his work and finances. I would have projected myself like a gold-digging bitch or a crass whore. I did not want to sound cheap in my expensive get up and cultured, graceful manner. I did not even think of naming my price. It is easy to find just any men who pay, but a hot, classy man like Rahul is rare. He was a find, indeed.

He took off his jacket and mine. I helped him take off his tie. He started kissing me again. I felt I was rewarded for loosening the noose around his neck. It was so erotic untying a man with my eyes on his and our lips together. My hands relied on my unknown sixth sense. He kissed me passionately like I was his long lost lover. I stopped him and asked for wine, so I could rest and breathe for a moment. I put my jacket back on and opened the balcony door to smoke. The dawn was peaceful, and looked lovely. I felt the vast expanse of the universe and the dead silence of time. He checked the bar and got all the chilled mini-bottles of Chardonnay and Zinfandel. He called for wine glasses. What a classy man! He found teacups and hotel bathroom drinking glasses unappealing. He joined me later to smoke with half-filled wine glasses in his hands.

We began to talk and know each other. I lied except my age and name. I told him I was a writer supporting myself from a trust fund. It was not hard for him to believe. After all, I live near his hotel and blocks from Oprah. With my penchant for expensive things, nobody can suspect I am a well-paid whore. The way I talk and express myself is also misleading. My vocabulary is not telling that I am a typical hooker. My expressions and smile are deceiving as well. Even my questions and ignorance about something are not obvious. I can engage in any conversation. I can be a political analyst with a politician, a person interested in medical science with a doctor, and even a critic of capitalism with an economist or a businessman. I can be an opposite to Julia Robert's Pretty Woman anytime.

Rahul got his Masters in Economics at Cambridge University and MBA at Stanford. He went to UCLA for his undergraduate degree in Business. He was just thirty-three years old, but he could pass as twenty-five. He was single, and based in London. I knew he was telling the truth. I saw British Airways tags attached on his bags. He was in town to close a business deal. He gave me his calling card. He was an executive of a manufacturing firm. He told me he worked for the biggest steel producer in the world. With all his money and accomplishments, he sounded a humble gentleman. I felt so little. I had nothing to say for him to know more about me. I dropped out from my master's. My bachelor's degree is useless. My certificate in film is just a paper. I was a massage therapist, and now, I am a whore. I use men. My boobs are fake. Even my nose was surgically altered. I am getting a pussy soon. I don't think those are the things classy, serious, educated men would want to know from me.

Without his jacket, Rahul was freezing. He could not even finish his cigarette. We got back inside. He took my jacket off again. He was such a gentleman. We settled on a King-sized bed with four soft large pillows. We talked and cuddled. We had our clothes on, but I felt naked with him. We kissed fervidly again and again like we wanted to memorize our kisses and lips, so we would not forget that we met. The glow of his eyes was like that of a diamond in a dimly lit room. His hugs and cuddles were sweet and cozy. I felt loved even in such an instant, temporary urge. With my cheek on his chest, I was in heaven. I could feel his muscles. His heartbeat was like a ticktack of a clock. I did not want every moment to end. I liked Rahul. I could love him in a fraction of a second if only I had the chance.

By six in the morning, our chat was turning into sweet nothings. Rahul was very hard. I could feel his bulge through his pants. We wanted to do more than kissing. He took off my clothes and his. He was wearing a pair of hot Calvin's. It was obvious that he worked out a lot. He had no visible body fats. His stomach was like a washboard. He had the body of the Greek heroes I imagined when I read Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. Rahul had the masculinity of Achilles. His sensuality could rival Odysseus'. He was a god on earth embracing me at that moment. I gave myself to him like an excited human sacrificial offering. I was ready to satisfy his lust. His eyes begged for everything; mine assured him I was all his. Rahul could do anything to me. It would be nice to die in erotic ecstasy in his arms.

His moves and caresses were gentle and sweet. His manner of expressing his desire was very princely like what I read in Vedic Mahabharata and Ramayana. He understood my touch. Even the begging of my glances was familiar to him. He listened to my whispers. He satisfied me without hesitation. He probed my feminine contours and curves with his feather-like touch. His manly hands did not even spare my bulge and creases. His body hairs felt like cut silky threads on my smooth, hairless skin. They were fine and soft. He took off his white boxers. His manhood was a gift. He was well-endowed. He was uncut but clean. I nervously touched him. Every spot of his body was a feeling of extreme erotic sensation. Rahul responded sensually to every touch, stroke, and light scratch I made.

The smacking and wet noises of his kisses were soothing like a soft, slow temple mantra. He kissed me all over. His tongue knew where to go and settle. His lips planted kisses from my forehead to my toes. My breasts were like succulent strawberries in his mouth. Even his licking of my forefinger felt like I gave my whole self to him. He went down on me. He took his time on my tummy and belly button. My breasts were wet. I was lactating. I was so excited, and getting wild. I comb his thick, dark hair with my fingers from his nape up to his forehead and slowly pushed his head further down. Rahul made me feel good. I did not care anymore what my ego tried to tell me. I just wanted to experience everything with him. I lay on a bed holding a head of a man, who knew and felt my lust and what I desired.

I did not want to explode yet. I pulled him up like I wanted more of his lips, and we kissed ardently like time did not exist. I got up and asked him to lie down. My mouth wanted more than his wet kisses. I was very willing to return the favor. I gave him what my mouth could proudly offer. I wanted to satisfy him the way he did on me. I had his manhood. Rahul was delicious. He loved my mouth and my tongue. He did not want to end the moment. He delicately pulled me up by holding both of my cheeks like he would a bowl on his hands. We kissed and inhaled each other's breathing. He whispered if we could make love. I did not say anything. I just grabbed a condom and a packet of lube in my purse and gave them to him. I then lay facedown. He parted my long hair and placed them on both sides, kissed my nape, and ran his tongue down to my buttocks. He ate me. It felt good. His tongue loosened me up. I felt his mouth owned my entire body. I could not stop him. Even my concept of my own womanhood and femininity became blurry. I just let him.

"Isa....., I'll go gentle. You really make me crazy, Babe," he excitedly said. I just turned my head, so he could see my lips wanting to be kissed some more. With my cheek on a pillow, Rahul kissed me torridly while he poured a packet of lubricant along the crevice of my buttocks. He was on top of me. I could feel him sliding his manhood along the crease up and down and hitting my lower back. He was warming up. I could not take it anymore. I implored him to enter me. He was very giving. He slowly slid it in. The pain felt good. He was long and thick. He pushed and pulled up and down. He liked the warmth inside me. It felt very orgasmic like there was a fire inside my tummy and a butterfly flapping on my chest. It was very painful but arousing . My long sighs and muted moans turned him on. He could tell that he was making me happy through my deep breathing.

Rahul slid his body to lay himself down facing sideways and turned me halfway with my back towards him without pulling out his manhood. In an embrace, he grabbed my breasts and played my milk-wet, aroused nipples while he was still inside me enjoying every push and pull he made. I turned my head to reach his lips and we kissed again in uncontrollable passion. We were sweating. He played the softness of my breasts while he was enjoying my tightness. He moved again to lie down on his back and pulled me up on top of him in one motion while he still continuously humped me. While I was on top of him facing the ceiling, his left hand was caressing my breasts, and the other was at the bottom holding and exploring the source of my low self-esteem. His coordination was superb. I did not bother to stop him. My conscience could understand. I just wanted to try everything with Rahul without guilt and inhibition. My neck in contortion found his impassioned lips again. I loved his spit. While his hardworking arms were satisfying my joy, his manhood was plowing me in rhythm with the strokes of his hands. It seemed every part of my body was filled and touched, so was his. I was in extreme erotic ecstasy.

We were like the possessed bacchae of Dionysus in Medea of Euripides. We satisfied each other like we were doing it for the gods. We did our best for our extreme lust. Rahul knew Kama Sutra. We made love in a Tantric pose. He made me feel like I was his most desired courtesan in his harem. He was moaning when I was about to explode. I told him I was coming. His gripping and grabbing of my breasts were harder. The up and down strokes of his other hand were faster. His manhood inside me was reaching deeper and deeper. We were both sweating profusely, moaning, and shaking. I went back again to his lips. We kissed thirstier for each other's spit. Our tongues were in sensual duel. I could not take it anymore. I oozed my orgasmic joy. He let go of my lips and gently bit my shoulder. He quivered and filled me with content. "Thanks, Babe," he whispered like he had never made love like what we just did.

We got up and cleaned ourselves. It was almost seven in the morning. We showered together. After we had breakfast, he walked me home. I asked if he had a photograph in his wallet in case we cross each other's path again. He had none. He smilingly told me the name of an Indian model his friends resembled him to. He thought it would work if I needed something to remind me of him. After we had our last French kiss and sweet, tight bear-hug and said our good-byes, he assured me and promised that we would meet again. He was back to his hotel. His flight was at noon. If ever I decide to move to London or spend time in India, my sole motivation is to see Rahul and make love with him again. His body on mine felt familiar. We made love like we knew each other from the past. Even his breathing was akin to someone's before. His moans were like echoes of a distant memory. His deep sighs did not sound like a stranger's struggle for joy. I had a deja vu in bed with Rahul.

Sexuality

Euthanasia and men's innate lust

Who would want her to die?


The news about the case of euthanasia in Florida really bothers me. It makes me question my concepts of morality and dying. I am even doubting the existence of God again for not intervening by giving the suffering woman a peaceful death. It would have been easy if only there is a real, powerful god we can call like 911.

Michael Schiavo, the husband, won a court ruling allowing him to pull the feeding tube of his former wife to quickly end her life. He has a new wife and family now. I support euthanasia, but only if a suffering patient is the one seeking it and initiating his own demise. Like life, death is also a choice, but having someone decide a patient's survival or death, if not cruel, is just bizarrely inhuman.

After I saw the recent photograph of Terri Schiavo, the wife and patient in a coma, it became clearer to me that men's lustful nature is at play in this issue as well. This case also involves money from life insurance and medical malpractice settlement, but this is another topic: men's greed. For now, let me share how men's lustful nature becomes relevant in the issue of euthanasia.

Given a choice, no man wants an ugly wife or girlfriend. Men are innately visual. Even women in their fantasies are hot and gorgeous, and to die for. If an ugly woman appears in their dream, it's a nightmare. Most obese women find food comforting because they are alone and tired of men's rejections. Women who have money but good looks resort to plastic surgery. I don't wonder why some men could abuse and desecrate dead bodies of young, beautiful women.

Even in the world of primates, a male chimp, for example, grooms himself to attract the most desired female in a group. It is common among desirable female chimps to have multiple partners. There are also those without partners at all. There are cases of invalid, old, and undesirable chimps being ostracized, banished, left to die, and even murdered by a group. There are even lonely chimps that commit suicide and female chimps that kill their weak, abnormal young.

I do think men's mastery of probing a female body and judging if she's hot and desirable or not is genetic. It is a way of making a gene pool free of impurities and undesired traits. American bald eagles, for instance, kill by starving their weak, undesired newly hatched eaglets. It's not only infanticide but also euthanasia in the animal world. Men's eye for beauty is not only influenced by aesthetics, but biology and evolutionary process as well.

Had Terri Schiavo been hot, pretty, and angelic in her state of unconsciousness, her husband would never leave her and find another woman. He would move mountains to revive her. He would even wait years for Terri to open her eyes. He would not be going to courts for her to die. He would be praying to all gods he could think to bring his lovely, beautiful Terri back to life. Unfortunately, it is not the case. Michael Schiavo wants her wife, who has lost her grace, dead.

I still can remember that night when I was a kid. I was so overjoyed after my mom ended her bedtime story. The prince kissed her, she woke up, and they lived happily ever after. Thinking about this case, my mom's tale made everything clearer to me. Had Sleeping Beauty been ugly, pale, scary-looking, emaciated, and all bones, she would still be sleeping. No prince would ever awaken her with a kiss.

Politics

Postmodern poetry before Foucault

Silence is poetry in itself. 


I want to share two poems by a Filipino poet named Jose Garcia Villa. I learned the profound meaning of silence from his poems. I was in elementary school when I first read his works.


The Emperor's New Sonnet















The Bashful One















,




They are his poems. Aren't they poignant? I did not know then why my father wanted me to read Villa. I am just realizing it now. He wanted me to prepare for the rough times, when he would no longer be around to teach me how to swim by holding my chin or to cover me up during the darkest storm. I now have nobody to turn to when I am being bullied or suffering from a bleeding cut, but my silence. The world is just so cruel. I should not have been born.


Poetry

Gym and laundry room stories

Sitting on top of a running dryer is very orgasmic. It's a huge, warm vibrator. Just don't lose your change. 


Weekends are always slow. I guess these are the hunting nights for men. They don't usually call hookers. They would rather cruise bars and clubs for some freebie fun. I don't blame them. Whores are cheap in the eyes of many but damn pricey in the pockets of most. I still believe girlfriends are the most expensive. Not to disrespect, most women are smarter now. They can spot BS from afar.

Ufuk used to tell me, "I wish you were a hooker; I will just fuck you, pay, and leave." He was in love then, and complaining about my choice of a fancy, upscale restaurant. Now that I am a hooker, I wonder if he would still have that convenient wish. I don't think I would charge him. His cuddling and kisses would be enough a payment. If I could, I would love to fly him out here. I miss his cock and fucking. When we were together, his scent was my clue he was horny. Mine was blatant; I just stripped off naked. I miss that.

After sucking my only client today, I worked out at the gym in my apartment building just five floors above me. They just hired a new personal trainer. He is hot but already taken. His girlfriend is a trainer too. He charges twenty bucks for an hour. He is good. I want my abs flatter and harder like Janet Jackson's. I don't care much about my Asian ass. I am getting butt implants soon. For three grand, I can have a JLO ass. I just love medical science.

I worked out for almost an hour. I did not get bored. There were lots of new faces in the gym. Even my new neighbors were there. They are a hot, young couple I met a week ago in the laundry room, while I was unloading my stuff for drying. The woman just smiled in amazement while her husband was busy getting coins from the machine. I used two dryers for my thongs that filed up unwashed for months. Washing is just a bitch. I wish I could have my undies dry-cleaned or washed by Mrs. Lee too. Laundry room is just a waste of my time and vision. I wish those white machines were in colors, and had futuristic designs. Washing my laundry would be interesting.

I think they know about me. She is a nurse, and he is a medical resident at Northwestern. They know human anatomy, osteology, and anthropometry. Telling them about myself would be like revealing that the Pope is Catholic. That would be dumb. I am always honest about myself. I don't want to be liked for what I am not. I am no lying Jerry Springer freak. After finishing my work out, a thought of having threesome with them came up in my mind. I find them hot, very friendly, and quite open-minded.

If they are kinky, I think I am a good alternative. With me, she won't feel like a lesbian. My DNA silently screams male. Her husband can easily condition himself that he is not gay. I have a set of lactating, soft 36D boobs. I am basically a couple in one. I would be a delightful bedroom buffet for them both. While inside the elevator heading back to my place, something popped up in my mind, "Will I charge them?" Damn! I am a hoe, big time, indeed.

Personal

My birthday gift

Trust yourself. Never trust dogs. They bark. 


I want to share important lessons in life to my nephew, who is turning ten today. I have no birthday gift for him but philosophical insights important in growing up in a chaotic world, where sometimes reason is overshadowed by whim, and need is overlooked, but want. I hope someday he will get to read this.


My nephew,

Never despair. Never give up. Let nothing overwhelm or discourage you. Be confident. Masturbate. Your father does it. Your uncles and even your aunt are no exception. Your younger brothers soon will. Your future sons will do the same. Real happiness is found in small, trivial things. It is priceless.

Guilt is the enemy of reason. Never be easily swayed by passion. Ponder upon your feelings. Strive to reach your farthest star. Never let anyone pull you back. The world is vast. Have fun with life. Build your future. The gift of nature is wonderful. Be a man like you want to be. Never finger yourself.

A man's value is his honesty and integrity. He is measured through his diligence and resourcefulness. His worth is his ability. He is what he thinks and does. Never become a peeping Tom. Wasps and termites can be in any crack or hole. Download a porn.

You are worthless without the love and nurture of women. You are the offspring of their toil and sacrifice. You are what they dream and hope. Respect your older sister and obey your mother. Always delete your porn downloads. Even the cookies must go.

Be calm when you are confused. The validity of arguments are not on the loudness of voice and uncontrolled outburst. Learn to be serene amid noises and voices around you. Silence is a beautiful gift of time. Be discreet. Try not to scream when you cum.

Never fear surprises. They are the amazement for the senses. Appreciate the beauty of a lotus flower, the stillness of a pond, and the colors of a butterfly's wings. Look around in awe. The universe exists for humans to wonder. Yes, cum is slimy and yellowish dirty white, and it smells like chlorine. You can taste it.

Explore for your own answers when you have questions. Doubting makes you sure. There is nothing wrong if there are moments you wish. Hoping is better. Doing it is the best. Memories are powerful. Never limit the reach of your mind. You can fantasize about Angelina Jolie or think of a naked Paris Hilton.

Live life the way you want it. Never self-destruct. Never blame others for your failure. Never punish yourself for your faults. Remember you can change. You can also ruin. Enjoy life. Learn to love. Be confident. Keep masturbating. You will know when you are ready to fuck.

Your aunt,

Isa.....

Life

Horseback riding in my bedroom

Now I know how tough it is to be a horse to a rough jockey.  


I had a nice come back from my hiatus. I had three dates today. I made six hundred dollars. Sex work is still booming. This is the only industry that can't be outsourced overseas. I was not satisfied though. I did not get fucked. None of them looked hot enough to make me bend over, lactate, and scream for a nice orgasm. Nothing was really special to write about them except my last one, a dude in his late twenties who had an unusual fantasy: pony play.

He did not thoroughly explain his fantasy on the phone except his interest in a simple role-play. Keith's request was manly and safe enough for me. We went ahead and set the time. When I hear a client mention role-play, I usually ask if it involves him wearing my lingerie, thongs, and heels or getting fucked. If his answer is positive, I simply hang up the phone. Aside from being size six, my dress measurement, I want real men not closeted fags. I am not a gay halfway-house. If he wants gay sex, he can call gay male hookers.

If I get fucked in the ass, it's not really gay. My Japanese girlfriends love it, so does my sister. She was the one who told me about A-spot in the ass. You can rent lots of straight anal sex porn videos too. Some men like to drill asses because they are tighter. Others like to hump behind so they can finger or watch their women play their pussies with dildoes and vibrators. Many fuck asses as a healthy alternative when their partners have menstruation. Most do it to experience something kinky and different.

Keith just wanted pony play. He got to my place early without any hassle. He was neither hot nor ugly. I charged him two hundred dollars considering his age, weight, race, looks, and declared demands. I charge more if old, fat, and ugly. I don't entertain, date, or meet Black, Asian, most Middle Eastern, and some South American clients. I will write a separate post about it. My reasons involve no racism but statistics and Game Theory. I have avoided danger, wasting my time, and dumb, obnoxious, or cheap fuckers because of my theoretical approach when it comes to my would-be clients.

After Keith paid, he got naked and asked me to do the same. He looked clean, and he was hard and cut. He was not that big though. I asked him how to do pony play. I thought I had to ride on his back. It was the other way around. He wanted to ride on me. I also asked if it involved ass fucking. Anal sex is extra one hundred bucks if I like a client. He promised that there would be no sucking and fucking. I laid a thick blanket on the hardwood floor, dropped on my hands and knees, and played as Keith's pony. I got his instructions right.

He asked me if I had lube. I protested since we agreed not to fuck. He explained to me that he needed it on my back. He swore again that he would not fuck me. Convinced, I got a bottle of Astroglide, then back to my horse position. Keith lubed the crevice of my ass and his cock. I reminded him again of our agreement, and that I would call the security downstairs if he would force himself inside me and ignore what I told him. He requested me to relax and trust him. I did.

With his lube-wet hands, he stroked my shoulders, nape, arms, back, and waists. He gave me a good rubbing. He reached and touched my hanging soft breasts and flat tummy. He loved them. Keith was lightly riding on my back like a jockey. He squeezed my ass cheeks with both hands. He was so turned on. I could feel his cock sliding up and down along my crevice. He spanked me like a jockey would whip his horse. It hurt. I did not complain. His sliding got faster and faster. I knew he was coming soon.

He collected some of my loose, waist-long hair together and pulled them like a jockey would hold onto a horse's mane. That really hurt. I remained silent. I did not want to interrupt his concentration and fantasy. Keith was about to orgasm. He spanked me simultaneously with his two hands. He pulled my hair again and quivered like he had a heart attack. I felt his cum all over my back. I cleaned up and got dressed. I then stood up to block the bedroom door and asked extra fifty bucks for all the torture I got. He did not make a drama out of it. He gave me three twenty-dollar bills.

"Can we wrestle next time?" he asked. I just smiled and told him to call me. He thanked and hugged me, then left. I checked the clock. It was fifteen minutes after Keith got in. What a fantasy! Even if I got spanked and my hair pulled harder, I still want more like that: an easy fifteen-minute horseback riding in my bedroom.

Fantasy

Insomnia as addiction

The marketing of this product is targeted to women. It is lowfat; the design is cute and the color earthy; and it feels good. Try it.  


I could not sleep last night. I went to my study room, duct-taped the window, played Maria Callas, and locked myself inside for four hours. I wrote and read blogs. Bottles of mocha frappuccino kept me awake since insomnia wouldn't let me sleep. I lit my tobacco pipe for some aroma, and to fight boredom. I stayed late until four in the morning. Insomnia is cruel. I wish I had it when I had a boyfriend, so we could fuck all day and night. I wouldn't complain. Insomnia would have been a friend. I have just enumerated some of my addictions that make me sane or insane in my own terms.

I love operatic arias. Even if you don't understand the language, the music gets into you. I guess agony and joy need no translation and defining. I haven't seen an angel, but if there is a female one, her voice must be like Maria Callas'. It speaks directly to your heart. It makes guilt clearer in your conscience. She sings about pain and death as if their is still hope left to live and to be happy. I sometimes choke up and smile at the same time when I listen to her struggle and triumph from those high notes. I knew about tears of joy and happy death from her. I was in the first grade when she made me feel I was Puccini's Madama Butterfly.

I am addicted to blogging and reading blogs. I don't wonder; I am a voyeur and sometimes exhibitionist. I am an indoor nudist too. Knowing what someone uses for a toilet paper, where he orders pizza, or how she likes to get fucked gives me comfort. After all I am human, and I am not alone. I too have those sometimes disturbing thoughts. Bloggers are amazing people. They have redefined brilliance and honesty. They can write something interesting about things we dismiss as trivial, ordinary, and nonsensical. If one can make an excellent story about his nose-picking or farting, that is simply brilliant. There is nothing more interesting than someone blogging about taking a dump as fun. Sharing how one masturbates with a finger in his ass is what I call pure, untainted honesty.

There is just something about frappuccino I am not quite sure. I can make better iced coffee, but I prefer filling my fridge with bottles of Starbucks mocha-flavored coffee drink. I thought about it last night. I think it is not really the taste that keeps me buying them. Its bottle just feels perfect between my grip. The bottle's length, thickness, and even smoothness remind me of a very thick, long, smooth-shaven, flawless cock. I am a sweet person, and touching and holding are common in Asian culture. I think I am right with my observation. Ufuk once told me that I was so possessive of him. Even when we were asleep, we cuddled, and I held his cock like I would not let anyone touch it. Ufuk missed it though. I was selfish more than anything else. I just don't share my toothbrush.

I just bought my pipe yesterday. I really like it. It is better than smoking cigarettes. I felt relaxed last night while lighting, hitting, and puffing it. I had too much time to entertain mundane thoughts and understand my idiosyncrasies. I even thought hard why I am addicted to smoking in the first place. As I blogged, I kept on using my tobacco pipe. I playfully held it, and it kept my mouth busy even when nothing was burning, and it was empty. A moment like this, I could have finished a pack of Marlboro 100's easily. I checked the amount of tobacco I used. It was just a pinch for four hours of battling it out with insomnia. I went to bed thinking maybe I am not really addicted to nicotine. Maybe my mouth is just used to licking, sucking, and blowing, thus, I smoke.

Personal

The poetics of suicide

Did you feel the pulse of meanings locked between syllables of unspoken words? How did it frighten you when you had fear ever since? Have you found the silence that is eternal, the time that is infinite, and the space that is endless? Sergei, tell me in my dream. 


After hearing the news about the death of Hunter Thompson, a pioneering writer of Gonzo journalism, my childhood obsession of understanding a writer's suicide came back like a long lost lover I refused to see for years, and who kept on stalking me. It bothers me again. I want to write about it. I feel that sometimes death is beautiful to someone, and for him, to die is not really to vanish but to rest from the torture of living.

I grew up intellectually weaned by my father through the poems and the stories by Russian writers. I understood love and sacrifice from Leo Tolstoy. I learned to internalize pain after reading the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky. I got my patriotic fervor, sense of nationalism, and class consciousness from the poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Alexander Pushkin. My father was an intellectual whore to Russian literature and idealist poodle of Socialism. He was a voracious reader and tireless Marxist ideologue.

The first time I read a poem written by Sergei Yesenin, I instantly fell in love with him. I felt he was still alive, and he wrote poetry just for me. I was like fourteen when I had the urge to know more about him. I waited for him in my dreams. I wanted to see his face, feel his body, and hear his voice, even just a whisper. I felt even his sneeze would be poetic enough to put me into trance and make me offer my body, and I would be lucky to have the chance of feeling his breathing on my chest while comforting him. Sergei ignored my desire. Even for a brief moment, he did not appear in my dream.


I can no longer cry; I have cried my last. My eyes can no longer blink; I am tired of the ritual of seeing dead stares because to see is to suffer from the silence that haunts me. 


I stopped waiting for the erotic gift of midnight and slumber. I visited several libraries to find any image of him. Even a sketch would be enough to satisfy my lust. It took me six months to finally find a photo of him printed on a page of a book detailing his life. It was an orgasmic moment for me. Sergei was handsome, fresh, and youthful. His looks was poetry in itself. He made me think that if God does exist, He is the greatest poet Himself for creating such a man. The life expressed through his persuasive, nonchalant eyes were like exquisite words in connivance and contradiction. I wanted him. Her lips where like those of a shy poet refusing to share even a syllable. I wanted to kiss him. I could be a slave of his flesh the way his words hypnotized me. I adored him.

Sergei reminded me of Arthur Rimbaud, the wild French poet whose works once drove me to salivate and play myself. I was hesitant to read Sergei's biography. I did not want to know everything about him. He might have done something that would hurt me and make me wish the book about his life did not exist. My desire of knowing him was as overwhelming as my imagined idea of him as a great man. Turning my back was like rejecting him and not accepting his faults and misgivings. I should be his understanding lover. In the end, I chose disappointing pain and regret over perfect hallucinations and knowing him over dreaming. I read the book.

I was very jealous after finding out that he was once married to the great Isadora Duncan, the doyen of feminine grace. If women want to learn sensuality through pointing with toes as if a ground is heaven, swaying of hips like romancing with a phantom prince, or delicate moving and stretching of arms and legs like a flight of a freed phoenix, Isadora's movements were graces from the goddesses in myths and legends. Like Martha Graham, she taught me about the beauty of being a woman and the power of subtle elegance. Several months later, Isadora left him. My heart sunk. It was so cruel of her. I could not forgive what she did to him. Losing love is the gravest punishment. My sympathy belonged to my Sergei.


Perhaps you were right that somewhere serenity reigns like wings and that there is beauty in the stillness of flight. 


I continued reading about his lost love and sad life. He was wild yet lonely. He loved life, yet he longed to rest. Why did Sergei bother to give his heart to someone who did not desire for it? I felt like I wanted to tell him I was here ready and just for him. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I could open my chest and grab and show him my bloody heart no matter how gory it would be. I was all his. Everything I had was his. I just wanted him to live. I was devastated. I cried. Even the whistling tropical breeze of summer that year could not mute my sobs. Sergei, with a dagger, slit his wrists like his pen piercing the emptiness of a white paper. His blood oozed like ink birthing haunting imagery and poignant metaphors.

I cheered when he survived, but living was too painful for him. He wanted to rest from the travails of life and free himself from the agony of suffocated breathing. He hanged himself the next day. I felt I also died. It seemed life that moment was meaningless. I closed the book speechless and shattered. He ended his life like he wrote a poem needy of a period and hungry for an end, and leaving me many questions that would forever remain unanswered and making me ask open-endedly, "Why, Sergei?"


Poetry

My latest oral craze

If men are born like this, with eight strong arms, no woman can ever fake her orgasm and dismiss her man as boring. 


I got my hormone shots this morning. Right after my doctor injected them into my ass, I felt like I was human again. I started to regain my strength and feel my groove. Out of a sudden, I had a brief hot flash all over my face and neck and became horny like I was dying to see and touch a hot guy's big, cut cock or swallow David's sweet-salty cum. Unfortunately, my doctor is gay, so flirting with him wouldn't work. We chatted a little bit, then I left.

While walking around the block after my relishing lunch in a Thai restaurant, I found a cigar bar-cum-tobacco store. It was my first time to be in such a place. I did never think smoking cigar or burning tobacco could be that classy. I saw men in coat and tie and women in suits. I found a corner to lounge, ordered double espresso, and smoked a thin cigar. I picked a cigar magazine and pretended I was a real connoisseur. When I am in classy places, I don't project myself a whore. I "dewhorify" myself when I go out. At the bar, I felt like a confident, stylish girl of a sleek Sicilian Mafioso in my black Armani get up, authentic Hermes bag, and Manolo's.

An older man approached me and introduced himself. He was an art dealer. We talked about how contemporary Asian paintings are underpriced at Christie's and Sotheby's, and it seems collectors are more interested to own a centuries-old stone head or arm of a mangled, looted statue of Buddha from East Asia or a marble sculpture of a semi-naked, voluptuous Hindu courtesan in a Tantric fuck-me pose. I think it is not racism at all, but exoticism and eroticism of the East represented by the cultural remains of its past. Western art collectors are funny. Even lowly rugs become objects of their curious, Orientalist minds.

Before the gentleman could probe me from head to toes like an expert antiquarian interested in anything Asian, I excused myself. After he gave me his business card, I moved to the next wing and checked the tobacco store. I have been trying to quit smoking cigarettes not for health-related concern. Though I am not a change smoker, I just hate the nicotine stench I can smell on my clothes, purse, and even on my apartment walls and living room couches.

When I smoke, I don't really inhale. I just like to hit and blow. Cigarettes are getting expensive too. The last time I bought a pack, it was almost seven bucks. At the tobacco store, I felt it was time to change my oral fixation habit. I don't inhale anyway, so I need an affordable and less-stinky option, since quitting is impossible at this time. I found the right one for me.

After giving the salesman a tip, I left. I drove home with a smile on my face. Now, I have something harder, thicker, longer, and hotter for my mouth, if I crave to suck and lick something smoking, and on fire. I just bought a filtered black, wooden pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and some little stuff I need to maintain my new craze. I will only use it at home, and pipe-smoking is very relaxing. The aroma is better than the stench from burning Marlboro's.

Entertainment

Stain on my Prada

What an expensive embarrassment! 


Just after lunch today, I went to a Laundromat, three blocks from my apartment, to have a white stain on my black Prada skirt steamed off and dry-cleaned. I did not touch it myself. I was scared of fabric discoloration like what happened before to my Junya Watanabe dress. I messed it up when I tried to get rid of a tiny stain from ketchup. I ended up selling it very cheap on e-bay. My hands are not really good with any stain. It's my fashion curse.

Yes, I am a label whore. I spend more money on clothes than on food. I am on a diet. I also spend a lot on dry-cleaning. Expensive clothes are not made to be washed. They will lose glow, color, and texture if you put them in a washing machine. I think this is an intentional conspiracy among high-end designers. They don't make machine-washable clothes, so you keep on upgrading your wardrobe when dry-cleaning seems too much.

I talked to the Korean owner, who knows me by name, and showed her the stain. Mrs. Lee has been dry-cleaning my clothes for two years now. She teasingly giggled, and I knew what she was thinking. Yes, she thought it was a cum stain. I wore it a month ago to a trendy club here called Moda, where I met a hot Greek guy. I was neither a one night stand nor a hooker then. We just kissed in his parked car while I jerked him off. The guy was a shooter.

I thought I avoided his cum shots pretty well. I made it sure he would shoot on his tummy. He had hard abs. I even watched him wipe his cum off with Starbucks gray napkins. I had no idea where the stain came from. As far as I knew, I did not come. My thong that night was not even wet. I got excited, but I did not orgasm. The stain on my Prada skirt had been a mystery for a while until I checked the white Balenciaga corset I wore that night. I found the culprit: my breasts.

When I get excited, I lactate. My doctor assured me during my last visit that it is due to Depo-provera, a progesterone hormone shot. I thought, at first, my silicone boobs leaked. I was scared though I knew silicone is tasteless and colorless. My breast milk is salty and white. I squeezed a drop and tasted it. I did not bother to explain everything to Mrs. Lee. Her English is not that good. She might misunderstood me. I just smiled like I confirmed what she thought. She gave me a discount. I paid her. It was ten bucks. Embarrassed, I left hoping she did not think I was a sloppy cock-sucking slut.

Entertainment

If I were a muslim

Don't get serious now. 


I would not be a jihadi;
I love to suck an Israeli.
I would be a hoe to a Jew
whose cock is hot and cut.

I would not be a suicide bomber;
there is no promised preteen fucker.
I would not fight in the name of God.
I would bend for soldiers who are sad.

I would show my pussy
if I see a humvee.
I would ask an army
if he brings KY jelly.

If they want to relax and cum,
I would let them drill my bum.
I would praise Allah and say salam
and give them head then some.

I would ride and blow
by the platoon or by the row;
Marines prefer a slut to a gunshot.
In this war, a whore would be sore.

I would not hide or run
if I see a GI with a gun;
I would ask any John
if he wants kinky fun.

If they want to get laid,
they should stop the raid.
I would suck and fuck if paid
aside from UN food and US aid.

Goodbye Saddam;
welcome Uncle Sam.

Poetry

Ordered, mangled human anatomy

Can this be an abstract painting? 


I have been thinking of going back to painting, but I want my artwork to be inexpensive, effortless, and devoid of grandiose concepts. I want to test the limit of art for art's sake and the cultural pretension among arts aficionados.

I want to cut a portrait photo into different, irregularly sized square and rectangular pieces and paint each piece on a canvass in black and white. If a viewer looks at the series of paintings individually, they will look abstract, and if viewed as a whole from afar, it will be a portrait painting composed of several pieces.

Ah! Yes, it will be a nude full body portrait of me for shock value. Has this been done before? Any artists out there?

My writing, tattoo, and lesbians

My Japanese friend once told me that I am like a branch of cherry blossoms- chaotic from afar but ordered and serene when seen near. 


It was not my intention to write my seemingly snotty treatise on men so I could bash them or propagate stereotypes about women. I only wrote what I have observed and learned to be true. Someone asked me why I write the way I do. If physical science is trying to come up a unifying theory to explain everything about the universe, I believe it is also possible in writing to merge high and low literatures and cultures, classics and smut, political commentaries and sexual articles, and scholarly materials and trash ramblings. After all, readers come from different backgrounds and have varied interests. I want to be a writer who can be sexual, political, scholarly, poetic, critical, literary, scientific, pornographic, and acerbic in my materials. Though I don't know if I will succeed, I will keep on trying.

Although I am not apologetic, I hope, after my five long essays on men and their cocks, I have redeemed myself from the pornographic eroticism of rape in my confessional memory recall, Understanding John Paul. I was hesitant to write the way it went at first, but I found ignoring my thoughts was really acquiescing to challenge. I don't easily shy away from anything challenging. That is the reason why I blog. I can write anything without ambivalence because I want to empty my mind with thoughts and ideas that have stayed dormant for so long. As I said before, writing about my pain heals me. By writing my memories, the painful and horrible ones, I can finally rebury them in the past. They will no longer haunt me. I can move on now with a sigh of relief that, at long last, I have said my piece, had my last laugh, and won. Life, indeed, is like writing. It also has a denouement- a final resolution.

Almost a week now, I haven't written about my clients and my sex escapades. It is partly because of my mood. I need hormone shots so bad. Two more days, I will be in the mood to see and touch strangers' cocks again. The other reason for my temporary rest from sex work is the new tattoo on my left ass cheek which is still scabbing and healing. I got a cute, orange Japanese koi (carp) engulfed by tsunami, and with a branch of cherry blossoms completing my Zen body art. One of these days, I will write the pain and pleasure I experienced when I got my tattoo. Since I have had enough time to burn, I have been reading books on tantra and sacred sex, essays of Aung San Suu Kyi, poems of Thich Nhat Han, welfare economics of Amartya Sen, and Cliffsnotes for quick reviews in biology, chemistry, and physics. I am planning to attend a Kaplan review and take MCAT.

Yes, I still watch lesbian porn and play myself when I feel the itch and urge. If you want to find out why I like lesbian porn, keep checking my blog. I will post my kinky fantasies about wild, gorgeous lesbians soon. Who doesn't love hot lesbians?


Personal

Testosterone and same-sex marriage

What a cute gay couple! One was tired after a night of cruising, and the other was sneaking out to cruise. What a marriage! 


If you haven't read my last four posts, I wrote about the sexual nature of men and the biology behind their raging hard-ons to support my contention why I am not for gay marriage. If divorce is already a problem among heterosexual couples, I don't see the need of making it another worse problem caused by gay activism and drama. We have Hollywood and Broadway for our itch to become dramatic. Imagine if two married gay men have their testosterone hormones at their highest levels, they would be fucking left and write out of marriage. Men experience boredom for fucking the same person. This infidelity will be two-way in gay marriage. Now, that is called double whammy. Imagine also if each of these married gay men has his own eye for variety and curious thought to try something different, licensed monogamy will be nothing but prints on paper. What a waste of typing!

My contention and analysis also includes lesbians. If stereotypes are true that they lead active lives such as doing physical, manly stuff, lesbians have higher testosterone levels. They will have the same marital woes like gay men. I visited Provincetown in Massachusetts three years ago. I saw lots of gay and lesbian couples in long term relationships. I initially thought that it was unfair that the government does not recognize their union. They did live together for years, shop for food, cook, and eat together, and jointly pay their bills. After studying about testosterone, I remembered the gay and lesbian couples I met in Provincetown, and realized I missed something. Almost all of them were old and retirees. Their testosterone levels were definitely low and waning. There is not much left in menopausal period. That is the reason, I think, that made their long term relationships possible. Besides, they needed each other because young ones discriminate oldies in the gay and lesbian community. What an irony! They cry discrimination, yet they themselves discriminate gays and lesbians who are fat, old, and femme or butch.

To end, I have this question for people who support gay marriage. Why do you want gay marriage when lots of gays and lesbians are suicidal, self-loathing, and not even out yet because they still find society hostile to them? I don't find marriage license and the drama that comes with it a pressing concern.

Politics

Curiosity: a sexual nature of men

Mmmmmm... some are even curious to fuck fruits and vegies. 


Part 4

I always hear men say they are curious. Others prefer to be called bicurious. Bisexual seems too gay for them. Some just want to know and experience something. You can't really dislike caviar or cum without trying it first or initially knowing about its taste. Curiosity, sexual or otherwise, is innate among men. I believe it is genetic. Male babies learn to talk and walk while touching their weenies out of curiosity. Young boys begin to masturbate when they are bored and curious about their dicks and cum they ejaculated before when they had erotic dreams. Teens grow up curious what a pussy looks like and how it smells, tastes, and feels. Men are indeed curious since birth. After all, it was men who hunted, made tools, and invented fire during the stone age. Sparks created by two cobble stones smashed together to make stone tool flakes made them curious. From then on, they created fire by friction. They expedited changes and development in human evolution. They started forming communities, domesticated animals, planted greens, and improved their tools from stones to metals. Everything started from men's curiosity.

Men are curious about almost anything they can imagine. On Internet chats, for instance, they ask a woman's height and weight, boobs size, eye color, and hair length. They then ask if her pussy is shaved. Baffled and offended, a poor woman can only shut back, "why?" Men have their overused answer ready. "Just curious," they usually say. This pattern of men's curiosity is very common. There are clients who call me and curiously ask about my fingernails and the color of my underwear. Just last week, a man called and wanted me to pee on his face. I asked why he would waste two hundred dollars just for my pee blinding his eyes. He quickly said he was curious. I got irritated with the word, I told him to pee himself. I am not a Barnum and Bailey circus woman with three legs.

There are lots of things men are curious about when it comes to sex. They are curious to try it with couples, with two women for threesome, and with groups. I have been to sex clubs many times. Every time I was there, men outnumbered women even though men paid for entrance and women got in for free. I asked several men why did they drag their wives and girlfriends to such nasty, filthy places. They usually said they were curious. I was there not out of curiosity. I am a voyeur. I like watching people suck, fuck, and jerk off. I view those horny exhibitionists as interactive sex performers. It's fun to watch. Live sex turns me on.

Some men with spouses and steady partners are also curious to try having sex with other women. They want to know what they can get from other people their wives or girlfriends cannot give. They want something different, while others something kinky. If you are curious to see a woman sucking your cock and swallowing your cum, and your wife is a Harvard-educated brain surgeon or an heiress of Vanderbilt's, of course, you would need another woman to do that nasty job for you, unless you are with Paris Hilton. There are men who cheat because they are curious about cheating itself, and the hide-and-seek involved in it. Others cheat because they are curious how their partners would react. Pres. Bill Clinton did Monica Lewinsky because Sen. Hillary Clinton is too educated, well-bred, and powerful to suck him and be told to swallow. He also likes the thrill of having other women. I guess he finds satisfaction watching his embarrassed wife's misery. Damn curious cheaters!

There are men who have sick and disgusting curiosities. There are those who want to lick armpits, suck toes, and rim asses. They also want to fuck dogs, horses, sheep, and even dead humans. They are really sick. Others want to fuck raw and get fucked bareback. I guess they are curious about death. Some want to eat scat and drink pee. Damn! They even call them chocolate bar and golden shower. I cannot fathom the mystery behind the brain of these men. I don't find a hot, muscular, handsome guy with a hanging turd sexual and sexy at all. I would give him a toilet paper not a condom. I don't even finger smelly assholes. There are really sick men who are curious to have sex with innocent children. I mean small children, who still can't spell their names, not slutty teens like me when I was ten. They go as far as Asia to satisfy their sick, illegal curiosity. In Africa, there are cases where babies are the victims. Some men rape out of curiosity. These men should be hanged.

Sexual fantasies are men's greatest curiosities. There are men who feel like a stud with two women, or help their buddy drill a slut. There are those who want to fuck, get sucked, and jerk off in public places like parks, cinema, church, clubs, truck stops, and even in running trains and flying airplanes. Some men are curious to try erotic pain. They have choices from melted candles, whips, and paddles to restraints, handcuffs, and ball chains to nipple clips, bands, and grips for balls. Others are curious with sex toys. They shop for dildoes, strap-ons, vibrators, and yes, portable silicone pussies and blow up dolls. Men have their own "candy" stores.

Men are curious too about fantasy costumes. They like girls in school uniform, slutty wear, nurse outfit, catwoman costume, etc. There are those who are into silk, leather, and rubber. They are curious how they feel on their skin. Some men wear wigs, makeup, and women's clothing. In front of a mirror, they are curious if they would look like women. I went to Victoria's Secrets the other day to buy a dozen of thongs. I saw a lot of men. I wondered if they were curious to see babydolls, lingerie, chemises and pajamas, and nylons and stockings. They checked out thigh highs, fishnets, and garters with their women in tow. They touched and felt the fabrics too. Damn! I thought Versace is dead.

The most dangerous and scariest curiosity men have is to be with other men. I don't agree with gay men saying all men are bisexual. I do agree though that all men are curious, and if put in certain desperate positions, they will fuck with men. The most notorious men in our society fuck men's asses in prison. Some of our brave soldiers do it in ships, barracks, security posts, and foxholes. Even pious priests succumb to their curiosities about men and boys. Some studly men in fraternities do it out of curiousity with their buddies. Even brothers experiment when parents are gone. Husbands and boyfriends sneak out and cruise gay bars and clubs or secretly log on for online gay porn and chats because they are curious. Some call male hookers to try it. When men are curious about something, they find their way to experience it sooner or later. Those who resist to act out and ignore their sexual thoughts that make them very curious grow old jerking off in fantasy and regret.

Women should be careful and vigilant. Making out with a man who just got back from sucking a cock is just yucky. It's not only dirty but offensive and insulting. I could forgive my man, if I have, if he cheats with a woman. If men start to wiggle their asses wanting and waiting to be fingered, that's the hint. It's either you break up with him or buy yourself a strap-on. I have no problems with men who want to be with other men. Just be honest. I would even ask my hot, bisexual fireman friend if I have a man who wants to get fucked. As long as I know and get to watch them, it's all right. If after trying he likes it, it's time to decide if I will move on and show him the nearest gay bar and cruisy bathhouse. That's better than men sneaking out for gloryholes and dark alleys and other cruising places and sucking and fucking with strangers. Women are left without knowing and deciding their own options and safety. Most wives and girlfriends get infected with HIV virus and other STD's because of their men's curiosity, dishonesty, and cheating with other men.

Curiosity may be a sexual nature of men, but it can be controlled. Open-mindedness, understanding, and acceptance tame men's secret desires, fulfill their fantasies, and make them an honest bunch of curious, horny fuckers.


PS Conclusion is next. Come back to complete your reading. :)

Fetish

Variety: men's way of spicing it up

Our early nomadic ancestors survived and peopled the world because of their eye for variety. They roamed all over looking for various resources important in adaptation and evolution. 


Part 3

When I studied Physical Anthropology in college, I had the chance to observe male monkeys, chimps, and gorillas. They were all boring. I am more interested in studying and observing men, male human beings, that is. They fascinate me. They are such an intellectual challenge. I have been observing men and boys since I was a kid. I used to watch them when they shaved, took a bath, ate, played, urinated, jerked off, kissed, bragged, bullied, etc. Even when men unzip their pants, scratch their balls, and arrange their cocks in public are interesting behaviors worthy of academic inquiry. The way they fuck a woman's body and mind is not fully understood yet due to sexual taboo limiting scholars. Men are treasure trove of sociological knowledge. They should be studied closely. What makes men hard is as important as String Theory in Physics.

As I grew up, I found out that men are obsessed with variety. They turn a simple thing to several complex stuff. They create their own choices, and always want change or something different. They spice things up with their own various terms and classifications. For instance, cock has more other names or slangs than pussy. Each name has a particular use. They say penis for formal talk, dick in streets, and cock when they fuck. Even in cumming, women are shortchanged. Men have load, shot, sperm, jism, facials, and cum, which women also use since they can't call theirs egg. Women simplify; men makes everything complex. They, indeed, love to confuse themselves. After all, it was Albert Einstein who left us the unfinished Theory of Everything.

Even in fellatio, men have only one way to deal with a pussy: to eat it. They punish women with their multiple demands of head, suck, blow, BJ, deep throat, and swallow even. Women don't ask theirs to be slurped. In fucking too, women could only choose between top or bottom. Men could do a lot of sex positions. They think women are acrobats. They have doggie style, ass up, sitting, kneeling, and standing positions, back fucking, sideways, legs up in the air, and some even fuck women in the ass. Men really want something different. For dirty talk, they call their women bitch, cunt, whore, hoe, slut, etc. Women are left only calling men dogs when they are mad. Bastard and asshole are used too, but they are generic cuss words even kids use.

In choosing sex partners too, men want variety. Aside from looks, they have preferences according to women's hair, skin color, race, age, weight and height, and fantasy costumes. Men have their own universe of choices where they can have a different pick every time they fuck, get sucked, or jerk off. I logged on yahoo and AOL chat rooms earlier and double-checked my observations. I did not find women looking for men in schoolboy's uniform. There is also no chat room where women can hook up with BHM (Big Handsome Men), nonexistent equivalent of BBW (Big Beautiful Women) created by men. The latter create stuff to sexually divide and conquer.

There are men who specifically want Asian, Black, White or Latin women. Some browse the Internet for blonde or brunette, hairy or smooth, and petite or tall. They also have choices of sexual activities running the gamut from pain to pleasure. They look for wives, girlfriends, friends, hookers, bootycalls, one-night stands, mistresses, dominatrix and even other men. It is variety, indeed. There are also men who like feet, asses, legs, boobs, necks, hands, ears, armpits etc. Damn! They are butchering women. There are sick ones who are into young girls; young men who look for sugar mamas; kinky men who have hots for lesbians; and fuckers for grannies. Men want everything as choices.

Men's addiction to sexual variety, I believe, is genetically encoded. It is part of the evolutionary process. It helps them survive and adapt to their environment. Men are biologically programmed to compartmentalize things and give them terms. That's how they make different codes and varied choices. Asian male farmers, for instance, have various names for rice, but when women cook them, they simply become steamed rice. Inuit male seal hunters of Alaska also have many names and classifications for ice and seal meat. When Inuit women melt the ice for household chores, it merely becomes water, and when they process the seal meat, they just call it food. Where men make it complex, women make it simple.

We may call straight men looking to fuck fags on Yahoo and AOL gay, bisexual, or confused, but for them, they just want variety and something different.


PS Coming up next: curiosity as a sexual nature of men

Personal

Testosterone: the biology of divorce

Click here to see what he was thinking. 


Part 2

Men are complex fuckers. It is hard for them to be patient, understanding, and reasonable when it comes to sex. Their IQ's drop when they are horny. When I see them in restaurants, I cannot tell if they are thinking about food or pussy. Are they enjoying pasta or thinking how to get laid? I don't blame them for that. Testosterone is the culprit. It is the sex hormone that drive both men and women to fuck and get fucked. It just happens that males produce testosterone way more than females. This is the reason why men are always in heat. They are not called dogs for nothing.

Most men who come to me for pleasure are married. I have stopped wondering now why married men pay me for something their wives can easily do like blowjob or handjob. I found out long ago that their usual excuses are that their wives are not in the mood; they want something different; or they are simply curious. All their reasons are biology-based, and as natural as anyone taking a dump. They can be controlled but never stopped and ignored. Men are born that way- to fuck, get sucked, or at least, jerk off as many times as they can. They need to relieve themselves. Getting off seems like a full time job for them. They, indeed, need to be understood.

Men usually cheat when their women are in the stage of very low production of testosterone. Women usually lose their mood for fucking when they are PMSing, pregnant, and in menopausal period. These are the times when their husbands call us hookers or cruise bars because they can't get laid at home. Their wives are being a bitch. For God's sake! Mrs. Smith, use your mouth or hands if your pussy is bleeding or dry, or if you are preggy. Just think about kitchen when you do it. Think of it as if you are holding a roll of salami or licking a banana. Just pretend you are in the mood. Forget feminism. Satisfy your husband. It's your marriage at stake.

Imagine men shelling out two hundred to three hundred dollars because of their wives' mood. That is a damn expensive tantrum. Besides, that could be the start of the break up of marriage. Men lie at first and lie again until they become addicted to lying. Blow or jerk off your husbands if you don't want them to go astray and ruin your household budget. Think of men as your territory not available for other occupants. Protect it. For your territory not to revolt, take good care of it. Give what it needs. You will get to keep it. Men are grown up babies in bed.

It will be too late if men find other women who sexually satisfy them better than their wives. Most mistresses I know have one thing in common: They take care of their men in bed the way servants do for their masters in kitchen. They even get fucked even if they have menstruation and fever. They don't complain. Sex is the only way mistresses can take men away from their wives. They use their looks and youth to make married men adore them and file for divorce so they can be together. Guilt has no effect on men's libido. Wives should keep in mind that sex is a powerful thing.


PS Variety as sexual spice among men is next.


Politics

Why I am not for same-sex marriage

Aren't they hot? The man was really a woman born with boobs and pussy. There you go, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. http://www.geocities.com/westhollywood/heights/4640/index.html 


Part 1

I don't care what the fundamentalist bible addicts say in opposition to same-sex marriage. As far as I know, Jesus Christ himself did never utter the word gay or fag in the bible. He found prostitutes more interesting than faggots. If the biblical and theological junkies want to be literal, Jesus' basic teaching is very gay. There is nothing more rainbow-flaming than a man saying to a group of men to "love their fellow men." When men love other men, literally, they don't just hug and kiss and say "Praise the Lord." They suck and fuck and use God's name in orgasm. Jesus was more of a submissive sadomasochist than a close-minded homophobe.

Church is a strange, funny place for hypocrites. It is opposed to gay marriage, yet its priests suck cocks and molest children. These hypocrite cock suckers really overextend Jesus' moral teaching. They don't only love men, they also love boys. I always believe that most priests enter the seminaries and give up the pleasure of fucking pussies because they are bunch of sissies in the first place. They use church as their closet. What a huge closet it is! Church, the Roman Catholic in particular, has no moral authority to speak against homosexuality. Most of its priests are nothing but self-hating faggots who want to monopolize and institutionalize homosexuality and pedophilia in the name of God.

Backward traditionalists are scared of the effect of same-sex marriage to family values. Values my foot! Husbands murder wives, and mothers kill children, and there is no gay in the family. They should read news and court transcripts, or watch TV talk shows that showcase real family values in the poor, rural America. They will find brothers fucking sisters and dads with daughters or moms with sons, and these incestuous fuckers are not gay. A familly with two queers is rare. Incest is the best among trailer trashy Americans. What can you expect? They are on welfare, and have too much time in their hands until the next check and food stamps come. Of course, they will jerk off everyday or fuck anything that moves.

I also don't care how the lawmakers and the courts interpret the constitution. They can roll and shove that piece of paper in their stinky asses. If they really want to be strict and exact in their law making and implementation, they should rewrite the phrase "union of man and woman" to "union of man born with a cock and woman born with a pussy" or "union of man and woman who can fuck and make babies." It's 21st century now for God's sake. Plastic surgery can now perfectly turn a football player into a Barbie. If the government really wants to regulate fucking, they should legalize prostitution first and tax the prostitutes. I, for one, won't complain.

The only reason why I am not really for gay marriage is gay divorce. Divorce commercializes marriage. If there will be gay marriage, we should also expect gay marriage counselors or therapists, gay family medicine, gay family lawyers, gay family courts, gay sheriffs department, etc. Too much resources, money, efforts, and time will be wasted. There are other more important issues gay people should preoccupy themselves such as HIV/AIDS, drugs, self-hate, and suicide in their community. Gay bashing in the streets and homophobia in the corporate world are more worth fighting than the useless marriage license. Why would they need a license to fuck? They suck and fuck anywhere with anyone anyway. They can't even use that damn piece of paper to wipe nasty cum off their asses.


PS The biology of divorce is next

Politics

Understanding John Paul

I understand pain and make it colorful. 


After rereading my post, The curse of my wo-manhood, I realized I committed some literary blunder. I used a figurative language alien to most who have not experienced rape. When I wrote that my PMS made me feel as if I was raped, what I meant really was that I felt tired, weak, exhausted and battered. Freud and Jung did it again. I do believe that the way we think or write is influenced by our experiences in the past consciously or otherwise. The metaphor I used was not intentional. I did find it significant only after I went back to my post. It made me remember my own experience.

It was too much to bear the heavy weights and big sizes of the gang of four. They were all my classmates in the senior year. They were roommates. Their room was three floors below mine. One weekend night as finals were about to end, they had a drinking session to celebrate their lacrosse win and the end of high school life. I became a challenge to them. The hottest of them all, John Paul, would win the bet if I accepted their invitation. They were all preppy-hot, brawny jocks from upper-class background. All of them spoke at least one European language. I was known in school as "Supermodel." I was tall, slim at 115 pounds, and flat-chested. My hair was short, and my skin flawless. I looked like a young woman trying hard to become a lesbian, but would not pass. Even if I did shave my head, I would end up an Asian Sinead O'connor. I would be hotter.

I accepted their invitation. Any slut would accept it. It was John Paul who called me, after all. With his looks, I could not say no. One thing worried me though. I did not have makeup kits then. I did not know how to look edible to these young men in heat. I wore a tight pair of cut Levi's shorts and a tight, sleeveless, white shirt showing my slinky shoulder, well-proportioned frame, and my pinkish belly button. Though skinny, still I had curves. I rummaged my closet for candies. I found one. It was a red cherry-flavored lollipop. I used it on my lips. I was now kissable and ready.

They were already drinking when I came in. They were discussing about Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations. They were talking about our final exam in Economics. I joined in. They made me giggle. I was with a gang of smart, hot guys. It was very rare to be in such company. Their brains and muscles were such turn-ons, specially John Paul's. They only shut up after I used sex as an example to better understand Adam Smith. They had many choices of drinks: vodka, tequila, wine and liquor and spirits in mini-bottles. They were so welcoming and accommodating. I sat beside John Paul. We talked about anything under the sun that night, yes, including sex. I was a self-proclaimed expert when it came to sucking and fucking.

I could sense John Paul's wandering eyes. He wanted me. I did not care about the rest. They were hot too, but I was a serial monogamous slut. I liked fucking one at a time. He was their leader of sort. He was good in science and math, and excelled in sports. Arts, writing, and drama were my forte. We helped each other sometimes. That night he could not help it. He gave me drinks constantly. He wanted me to get drunk. John Paul had a plan. Since no real girls around, I would be the best substitute for him. He must have thought fucking me was better than playing himself. I wanted John Paul that bad. He was the alpha male in our class; I was the voracious slut. Everyone knew I was a hoe.

We all got drunk. It was about two o'clock in the morning. They cleared one of the beds. They invited me to sleep over. I did stay. I had a plan too. I wanted to get fucked by John Paul. I wanted to feel his lips against mine. His hard chest and abs got me shaking. I was sure he had a big cock. He got hard before when I directed him how to make love in Hamlet. My soft hands touching his neck and my fingers on his cheeks gave him a boner. He excused himself from the stage. Later he told me he had to jerk off in the bathroom. I loved our Shakespeare class. I got all the female lead roles and directed almost all plays. I got to touch all the guys.

I pretended I was really drunk and asleep. I could hear John Paul turning and twisting. He could not sleep. I wished he thought about me and my lips and my body. It was very silent. The breeze of that spring whistled. Only the electric posts outside dimly lit the room. I could see the contour of his face, the shape of his body, and his hand touching his cock. I longed to be cuddled by him. I felt the effect of alcohol. I became mildly dizzy and sleepy. Minutes later, still half-awake, I felt cold, nervous hands touching my feet. I looked at him. It was Henry. He was hot, but not my type. I pushed him and blatantly said, "I want John Paul." He retreated and shied away.

After hearing his name in my fuck-me falsetto, John Paul got excited like a winner and lay down beside me. He only had his boxers on. I was topless, and facing down with my hands on my tummy. I felt his warm hands on my back. He moved his hands with confidence. He whispered something to me. I did not hear. My mind was on his cock bulging right on my leg. I felt his tongue on my ears and his hand squeezing my butt. He kissed my nape and my shoulder and wiggled his tongue on my neck and on the back of my ears. My waists were a wonder to him. They were very feminine. He loved my long legs. He stroked and squeezed them. My silky skin against his turned him on. "Why are you so smooth?" he asked.

I turned my head to face him. His breathing was against mine. "I was born this way," I whispered. He hushed me with his finger and kissed me sloppily like he ate an apple. I loved it. It was so virginal of him. His spit tasted like sweet juices. I wanted more of it. I thought he would not kiss me. He must be really drunk. I could only see a part of his handsome face hit by a ray of light coming from outside. In the dark, I was a woman to him. He did not mind. I was at the right place in the right moment when John Paul was horny.

I checked his other roommates. They were all naked, and masturbating while watching us. I felt I had to really be extra feminine. These boys were hot, horny, and crazy. I remained in the same position. Uncovered, and with only my unbottoned, cut Levi's shorts on, I lay straight and facedown, and I looked ready as if I was waiting. My hands were under my chest, and my head was still facing John Paul. He took his time kissing me. Even his breath tasted good. His sighs were in rhythm with the breeze. His touch probed my body like he was in awe. He could not believe I could be that silky smooth everywhere. His hand entered my shorts. He caressed my waists and my back and played the crack and creases of my buttocks. "I wanna fuck you," he whispered. That I did not miss. I just answered him with a smile and reached his lips. We kissed again like we were thirsty for each other's spit.

He took his boxers off and pulled my shorts halfway. He did not even bother to take off my thong. He just moved the T-back to the side. It was very sensual. I felt the urgency of his itch and rushing libido. It was instantaneous and very animalistic. John Paul was strong. His manner was brusque. He was very manly. What a gentle brute! I was loving every moment of it. His cock was big and cut. He was on top, on my back. He was about to slide it in, but I stopped him. I pulled my shorts back. "Let me blow you first," I begged. He kissed me and consented like a generous man. He moved up and sat down with his back leaning on the wall just above the low headboard. We kissed torridly. I needed his spit and mine. I went down kissing and running my tongue on his neck down to his belly button to his cock. I licked his ass and balls like I would to a cone of ice cream. He tasted better. His sweat was salty on my lips. It was my first to do such a thing. My tongue liked it. He was very delicious. I blew him with passion he could see on my face.

John Paul was clean, and smelled good. He was a jock with a good hygiene. He dressed up good too. He was Italian-American. His last name said so, and so his looks. I knew it was his first time. He felt good. He looked like a kid in a candy store who can't have enough. I blew him good. His moans were that of a satisfied man who wanted more. I gave him a deep throat. I was a novice then. It got him very hard. My warm mouth willingly satisfied him. I blew him again and again. His pre-cum was sweet. I did not waste any drop. When he was on the verge of coming, he halted me. He did not want to come yet. He wanted to fuck me still. He rested and kissed me as he slid down on the bed. He took off my shorts and ran his tongue on my back. It tickled, but was very sensual. He spat on his hand and rubbed it on his cock. It was very primitive, but erotic. He gently pushed himself inside me. He fucked me with my thong halfway down. His cock felt good inside me. I could tolerate the pain. It made me feel like a virgin. He nibbled on my ears, gently bit my shoulders, and kissed me more. My neck was never that flexible.

I felt his muscular chest on my back. He was heavy, but I loved it. It was John Paul, the man in many of my fantasies. I would do anything for him. I was his slut. He fucked me like he wanted to reach the deepest depth. He bit my lips. He was a brutal kisser. I wanted it. I was in heaven, so was John Paul. His friends were still masturbating and enjoying the spectacle of our fucking. The creaking of beds was like a quartet in concert. "Baby, I am coming," I heard John Paul say. I wanted to beg not to. I desired for more. I did not want him to stop. I did not want the night to end. I lusted for him for years. I really wanted to be his submissive slut.

He gasped and moaned. His humping became harder and faster. His chest was no longer on my back. His legs pressed mine like he was flattening them. His hands tightly gripped my waists like he would not let me go. I looked at his face. He was struggling in ecstatic joy. John Paul fucked me hard. His pre-cum, spit, and sweat were making me loose. I could hear his lap spanking my butt cheeks, and his cock going up and down inside me. He fucked me harder like he wanted to ruin something. His grips were tighter. His legs were stiff and hard. He was heavier. He held his breath, quivered, and came. He slumped on my back a tired man. He filled me up with his load. I orgasmed and came without even touching myself. Though I wanted more, he still made me smile. I thought I was his satisfied slut. He got up and cleaned himself. "She is all yours, guys," John Paul said like a lieutenant to his platoon going after a kill.

I felt nervous. I was no longer in the mood for fucking. John Paul was enough, but his other three roommates still had to come. I felt paralyzed. I could not move even my toes. I could not get up and clean myself. It must be the tequila shots. I felt betrayed by John Paul. I realized his kisses were nothing but lies of a horny man. He did not protect me. He did not stop them. He went to bed. His friends fucked me like it would never end. One after the other, they hurt me. They were huge and painful. They had John Paul's cum as lube. They lustfully took turns. I felt dirty. I refused to blow them. I bit the pillow where I buried my head down. I even refused to hear their sighs and moans. I covered my ears. I wished it was John Paul fucking me again. I could bear the pain of his lust. I liked him. I knew his scent. He was not one of them. His friends were like beasts feasting on a flesh. I wanted it to end. I could not yell for help. My ordeal only stopped after I felt Henry filling me again, and Ed and Rob shooting their cum on my back. I was numb, shocked, and dumbfounded. I felt tired, weak, exhausted, and battered. They just raped me, and John Paul was there, but silent.

Sweating and nervously shaking, I hurriedly got up and used a blanket to dry and clean myself. I declined when they offered to let me use their shower. I quickly got out and went to my room. I felt dirt and filth all over my body. I felt used and insulted. It was very degrading. I felt disgusted with myself. I wanted to cry, but I was a rational slut. I knew why John Paul let it happen. I understood his guilt, fear, confusion, and paranoia. They were in it together. He had to share. He did save himself from cruel jokes and embarrassment by not being selfish. He needed me to understand him. Without the rape, I would not have been with John Paul. He would not have fucked me the way he did. The next day he left a message on my machine apologizing. I did not talk to them, nor did I see them at school for the rest of the remaining days. Three months later, it was graduation time. I did not attend. I could not see myself in coat and tie.

I only saw them again three years ago during our reunion. I brought Ufuk, my Turkish ex-boyfriend, with me. They did not recognize me. It must be my black Carolina Herrera evening wear I bought second-hand, my waist-long hair, and perfect Kevin Aucoin makeup style. They thought Ufuk was their classmate. I saw John Paul with his wife. He was still hot, handsome, and muscular. His three friends were there too. Only Henry remained single. We were about to leave after the party when John Paul approached Ufuk. They talked. I interrupted them and introduced myself. He smiled like he remembered something. "I know, sweetie. You're very gorgeous," he said with a hint of naughty thoughts in his voice. I did not believe him like his sweet, wet kisses before. We hugged and said our good-bye's. John Paul still felt and smelled the same as he did that wild night, when we fucked and celebrated our last days in high school, and when he was silent while I was being raped.

Sex

The last wish

I still wish to listen to a heart's cry. 


Insomnia strikes again. I can't sleep. I am glued on my computer surfing my life and my future. I feel like I am a period lost in a myriad of words. I am meaningless. I do not end, nor do I begin. I just want to belong somewhere that has a place for me. I want to exist where I will not be a shade of shadows or a flicker of lights. I want my life to have a meaning. I don't want to regret when time comes. I don't want to vanish into oblivion.

I had a nice chat with my grandma last night. It was very touching. I choked up listening to her. She seemed like my conscience speaking. She spoke like she was my Oracle at Delphi. In my mind, I saw strands of my struggles and uncertainties flowing along with her soft voice. She turned my pain and fear into words for me. She has the age I see on her gray hairs to summon the truth. Her eyes are witnesses of the change of times. I cannot ignore her last wish.

My grandma wants to see me pursue what I have always wanted. She wants me to go to medical school. I only have three wishes in my life: to be a "woman", to experience love, and to become a pediatric plastic surgeon. So far, it's two out of three. I have always dreamed of becoming a doctor since I was a kid. I want to help children with craniofacial deformities. I want to see them smile and feel, at last, they belong somewhere, and that they are no longer different.

It pains me when I see a kid with cleft palate being teased or bullied. I grew up in such cruelty. I want to do something so I won't relive my past when I see the suffering eyes of these children. That is my only motivation. I cannot ignore the reality though. School fees, efforts, and time are enough for me to lose my idealism. High malpractice insurance, ungrateful patients, and tough licensing laws would surely make me love and adore HMO's.

I still wish to become a doctor someday. For now, I will pleasure clients. If my last wish comes true, I will cure patients.

Life

The curse of my wo-manhood

This is not the kind of shots I lust for. 


It was around three in the afternoon today when my grandma's call woke me up. She was worried about me having not answered or returned her calls all morning. I overslept, and I forgot to set my alarm clock. I was not in the mood to talk to my grandma about my Valentine's date yesterday. I had none. I promised to call her later tonight for our usual, long chat.

I decided not to work again. I had no patience and energy for horny men and their fantasies. I didn't even want to hear their voice on the phone. If hooking is a corporate business, I think I would be a company liability or low performing asset. I would have been fired by now. I only fuck and suck when I am in the mood. I could afford such luxury because I am a hooker by choice not out of necessity.

I am cranky even now. I have PMS. It's not Post Masturbation Syndrome. I feel like I have been raped. I am weak and tired. All I want to do is eat sweets and chocolates, watch TV, and read blogs. I am too lazy to write a long post, so bear with me. It is this day of every month since I was thirteen years old when I feel the curse of womanhood. I don't menstruate, but I do feel like I am having one. I get stomach cramps too, and my butt and legs feel heavy.

Times like this, I need progesterone, estrogen, and antiandrogen shots, but I am currently out. Walgreens won't refill without my doctor's approval. Unfortunately, my endocrinologist is out of town. My next appointment with him is Wednesday next week. For now, I will just eat a lot of tofu and have glasses of soy milk, and bitch on AOL and Yahoo chatrooms. They work. Soy beans are good source of natural female estrogen hormones. I don't wonder why Asian men are petite, smooth, and feminine, almost.

Right after the first half of every month, I wish I were a man, a real man. I hate it when I get peevish and grouchy.

Diary

Spending Valentine's with a hot man

I burnt my pain in the warmth of my ashes. 


I did not call David, my former fuck buddy, to accept his dinner invitation. I also declined the paid dinner date a client proposed this afternoon. Valentine's Day to me is sacred. I did not even work today. If I go out or get fucked, it has to be for love. I cannot chew my meal, sip my wine, bend over, or raise my legs up in the air in guilt and self-pity.

I don't have any regret at all for staying single and doing sex work. In a way, I do love myself. I hate to see my eyes swollen, red, and teary from the agony of being played and used. I will no longer wait for the doorknob to be turned or my phone to ring. I won't be begging for sex and affection.

I lay all afternoon on my bed trying to understand why I existed in this unforgiving moment of melancholia and haunting sepia memories. I saw nothing on the empty ceiling, but my eyes were glued. Even my stare longed for something. I recalled all my Valentine's days in the past. They were happy occasions. There were lots of food, wine, love, and sex. What a wonderful life!

I did never smoke like a chimney before. In remembering all the love and joy I lost, I found solace in a pack of Marlboro Lights 100's. I didn't feel alone. The smoke moving and disappearing looked like sympathetic souls keeping me company. The ashes rolled on my body like warm, smooth hands feeling my skin. They helped me exorcise the ghost of my past I thought I could forget. Scars stay forever.

I was on my tenth cigarette when I could no longer bear the cruel intentions of silence. I got up, stripped off totally naked, and played a lesbian porn on DVD. Back to my bed, I smoked and watched. I moved on from my memories. My mind became a tabula rasa for hot women, dildoes, and wiggling tongues.

I smoked and smoked. It felt so erotic being embraced by someone or something that did not exist. The smoke crept from my lips to my arms to my breasts and to my belly down to my thighs. It was so strange and surreal, but very orgasmic. I touched my belly button trying to capture a stray smoke in an abstract form. I could not hold it. It was gone. I smoked and played myself. I came.

The porn was about to end. Everyone orgasmed. I grabbed the pack to light a new one. It was empty. I finished the whole pack. I looked up the ceiling and realized I just had an erotic, subliminal encounter with a Marlboro man.

Fantasy

When Cupid's arrow hit my ass

Next time, kid, aim it right. 

I woke up today feeling empty and unwanted. No kisses. No breakfast in bed. No chocolates. No poem. No I love you. I have received many bouquets of flowers though since yesterday, and that hurts. I just want to receive one from a person who truly loves me. I don't want flowers from old flings, past fucks, and John's.

Someone has made me smile though. I got a sweet card and a La Perla lingerie gift certificate from David, my former fuck buddy. He knew I would be lonely today, and he wanted me to call him. He knows my story. I called and thanked him for everything. I might accept his dinner invitation for later if I could no longer bear the haunting silence in my apartment.

For now, I want to write a letter to my last boyfriend. This is my letter in the bottle. Maybe somewhere and someday, he will read it, see my pain and how I have moved on, and hopefully laugh.


February 14, 2005

Dear Ufuk,

Though your name sounded like you were fucked up, it did not faze me. I still gave you my number that night five years ago. I went out on a date with you and ended up loving you for four long years. Today is my first Valentine's Day without a boyfriend since I was thirteen years old. You broke my heart and my record. Congratulations!

It was the same Valentine's day last year when you cried and begged me to let you move on. You told me you missed your friends and family, and that you were going back to your country. You wanted to leave me. I let you go even I knew it was bullshit. You were not honest to me. You could have; I am strong. You could follow what your cock desired but not your heart's. You were fucked up, indeed.

We woke up that day so lovely, though I could smell your bad morning breath. We kissed and greeted each other. Your mouth was really stinky. You made some omelet, French toast, and tea and let me have them with you in bed. That was very sweet, but the omelet was salty, the toast burnt, and the tea stale. I let them pass. I still got naked and let you fuck me. Looking back, everything was an omen.

We made love that day as if we could not have enough of each other. You bit my lips and gave me hickeys. Sorry for the scratches on your back. Though you only had seven inches, you used it well. You fucked good. You made me feel like I was a real woman, your slut. You fucked me three times that day just to be dumped later after we had dinner. You broke my heart and hurt my ass.

I don't blame you for leaving me. As your friends said, I am a useless, high maintenance bitch. They were right. Burger King is not a romantic dinner place for me. I cannot make out with someone with meat and lettuce stuck between his teeth. Theaters are too boring. Why go to the dark if you can't get fucked? And I am in the U.S. not in your country. I don't accept live chickens or grains as gifts. I am not cheap. I now charge even for a handjob.

How is your brother? Give him my warm regards. I can't forget when he rushed to our bedroom at your dad's place in Istanbul two summers ago. You were out with your friends playing pool. Mamet was drunk, and he wanted to fuck me. I refused because I loved you so much. I only gave him a blowjob. He was bigger.

How about your sister, Aiza? She stole my Gucci bag and my earrings. I did not tell anyone because I loved you. It might embarrass you. She did not like me. She told you that. She liked my shoes though. I gave them to her. What a user bitch! Tell her not to be a slave of fashion. The last time I saw her she was hairy and looked like an Arab man.

I won't say anything about your parents. They did not know about me. When pressed when would be our wedding, it hurt me a lot. All they wanted from you was a grandson. Go and fuck, and make babies for them. Work hard too, and support them until you become old. When your muscles are gone, and your face looks wrinkly, you will remember me, my mouth, and my ass, and what you lost because of pressure, paranoia, and fear. I will remain fresh and a social butterfly. I believe in plastic surgery, and I am a user now.

I could not thank you enough for everything. I know you did love me. I smelled it on the roses and the Bulgari perfumes you gave me. I felt it when you massaged me at night. I read it on your smile when you were happy my fake boobs came out soft and looking real, and my ass felt tight. I saw it in your eyes when we woke up, and you wanted to fuck. I felt it through your hands softly touching my cheeks and delicately holding my head when I went down. I heard it when you moan, struggle, and orgasm. I even tasted your love when you came. Your lips always said it.

Ufuk, I have moved on after you left and hurt me. I hope you are having fun in Turkey. You never jerked off when we were together for four years. I either gave you head or you fucked me. I did the work for you. Now that you are in a place where women are covered from head to toes, and get fucked only after marriage, I hope you do not fuck sheep or your male friends and cousins. At least with me, you fucked a sexy human you called your Lucy Liu. Please don't suck cocks. Remain a fucker. Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,

Isa.....

Love

In bed with God

when fishnets are not for fishing.... 


I only had one date today. Peter, his made up name, sounded like a young dude on the phone, so I did not bother to ask his age. He only wanted a blowjob with a twist. He wanted me to wear a pair of fishnet stockings and caress his face with my feet, and suck him. "That's easy. Two hundred for that. covered bj only," I told him in my love-you-long-time telegraphic English. He readily agreed. We set up the time, then I was off to Saks Fifth, four blocks away from me, to pick up my sucking props- a red lipstick, a makeup pencil for my eyes and a fake mole to cover a zit, and fishnet stockings.

I flirted my way back. While checking a handbag, some dude at the Louis Vuitton store started talking to me and ended up dropping me back to my apartment. He got nothing from me; he was broke. It is such a pity meeting penniless men, who wear designer clothes and drive luxury cars. I gave him my number and got out from his black BMW, whether owned or rented, I wouldn't know. He better saves his lunch money, if he wants my collagen-filled lips around his cock. I took a shower and had my late lunch of miso soup, pita bread, and smoked salmon and some Bordeaux my client brought yesterday. I watched CNN to check any shocking news. Michael Jackson doesn't shock me anymore. I dressed up, and was ready for Peter.

I pick a lingerie to wear according to my mood, my client's background and personality, and of course, my talent fee. Thinking Peter was some horny jock, I wore a simple, loose, black babydoll with its pair of thong and fishnet thigh high stockings, and matched them with black in-your-ass stilettos. I never wear elaborate, tight lingerie when I am with young, horny men. I don't want to lose a button or have my sex work uniform torn when they are in their fit of sexual rage and excitement while undressing me. In black, I looked like a subdued widow whore. A hooker could still exude calm and innocence. I put my new red lipstick on. I looked like a street hooker with red lips stopping people like a traffic sign. Lipsticks are very functional. They color and thicken lips; cover rashes, cuts, and blisters; and advertise nipple colors. Black women usually use light to dark brown, white women medium and dark shades of red, and Latinas and Asians light shades of brown and red. If you check the color of their nipples, their lipsticks do not lie.

After twenty minutes of turning myself into a whore worthy of two hundred bucks, Peter called. He was downstairs. I buzzed him in. Oh! Sweet Jesus! He was as old as Donald Trump. He had a nice haircut though. His voice on the phone tricked me. He looked decent, clean, and classy in his coat and tie. I offered him some white wine to relax him a little bit. We talked. He told me he just came from a Sunday bible school. Peter was a pastor, and he was single. It was his first time to try it with any hooker. He got my number from a local paper and read my hooker's review online, which says I am a classy Asian slut who gives a mean blowjob. One reviewer even said that he would rather fuck my mouth than anything else. I found out about this website reviewing my blowjob skills through Peter. It is very encouraging and rewarding, indeed.

While taking off his jacket and leading him to my bedroom, many thoughts came up in my mind. Should I kneel in front of him? Would my kneeling remind him of his church and make him feel guilty and regretful? Should I mention "Jesus" if his cock was surprisingly big? Would I invoke God's name when I pretended that I liked his cock very much? Dirty talk excites most men. There is nothing dirtier than my usual monologue, "Oh! God! Your cock is so big. It feels good in my mouth. Fuck my nasty mouth. I wanna feel your cum." I say it almost everyday to all tricks. If a guy has a small prick, I substitute "big" with "nice." My dirty talk works all the time. I thought Peter might like it too, but I ended up following the First Commandment.

I knew Peter would be a quick one. When I took his pants and underwear off, his cock was already wet from his pre-cum. I let him lie down. He got totally naked. He liked playing his nipples too, and he did not want to mess up his white shirt and stain his tie. I played Chris Isaak sex-me-up songs. I did not play Enya, my favorite relaxing, ambient music for fucking. Its slow meditative melody and lyrics might remind Peter of something spiritual, then I would be blowing him forever, and still he could not cum. My psychology worked. Peter felt like a stud adored by a classy whore. I wanted him to feel and prove himself that indeed all reviews about me and my mouth are true and that I am truly the best Asian slut in the Midwest.

I wanted to surpass his expectation. I used the ancient Taoist way of pleasuring a man: I played his ass. I did not finger it though. Most straight men don't like it. I lay on top of Peter in an improvised sixty-nine position- my feet on his cheeks, and my mouth on his cock. I must have looked like a frog. He stroked my legs. I could not tell whether he adored my legs or my fishnet stockings. He loved my feet on his face. He played his nipples like a kid twisting buttons on his shirt. I put a condom on and blew him good like it was really my best performance ever. The online reviews motivated me. My fingers on his ass must have felt like feathers. He loved it. He was clean, and did not smell. I gave him almost a minute of deep throating. I could tell Peter was going crazy. "Oh! God! I am coming. Please don't stop, Deja," he begged. With another deep throat, he came.

I realized there is really no blasphemy in bed.

Politics

On life and death of a blogger

Shakespeare - a syphilic cock-sucking male slut 


My posts have been long and serious lately. I should start writing shorter ones. I think readers click my blog, and are discouraged to read my posts because of their length. Thus, I get no reviews, even though the stat counter says I have at least 300 hits a day. I feel insulted sometimes. A "how to knit" blog or a blog on elementary philosophy gets lots of reviews and comments. I started to blog thinking I could be an agent-provocateur on blogosphere. I could write anything that will spark a conversation. I guess I have failed.

I presume some are embarrassed to review my blog maybe because I am a hooker and transsexual. If this is the case, I hate to think that some people lack intellectual sophistication then. Literature should be devoid of biases based on the personality of the author. You see words not my body. I invite you to read my blog not to fuck me. I would be a hypocrite if I dismiss the importance of readers in blogging. Most people blog because they want to open up and be read. Reviews, comments, suggestions, and constructive criticisms motivate a blogger.

The macho of all actors perform the Greek tragedies of Euripides and Sophocles. Both had male, young lovers. Free love-practicing hippies read the poems of Allen Ginsberg, a cock sucker. Some teens, who relive James Dean's "A rebel without a cause," opt for the symbolist works of Arthur Rimbaud, another cock sucker, hustler, and syphilic sex cruiser in North Africa during his time. The literary contributions of these writers deserve accolades and attention from us. If we cannot transcend our prejudices, we won't have any chances of reading good literature. One more thing, even reading the essays of Noam Chomsky, in my mind, he is dead.

Blog

AIDS: An Idiot's Desired Suicide

These are not multivitamins. 


A rare drug-resistant HIV strain was found in New York City recently. The strain leads to the early onset of AIDS. They found it in a gay man, who had multiple unsafe anal sex partners while on crystal methamphetamine, also called Tina among gay druggies, on several occasions. What an idiot! I have no respect or even a slight of pity to such a person. He deserves to die. He takes people's compassion away from AIDS and their respect for diversity and tolerance.

This is some of the reasons why gay clubs and gatherings are not appealing to me. I don't have gay friends, and I despise gay pride parades. I stopped volunteering and donating for HIV/AIDS programs long ago. Why help if they don't help themselves? I am not a snot or snob. It just happens I know dark stories about gay men and their fabulous rainbow world almost unheard in the mainstream. Cruising for sex is disgusting and desperate. Public bathroom sex is dirty. Bathhouses are filthy and dangerous. Gay sex parties with "no condom" policy serve oer dourves, cocktails, and death.

Gay life, in general, is self-destructive and lonely. Some gay men are nasty, dumb gloryhole addicts. If they love sex, why not do it in a safe, clean, and enjoyable manner? Sucking or fucking in the bushes, truck stops, dark alleys, ran down theaters, forests, and parks is not my way of enjoying sex. I want to see the face of the man fucking me before I can orgasm. I cannot kneel on dirt, lay myself on grasses, or get naked and bitten by mosquitoes. I spend money on lingerie for sensual bedroom fuck. I want to lie down and be cuddled and licked all over. Fucking should not be a fishing expedition. Dildoes exist for a reason, and everyone masturbates.

I used to have a gay friend. When he confided to me that he wanted to be infected with HIV virus, I stopped hanging out with him. I could not understand his purpose; I deemed him crazy. That's how I found out about "bug chasing." Some gay men consciously desire to infect and be infected by the virus they call "gift." Damn! What a gift! This makes me both sad and angry. What a waste of life and air they breathe! They have misused the acceptance accorded to them. They are selfish for wasting their lives and other people's.

Most gay men are smart and talented. They can braid hair meticulously, make a nice gown out of rags, turn a plain Jane into a Barbie, yet some just can't and won't simply unwrap a condom and roll it on a cock. How moronic and lazy is that? I really have no sympathy for gay men who decide their own slow way of dying then make their suffering bothersome to many. They rely on government welfare programs, make the jobs of healthcare professionals riskier, depend on family and friends, and put the guilt and anguish on others. I wish they just shoot themselves and die.

I just got a box of one thousand Durex condoms for two hundred dollars. I do not intend to blow them into balloons. I love my life, and no man can ever take it away from me. "I glove if no love."

Sorry, I am very angry

Why them: a soldier's voice

My work uniform I just bought. Sorry to disappoint,
the model is not me. 


Yesterday, I got a nice, funny, poignant comment on my post Why them? from an American serviceman. It moved me so much that I wanted to write a separate post.

He said:

I understand your thoughts and comments on this subject. As a member of the U.S. military as well as MENSA, I feel it as my duty to respond.

The sacrifice can be broken down a multitude of ways. One, it could be the pure lack of options. Many states support assigning active duty in the Army as a viable substitute for prison terms. There could also be the person that didn't care enough in high school to work hard and get good grades to attend college.

Many of us feel it is our right and duty to serve our country in the best way available. Politicians do the same in effect, acting as public servants.

Then, as that Marine General said "it's fun to shoot some people." Some guys just like that approach.

Volunteering to be in them military of this country is quite the double-edged sword though. You can be guaranteed nearly complete success in battle due to our global position. To do that though, you must also accept sub-standard wages in most cases.

The bottom line of it is there are as many reasons we join, work, and possibly give up the gift of life we've been given. I feel there are just as many reasons as there are for any other employment. Why did you choose to hook? There are advantages to it as I've read on this blog. It suits you, just as our jobs suit us. Your leather and cum stains are our camoflauge and blood stains.

In a way, our jobs are very much the same: We both do it for pay and pleasure, wether pulling the trigger or flicking the trigger.


My response:

Hi, Sir. First off, thanks for understanding my point even if it sounded naive to you. I wish I were in the military. The US Navy seems interesting. I love the beach, and white with some strips of dark blue would look good on me. Tilted on my head, I would look like a Vogue model in a Popeye sailor's hat. I would love to work side by side with se(a)men. A huge naval ship would be a heaven for me. I could totally be a slut for freedom.

Congratulations, for being a MENSA member. I don't find questions asking me to look for a square in multiple layers of shapes very interesting. I think IQ tests examine if you are cross-eyed or blind. You needed such a test. Good eyesight is important in GPS mapping, aiming a bullet, and dropping a bomb. Being a hooker, I have a different use for my eyes. I observe my client like you study a map, drop my clothes with my glance begging for a fuck, and aim my mouth on his cock. My stare does not kill.

Sir, all your reasons why people go to boot camps are valid. What I cannot fathom is the morality behind those who enter the military due to poverty, lack of options, and GI bills. The thought of a poor young man from a farm in Iowa who is fighting in Iraq, while the son of Gov. Jeb Bush is enjoying the Florida sun and sipping margarita, does not sound fair to me. It also makes me sad that some people could think that shooting other than their cum is fun.

I have nothing but my sincere admiration to the American servicemen and women who volunteer and serve this great country, but I think that right and duty should not only be for some but for everyone. It is also impossible to think such idealism with empty stomach. Barracks are better than makeshift boxes in the open streets. Military uniforms look better than dirty trousers and torn tops. Volunteerism would only be heartfelt if everyone is in the same position of having unlimited opportunities.

Good Sir, please do not compare your service to mine. Yours is noble. I get no "demerits" if I fake my orgasm. If I am not in the mood to fuck, I don't get a "dishonorable discharge." I get no grades, recommendations, or medals for how I bend, crawl, or ride on top. I can choose who to fuck; you cannot choose who to kill. You curl bravely in foxholes; I lie down horny on my bed. Shots on my belly are cum; in yours bullets.

My Victoria's Secrets red-black satin corset, lacy thong, and silky thigh highs cannot equal your camouflage. My seven-inch stilettos have not gone where your boots have walked on. I am just a hooker. When you pull your trigger, you kill an enemy; when I blow one, I make someone cum. You fight for lasting freedom; I struggle for orgasm and temporary, instant joy.

With my freshly cherry red-painted nails, my favorite color, I salute you and all men and women in the US military for your loyal service to this wonderful country. Without the freedom you have fought for, I won't be fucking and writing the way I freely do. You fight a battle for everyone. All I can give back is my (m)oral support. Thank you.

Politics

The Passion of Christ: Fucking

His passion is fucking. He is a straight porn actor from Europe. Meet Christ Mountaini.  


I have now realized that hooking, if considered a work at all, is the most boring job a person can have. I have no patience for waiting and expecting; and mental dexterity to deal with idiotic queries like men asking me if I blow or get naked. Oh! My fucking God! I am a hooker. Why would I act like a convent nun? Baby, I am a sexual buffet- all you can eat. As far as I know, there is no nun-related fetish, so don't expect a habit and a crucifix chain in my closet. I won't even wear such a boring costume for Halloween. Besides, who would get naked and jerk off in front of a fully clothed, veiled woman with a crucified Jesus on her covered chest? Even a sadist gay man or a mean dominatrix won't find that suffering of Jesus Christ hot.

This kind of idiocy sometimes makes me think though. I need to intellectualize things, so I won't end up mad and regretful of wasting my time flipping up my cell phone, talking to a moron, and yes, paying the bills. After I got the call earlier from the guy who expected me to be a virginal hooker, erotic symbolism in Christianity came to my mind. Why do people associate "virgin" to a woman who has never been fucked, and with her hymen still intact and to Mary, the mother of God, who obviously had a loose pussy after giving birth to Jesus? The latter is worshiped for her mythical, theological purity, and the former is desired for sexual lust and fantasy.

There is a conflicting shift of meaning between religious myth and biological anatomy and a cognitive dissonance in the way it is perceived by both religious fanatics and sex maniacs. The real virgin woman becomes the object of impure thoughts among men dwelling in fantasy. The biblical virgin woman epitomizes the concept of virginity and purity Christians totally accept, adore, and believe, yet do not fantasize and eroticize. What is the right way of defining a virgin then? Whose interpretation and usage is correct?

Another strange twist in this semantic play is the role of the visual image of the Virgin Mary in the construction of the erotic, human virgin. We hear words such as "angelic" and "innocent" used to portray a young, virgin woman. Does this image-construction in adult fantasy and erotica have something to do with the angelic face and innocent aura of the Virgin Mary? What is really a virgin? We seldom find a word like it with conflicting dual meanings, linguistic usage, and other perceptive consequences.


Christ Mountaini (standing) in Fresh meat #16: stay away from my daughter with Lidia and Thomas Stone 

There are, however, phrases used in the church that would sound erotic in the mind of a horny person. For instance , "the passion of Christ" would be a good title for a gay or a straight porn of any medium, if it deals with the sexual life or fucking prowess of a guy named Christ, Christian, Christopher, or Cristo, if he is Latino. The straight porn actor, Christ Mountaini, is a good example. Fucking can be anyone's passion too. If the phrase used is "the passion of the Christ," there is no doubt that it means the suffering of Jesus, the son of God. Mel Gibson got it right.

Another example is "the body of Jesus or Christ." There is no blasphemy if I lust for the body of Jesus, a hot, muscular stripper from Mexico. If I say the same phrase in a subtle sexual context in a religious space, even just admiring the physicality of the body not lusting, the bible addicts and fundamentalists will demonize me and give me a plane ticket to hell. Clearly, meanings also shift according to cultural geography, linguistic structure, and people's maturity and openmindedness. This reminds me of the Biblical command of God in Genesis, "Go to the world and multiply." Among kids in grade school, it is math; for grown ups fucking.

The phrase "the blood of Christ or Jesus" is the most erotic of all. Christian worshipers get to swallow Jesus' blood in the form of wine. If the wine is white, the more erotic the symbolism will become. This is not only erotic, but vampiristic as well. In the real world outside the boundaries of the religious rituals, this phrase has two or more meanings. If in South Central Los Angeles, the phrase would mean the death of a Latino gang member, and in gay West Hollywood, that is the cum of the Mexican male stripper, Jesus. Among heterosexual porn addicts, the phrase simply means the hot load of Mr. Christ Mountaini, the anal fucker on a porn video.

If we eroticize blood, pain, and violence, we will have BDSM. This makes me wonder why there is no Jesus-related fetish among gay men and straight women who are into BDSM, sadism, and controlled, erotic violence. After all, if you look at the crucifix, Jesus Christ is semi-naked, bloody, and in pain. This shows that no matter how decadent and degenerate gay sex, erotica, and alternative fantasy seem, the Christian guilt still rules.

Politics

Maxillofacial Workout

Inhale ... exhale ... head forward ... open mouth ... wet cock ...
now suck ... count ... 1 .. 2 .. 3 .. 4 .. 5 ... next step ...  


I blew three guys today. Nothing was special to write about. They paid, got naked, lay down, got sucked, came, and left. The monotony in that order made me feel as If I had a boring receptionist's job. I needed some variety. I wanted to get fucked today, but they were not hot enough. I would need to try hard to make myself orgasm or fake it if I am with men who are not really my type. Thus, I charge extra. I was lucky they did not have enough money. It would have been a bitch for me to get fucked thrice without ever smiling. It would be like eating anything for the sake of it.

I had no complaints though. None of them was either huge or tiny. So no extreme oral push-ups, mouth-stretching, or jaws-tightening happened. They relaxed, and I sucked. They came, and I rested and waited for the next. I see sucking as a facial workout like chewing a gum. This is maybe the reason why my face and neck are skinny, well-defined, and bereft of baby fats. Blowjob should be included in the exercise regimen to fight obesity like aerobics, where fat people dance to lose weight, and have fun doing it.

With blowjob, the exercise commands would be easy. Just suck, lick, nibble, tongue, roll, and deep-throat in no particular order as long as you wet first the cock you are sucking. Also inhale and exhale before you start and in between executions of oral exercise steps. A good flow of oxygen prevents choking. Go slow and find your rhythm. Only go fast when a guy is coming. There are no left and right motions in blowjob but up and down, unless you are licking balls or playing them left-side-left in your mouth.

Sucking for pay, fun, and weight loss will really work. You don't need any gym equipment, and no pills to take. Just let him relax and sit, and you crawl or kneel, then blow. The motivation in blowjob is triple. When you blow, don't bite. Remember you are sucking and exercising not eating, and raw meat is not good for your health. If you are on a low carb diet, and you know the guy you are sucking, swallow all his load. If it slips down from your mouth, slurp it back. Cum is protein. And yes, don't talk when your mouth is full.

Health and wellness

Love in Polynesia

Like an empty, white canvass, I felt alone. 


Somewhere in Tahiti, while on vacation, I met and fell in love with a man. He was strange but sweet and lovable. He could move colors on his brush like a ballerina on his canvass. He was an artiste. His English was funny, but he spoke French so lovely. Even when he cursed after accidentally splashing black on his painting, it sounded the same when he whispered to me asking to touch my body, feel my warmth, and taste the moist of my lips. He was handsome. His cheekbones and chiseled jaws were very telling he was European. His deep, haunting eyes drew me to him. His smile was as intoxicating as his laughter. I felt I had done good things, and got my rewards every time I looked at him. His broad shoulders and thick arms gave me comfort. He covered and protected me during that sudden sandstorm while we were walking along the seashore. He was like a tree to my delicate body. I leaned my cheek on his chest for safety. That was the first time we kissed.

I extended my stay. I lived with him in his thatch-roofed hut. He built me a pond for lilies and butterflies. We made love everyday. We lay naked on bamboo floors for afternoon rest. Windows were open for tropical breeze. I could hear the monsoon waves, the chirping birds, and the swaying coconut trees. I was in a paradise, and with a man I did not want to leave. How could I leave such a man whose kisses were like his soft, wet brush on a waiting canvass? When he went down on me, his mustache touched my breasts to my belly like tips of the palm leaves bowing to feel the clay ground. His back was hard even my nails could not leave a mark. His strong legs pressed and tortured mine when we were in our orgasmic rage. His moans were like inaudible words of an excited poet. His thick hands, mapped with dried, stray colors of oil paint, held my waists, my body, my arms, my thighs like he owned me. I could tell what he wanted through his touch. I was his muse, his goddess between his grips.

I never counted the passing days. I was happy admiring the reflections of colors into his eyes. My ears were slaves to his whispers. I wanted to be like his brown women on his canvasses. They looked real and alive. There was no hint of pain in their smile but content. They were eternal. I wanted to be with him until I ceased to hear the Tahitian waves. Like seasons, beautiful days had to end. I heard no more chirping birds, no more tropical breeze, even the palm leaves were silent. That day, the orange-black-purple dusk painted the sky gloom. The stubborn murmurs of the waves were unusually quiet. The paradise mourned. The easel stood alone, and was empty. The strokes on a canvass stopped, so were his sighs and breathing. I could no longer touch and feel him but his unfinished painting of me, the brown woman in nude. He would have been lying beside me, but the black angel deprived us of our simplest joy.

My man, Paul Gaugin, was no more.



I suddenly woke up, and checked my alarm clock. It was almost three in the morning. It was a beautiful nightmare. I was sweating and gasping for air. What a scary, wild, orgasmic dream it was! It must be the PBS art series I watched last night. I hope I will have a hot client today. He can fuck me to death. I need to smile.

Personal

Dr. Condoleezza Rice: power, race, gender, and ugliness

She is a proof of a myth. 


What happen to the ego-boosting cliche that beauty is not important but brains? You need not go further to realize that such proposition is false. Dr. Condoleezza Rice is the most powerful proof. Granting she is not a lesbian or man-hater, why is she still single? She doesn't look intimidating. If she is, lots of single men her age have confidence and PhD's too. They can neutralize her overbearing personality and academic background. If she is single by choice, now that's something. With all her power, accomplishments, and qualities as a person, she is definitely a woman to die for, but men find Dr. Rice's mind, face, and body not that fuckable.

In reality, looks is still on top when it comes to people's preference in a partner. Unfortunately, Dr. Rice has everything except just that. If only she has the looks that turns heads, even Pres. George Bush, Jr. would leave his wife for her. She is brainy, and her personality is likable. Remember that faux pas when she called the President "my husband"? Was it a wishful thinking, Freudian slip, or real illicit affair? If there is a grain of truth in it, then we have a modern Sally Hemmings in the making. That would really make the midwest fundamentalists, bible addicts, KKK idiots, and closeted racist republicans sad and depressed.

Now, let's try to be naughty. Let's give Dr. Rice a racial makeover. Let's say she is blue-eyed, blonde, hot, and gorgeous for her age. Do you think she would be single? Her talent in playing a piano alone would be enough to melt men's hearts. Imagine if a pretty, white Dr. Rice playing Chopin or Bach in red lingerie, and wearing Chanel No. 5 perfume, and candles and rose petals everywhere, and you are a guy, would you not want to fuck her on the piano? That would be a Kodak moment. Her Rachmaninoff would surely make the high society's ageing studs drool and chase her.

Dr. Rice loves football too. She can analyze a game. Her dream job is to become an NFL commissioner. How would the world of football have responded had she been hot, pretty, and white? To this date, I haven't heard any camp that trumpets the idea of her as a football goddess. Even Janet Jackson was not well-received among average Joe's. A white, gorgeous Dr. Rice would definitely be a dream for most men. She would be a good Monday Night Football fuck and Super Bowl trophy babe. She could open a beer, serve pizza, suck or fuck, and criticize Eagles' game strategy. How perfect a ball-minded white woman would that be for single male football fans?

Let's now give Dr. Rice a gender change. Had she been a heterosexual black guy, without even considering looks, Dr. Rice would definitely attract power-hungry chicks, gold-digger babes, and those who want real bling bling. If white, a male Dr. Rice's chances of fucking Hollywood stars would skyrocket. Women in the State Department would be blowing a single, white, male Dr. Rice left and right. Pres. Bill Clinton's blowjob tryst with Monica Lewinsky would look like a bible study. A hot, handsome, single, male Dr. Rice, black or white, would be a powerful sex god.

Seriously, I don't doubt Dr. Condoleezza Rice's ability and qualification. She speaks several languages including Russian. The latter alone is no joke. Her expertise in international diplomacy is on Eastern Europe. That's no small feat either. One has to have balls if she wants to study Russia and Communism, and read the mind of Pres. Vladimir Putin. No matter how smart, good, and educated Dr. Rice is, she cannot change racism in the foreign service and in Eastern Europe. Black residents, students, and tourists are routinely beaten up in Russia and other parts of Europe. Dr. Rice herself is a victim of racial slurs in her own country. She also knows how the white and the non-black foreign diplomats have received and ignored UN Sec. Gen. Kofi Annan. How will the racist, backward countries, like India and China, receive her?

America's trust and mission in foreign relations has always been to arrogantly spread civilization, democracy, and dole-outs. I just don't see Dr. Condoleezza Rice as an effective representative of the White Men's burden. If Gen. Colin Powell failed, what can we expect for her? She is no Madeline Albright, a Caucasian.

Politics

A hooker's fuck buddy

"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good." (W. H. Auden)  


I woke up around five in the afternoon. The depression drama is over, so is my rage against the world. Now, let's move on, and go back to sex.

The best fuck is always the one without reservations, inhibitions, and paranoia. Yes, I mean free, fearless, animalistic fucking. This is where you need a boyfriend or a fuck buddy you trust, know very well, and enjoy bare fucking with.

David was my fuck buddy, and is a friend now. He is twenty-six. His construction job has made him a hunk. He is handsome and hot. I like his street hustler appeal. He looks like a rough, edgy, muscular Jude Law. He doesn't talk much, but he is really nice. I met him through the Internet six months ago. We dated and became friends. We liked each other but I am too much for him, and he is too reserved for me. With men now, I hardly compromise except when it comes to money and sex. I will be as flexible as my body.

One day, David and I challenged ourselves if we could have a relationship without love and any form of attachment. We did not know then that this is called fuck buddy relationship. We sealed the deal and mapped out what we wanted. We agreed on getting AIDS test every two months; having uninhibited, out-of-control, good fucking; and saying no I love you's but thanks afterwards. We promised to be truthful and open on anything about ourselves. We also agreed that the deal would end if he gets a girlfriend, and I get a man or become a hooker. I blew him with a condom to start off the deal. The next day, we went to a local clinic. It had been a fun ride from then on, and we had been fucking almost twice a week for four months. I was a satisfied slut. David did a good job.

I called him this morning and told him that the deal would be over because I am now hooking, even though I work and play safe. I kept my word even if it meant losing the man who supplied me raw meat and protein. He was disappointed. He asked me if he could come over and have our last, wild rendezvous. He was confident since we were tested three weeks ago, and the results came back clean and negative. I also told him that most of my clients are just blowjob and fantasy seekers, and that I have been fucked only twice since my career change. He tried persuading me not to be an escort, but I have made up my mind. Escorting for me is not just money but also control of my body, mind, and emotion. A nympho hooker is no different than a workaholic executive. Both are in control, and have choices, and they are paid to do them.

David made me think though. Deep down, I know why I have ended up a hooker. I got tired of games where I didn't get to play. Now, I have my own games. Men bet, and I play. I get to make and pick my own rules too. What a big difference! Before, I would wait my men to come to me, but now, they wait for their turns, and when I am free. I also pushed myself too hard on them. Now, they bother me even in the wee hours of the morning. They can no longer shut their phones on me. I am not calling. They can no longer hide. I won't be looking. I am a different person now. I am no longer a beggar for sex and affection. Now, I am not only a well-satisfied nympho, I am also a spoiled control freak. I would really do good in BDSM.

Two hours later, David was on my door. He knew my entrance code. I really trust him. He runs errands and fixes anything for me. I even met his folks and buddies in some of his parties. We were really good fucking friends. He was a good fucker too. I hope we remain real friends. I need someone to fix my car, toilet, and sink. I opened the door, and we hugged and said our hello's. We both looked fresh, clean, and ready. Without further ado, we went to my bedroom, got naked, and fucked almost two hours. He kissed me wet and fucked me raw. It was heaven. I blew him and swallowed every load he had for me. I let him have his last feast on my body. We came several times. We did fuck like it was really our last. His spit, sweat and cum were all over me. It was so natural and primitive. We got too tired even to clean up. Through the mirror, my body looked lifeless on top of his muscles. We cuddled and took a nap.

When I woke up, David was gone. All I had of him were his scent on a pillow, a cum stain on my neck, and a short letter he wrote:

"Isa....., thanks for the wonderful time. You are a nice girl, but you hate men too much that you won't love them. Call me if you need something. Take care and be safe. Love, David."

My fuck buddy had fallen for me, and he had also broken the deal before I did. No wonder his kisses were sweet, and his hugs tight. It was too late. It will just be one of those memories. Now, we are just friends. It is better that way. No more fuck buddies for me. If ever I crave for a raw fuck again and a load of cum to swallow, I will give up hooking for love. For now, I am on a different path. I am going ahead and moving on.

On money and my family

This is my idea of a good life. 


Yesterday was my day off. I was not in the mood to see naked strangers on my bed. Even talking to them on the phone irritated me. I turned off my cell phone for hooking. No men. No cocks. No dollars. Just drama. I needed such a beauty rest!

Money is not really a problem for me. I am a grandma's girl. She gives me anything I want. From dolls and skirts when I was a kid, ballet class tuition and hair removal on my armpits, to Chanel swimsuits and pairs of Manolo's now, I got them all.

I day trade too, and am good at it. I get info from my stockbroker clients. They tell me what to avoid, what's hot, and where to focus my investments. They never fail to tell me about those unknown, affordable IPO's. They even give me a capital to start and play. Hookers should diversify, fuck, and invest.

My parents are also a phone call away, but I haven't bothered them yet. I think I should. Among their children, I am the one they spent money on the least. I had scholarships in high school and undergrad. My postgrads were my student loans. They basically spent nothing on my education. Maybe I will ask them for a new set of bobbies. I want smaller. 36D's hurt my back, and they are too heavy to carry.

I am cool with my siblings. They have resigned to the thought that I will be their burden in the future. They don't really care. They are all professionals, so I could play Charles Baudelaire on them. Fuck, write about sex, and be a pauper to my folks. I don't think that will ever happen though. I am a responsible kid, and my granny will never let that happen. She even cries on the phone when I have a tummy ache and orders my monthly grocery on Peapod.com. I love my granny. She is tech-savvy, and feminist too. She reads my blog.

There is nothing in the world I treasure most but my family. That's the reason why you haven't seen me on a Jerry Springer Show. Besides, I am too good for that show, and I am not into being lampooned. My upbringing was good. When I was old enough to think for myself, they gave me freedom. Freedom to paint my nails red, to fuck with men, and to be myself.

Disneyland is bad for kids

I could only wish upon a star... 


I just couldn't function all day. Even reading The Wall Street Journal this morning seemed like a task. My appetite craved nothing. I just had a leftover piece of egg roll dipped in blue cheese and a glass of pinot grigio. I played Eartha Kitt to have some noise in my small apartment that felt like a vast, empty space. My place looked lifeless. I thought it was my thick flannel pajama that made me feel restless and uncomfortable. I stripped, and had my lunch in nude.

Getting naked did not work. I guess it was my mind that should be exposed. After my last sip of wine, I went straight to the unfilled bathtub and lay there under the slow, warm shower. My Vietnamese silk robe seemed too colorful and busy. I got meticulous. I grabbed a fresh white bed sheet, dried myself, and fashioned it on me like a Greek toga. I felt renewed, and ready to hit the blog.

I really wanted to understand the anatomy of my strange depression. I called my sister, a third-year medical student in New York. She lectured me on neurotoxicity of ecstasy complete with data and references. My sister is not a geek, just a neurologist in training. Few minutes after talking to my sister, my ever-religious mom called. I guess my sister thought science was too weak to explain my current state of mind. She called my parents. My mom gave me a sermon on self-destructing as sin against God. Wow! A recreational drug became profound.

Without getting any sound explanation from my sister's complex science and my mom's guilt-based religion, I called Tony, the street pharmacist who gave me the pill and thought he could fuck me afterwards. He failed. I only fuck with strangers for pay. For me, one-night stands are cheaper than hookers. They are easy sluts. If you want to slut around, by all means, get something from it. A load of cum is nothing but a man's body fluid like his spit, piss, and sweat. It is better to be paid than played. I don't collect wrong phone numbers, made up calling cards, and empty promises. Fucking for me now is a job, and today is my day off.

"That's normal. You got depressed because you did not want the ecstasy to stop. That's why it's called ecstasy," Tony explained like a marketing expert. Damn! He wanted me to have some more. This man wanted to make a junkie out of me. I refused and hanged up the phone. I thought real hard about what Tony just said. He made sense. It was not the neurotoxic chemical or the Christian guilt that made me depressed, and feel empty. I put myself in a fantasy world where I created my own make-believe reality, and had a blast. I did not want it to end, but it did. I felt shit. I was down.

I went back as far as my childhood and tried to remember instances when I had the same feeling of emptiness. My memory could only muster five dark moments in my life where I cried when reality bit me in the ass. Though vague, I can still remember the very first time when my parents cut my long hair, gave all my Barbie's to my sister, and reprimanded me for painting my nails. I thought they hated red. I hit bottom when they explained to me that I was not a girl. I was four then. I refused to eat and banged my head on the floor. That really hurt. I still have the scar on my forehead. Eight years later, I scared my folks with a shallow cut on my wrist after they decided to send me to a boarding school for boys. I did go, eventually, and became Juliet in Shakespeare drama class and a sexy cheerleader in boyshorts and voracious high school slut.

Succeeding depressions were related to men, love, and their bodies. Getting detached from their cocks was indeed depressing. My first love chose God over me and entered the seminary after high school graduation. I was heartbroken; I became an atheist. The next one was a cock-sucker. He left me for a hung gay man. I needed a real hunk of a man anyway. I ultimately let him go. I felt deeply insulted. I would rather have him dumped me for a woman prettier than me. The last guy, who really made me cry and hate the world, was my Turkish ex-boyfriend. He sacrificed a lot for me. We did love each other. In the end, he got tired, left me, and moved on. All these sad events in my life were related to people, reality, and, yes, sex not to some detachment from objects, imagined stuff, and fantasy.

At first, it seemed to me my ecstasy-related depression was unique until I channel-surfed. I saw a commercial on TV advertising Disney videos. I recalled my first and only visit to Disneyland when I was a kid in California, and realized a subtle detachment anxiety I failed to recognize then. My favorite was a ride in a cave of dolls. They played a jolly, catchy song while the carts full of people slowly moved. It was something about the world being small, after all. The end of the ride was such a let down. I did not want it to stop. I just wanted to see the dolls, ride smoothly, and listen to the song over and over. I could have gone another round, but my brothers and sister were moving on to the next ride, and besides, the ticket lines were long. I eventually went with them and screamed my heart out in a horror house. That was a great emotional release.

Looking back, Disneyland was a perfect example of my ideal world. I saw friendly giant puppets that hugged strangers, and did not bully, hurt, or harm kids. Popcorn, hotdogs, chips, candies, juices, and soda were overflowing. Everyone had food to eat. The castles were huge and lovely. The landscape was like a scene in my dream. There were people wearing beautiful, intricate costumes. It was like a Mardi Gras for kids. Everyone was nice and friendly. I saw black ride workers fixing safety belts on white kids, white security men pointing directions to black folks, and Indian women in their colorful sarees clicking cameras for Japanese tourists. What a peaceful, harmonious atmosphere! Parents carried and pushed their kids in strollers. Lovers and couples kissed and walked holding hands. People smiled, giggled, and laughed. Everyone was happy. Disneyland was a perfect place indeed.

Leaving Disneyland was very depressing. Reality set in. The real world awaited us outside. While driving back to Los Angeles, I saw homeless people begging, runaway kids scavenging for food in trash cans, drunks hanging out everywhere, and scary young men in black carrying portable stereos, strutting around, and picking fights in the streets. There was no way I would ask a favor from some strangers to click even my disposable camera in the midst of dirty pavements, burning garbage, and old neon signs. I found abandoned bullet-ridden cars, ran down houses, and never-ending graffiti on walls very depressing. I wanted to go back to the clean, calm, beautiful, small world of Disneyland. Back to where we lived, I heard babies crying, neighbors fighting, and police cars chasing someone. The noise and siren bothered me. Where were the happy people, the beautiful music, and the warmth and peace of Disneyland?

I now understood my strange depression from the pill. In retrospect, Disneyland, for me, was really ecstasy in the form of a theme park.

personal

Prozac writing

"My words have the deliberate solitude of lizards. Their tongues unfold like a royal carpet straining to hear the inward music of distant saxophones." (written by Ekiwah Adler Belendez, a 17 year-old mexican poet with cerebral palsy) 


I could not sleep last night. I had a depression from something I didn't know. It was a strange feeling. I felt like crying, but my mind refused to cooperate. Every tear should drop for a reason. I would have blamed Dostoevsky if I did reread Brothers Karamazov lately.

When I am depressed, I don't think of suicide or punishing myself. I am not a flagellant. Depression for me is not a psychological pathology but a mental state, where my mind succumbs to the beauty of pain and to the hypnosis of drama.

I believe all literary masterpieces were written by depressed minds. Even Aesop's fables are painful to read. He found humanity among animals. How depressing is that? Basho's haikus are the same thing. He got his sense of living in the rattling of a leaf.

When I am depressed, I don't take Prozac. I write my pain. It's therapeutic. Writing heals the battered mind, while pain brings back the creative desire to see complex drama in something mundane. In depression, I see beautiful things in the dark.

Depression

Remembering my last depression

my state of mind at this moment 


It's already late. I don't think I can sleep. I am very depressed for no apparent reason. I don't know anything that has made me sad lately that would trigger my feeling of being forsaken. I have never felt alone and helpless like this since last year when my boyfriend for four years decided to go back to Turkey. He got tired defending me and explaining our relationship to his family and friends. I was on sabbatical from the world for a month after that, pondering what life could have been if I were a real woman, and my man was brave enough to listen to what he felt and fought for it. I was at the lowest ebb of my struggle. All I did was write poetry of love felt, lost, and remembered. I shed twenty pounds in that ordeal.

After accidentally seeing myself on a mirror one morning I got my senses and groove back. I became thinner and sexier. I would be such a waste if I remained in seclusion and self-pity. I got out from the deepest abyss with new perspectives in life. For the first time, I redefined love. Love should not be painful. I moved on and enjoyed the world again. I started appreciating small things like ants kissing and even the tiny comma in the poem of Pablo Neruda. I realized there are meanings hidden even in the setting of the sun or a droplet from a faucet that would make me thankful for all the chances I have in living and surviving. I learned to love myself and value my efforts. I started to smile again.

I promise no more ecstasy for me.


Depression

My ecstasy experiment

When it's my time to go beyond the dark horizon, I will leave no traces, no footprints, no letters. Only blossoms of poppies and chrysanthemums will mourn for my absence.  


It was my first time to try the pill last night. I did it so I could observe and write about my feelings without inhibition, ambivalence in choosing words, and shame for crying out loud. I wanted to know if I could still be humorous and sexual. It was the other way around. I could not poke fun on what I saw in my mind. There was nothing sexual about red splashes, mangled bodies, and deformed faces that plagued my drug-induced imagination. The techno music I played sounded like guns and bombs. I lost my humor.

After I blogged my angst, I felt better. I took off all my clothes and lay down on my bed. It was very peaceful. I felt secure. I had my own universe. I thought of good and beautiful things. I touched myself from forehead to toes. I curled, stretched, and faced down, up, and sideways. I could not sleep, and I did not want to. DJ Junior Vasquez made me feel good. Listening to his music was as orgasmic as getting fucked. Alone, I felt free and safe. No wild hands could molest me. No unknown faces would stalk me. No hateful insults could put me down. There were no scary uncertainties.

Now that the effect is waning, I feel shit. I think this is the feeling of depression from something you don't know. It's back to reality I guess. My landlady called to tell me I could not move to the penthouse. My mom got mad this morning because I did not show up on my dad's birthday. My dominatrix friend, Electra, was busted by cops. I got my last month's bills . My neighbor complained about my loud music. A client called asking me if I could pee on him. Damn! I am back to my senses now. I am now in a world where I am indeed not free to do what I wish, to control what people want from me, and to just curl on my pillow in a quiet moment.

Drugs

Why them?

How come choices are limited when you are supposed to be free? 


I have been thinking to do this experiment for quite sometime. I want to write something that comes up in my mind while under the influence of ecstasy. Now that I am on it, let me share my angst.

The death of 1,400 American soldiers in Iraq has been an emotional tsunami for me. I don't know anything about those guys personally, but I feel they are my brothers and sisters, and that I have lost them forever. I cannot fathom why they had to die. They say for freedom. Why them? Was it because they came from middle class families? Was it because they were from Idaho or Iowa? Was it because the educational system failed them? Was it because there were no other opportunities available other than joining the military? Was it their upbringing? Was it their community environment? Was it poverty? What was it?

If they were sons and daughters of the corporate America, they would not have died that way. They would have thought of Harvard or Yale and MD or MBA instead of boot camps. They would have gone to Oxford or Cambridge not Baghdad or Tikrit. If they were not children of the farms and the ghettos, they would not have chosen that dangerous path. Why them not the son of Jeb Bush or the daughter of Bill Clinton? Why them not my friends at Harvard or the sons of my cardiologist uncle? Why them? Is freedom for all fought only by the unfortunate few?

Sometimes, I wonder if freedom really exists. A freedom where you choose what you can be. A freedom where choices are not limited. A freedom where everyone is really equal. I guess I am really idealistic. The irony of it all is that those 1,400 American soldiers died for our freedom, yet they themselves were unfortunately not free to choose besides killing and being killed.

Iraq

Oral reflexology

when feet are not for walking 


I made a quick two-hundred last night. Ryan called me with excitement and sadness in his voice. The urgency of his request seemed to me a woe of a dissatisfied husband. He wanted to celebrate. It was his birthday. His wife and kids were in bed. He wanted to sneak out, and had fun. The man was desperately lonely, very horny, and had a plan.

At first, I was hesitant. Ryan wanted to do it in public. What an adventurous man! I am not really into car scenes. I prefer my spacious bed with four soft pillows to lean on. Besides, a car is too small a space for a good fucking, hot, and dusty. I don't want to sweat and sneeze while getting drilled. Add the cops, evening joggers, other passing cars, and nosey pedestrians, I would be a total nervous wreck even in a tinted, brand-new Aston Martin. In-call service is safer and more comfortable. His proposal was not really appealing to me. I hanged up.

Ryan called up again begging like I was the only one who could make his day. He explained; I listened. Now, I got it. He did not want my body but my feet. "I won't even jerk off, Deja. I will be driving," he assured me. I asked what I would be doing. He requested me to wash my feet, paint my toenails red, and spray them with fruity perfume. It sounded like he wanted me to treat my feet like I would my face. That was easy. We agreed on the price and the time for him to pick me up. I gave him my address. He was very excited. "See you in a bit, Mistress," off he went.

A few minutes later, Ryan called, and he was downstairs. I did not really dress up slutty or waste my time putting makeup. I might turn him on, and he would lick my face instead of my feet. I double-checked my toes, crevices, and nails and turned my feet up-side-down. I don't think dirt, ingrown nails, and athlete's foot are part of a foot fetish. My feet were free from those. I just wanted to make it sure. With my seven-inch stilettos on, rosy red painted nails, and Escada spring scent, my feet were ready to make some money.

Ryan was chubby, and maybe in his late 30's. He was not that ugly, but I would not sleep with him even if he paid more. I went ahead and settled comfortably inside his car. "Feet are not sex organs anyway," I told myself. We drove off. He was a good storyteller, but whined a lot. He complained about his wife's hairy toes, wrinkly feet, thick calluses, bunions, and purple nail paint. It seemed this man lived in misery, and feet were his world. He had lots of complaints, yes, about feet. I did not think his stories about his wife and feet would end soon. I took off my shoes, and wiggled all my toes with my feet on the dashboard. Ryan shut up and salivated.

Ryan acted weird and nervous not that his wife might wake up and look for him or cops might stop us and send us to jail for a night. He was overwhelmed by my feet. His eyes glistened. He was shaking, and streams of sweat followed. He loved my feet. "I like them, Mistress," he said with watering mouth. My God! This guy was serious. My soft 36d boobs bouncing from street potholes were nothing to him but my feet. I just smiled and told him they were all his. "Mistress, tell me I am your foot slave tonight," he imperatively suggested. I did not know that there is such a slave. I nodded and pretended that I was a willing foot master. When we reached the red stop, he bowed down and kissed my feet I leaned on the dashboard like an early real slave would to his cruel master. Footwork began.

Ryan turned right towards a not so busy neighborhood. I felt safe. His phone number was on my machine, and the facade of the apartment building, where he picked me up, has four strategically installed cameras. I was sure they got Ryan's car platenumber. "Can you stop right here?" I asked pointing the empty parking lot on his side. The guy was overexcited, and I did not want him to crash. He did not listen at first. People passing by in cars or on foot were part of his adventurous fetish. I begged and begged. We negotiated. We parked three blocks from a liquor store, where we could still see people. I reminded him of his initial promises: no sex, no sucking, and no jerking off. He affirmatively assured me again. I was relaxed and my feet were ready for his mouth.

Ryan licked my toes like I do to a hot, clean guy's balls, and he sucked them like a pro. I felt my feet suddenly grew ten mini-penises, and that I was with a gloryhole junkie. He wiggled his tongue as if my toes had slits and shafts. It tickled me. It was very interesting to watch. His wiggling was such an oral acrobatics. Though no grace at all, his tongue was flexible like a body of a gymnast. This guy could roll and twist it to any directions. His licking techniques would do very well on a clit. He knew the sensitive parts of my feet. He liked the bitter taste of my freshly painted nails. The red color was orgasmic to him. The perfume I used made him wild. My toes were clean. He was in heaven.

Ryan licked, sucked, and wiggled his tongue on my toes and feet again and again. His mouth and tongue did not stop even for a short break. I seldom heard him moan. I guessed he really does not talk when his mouth is full. He orally massaged my feet like a trained reflexologist. He knew the stress points. He licked and licked them. It felt good. After sucking my toes one by one, licking every inch of my feet, and wiggling his tongue on tips, joints, and bones, he placed my left foot on his right cheek and the other foot on his crotch. "Please foot-slap me, Mistress, and move your other foot up and down," he pleaded. This guy was a genius. He invented foot-slapping and foot-jerking. Though his loose pants were unzipped, I could feel he had no underwear. He had a boner.

I did what Ryan wanted as long as no handjob. I moved my right foot up and down on his crotch like I was roller-skating and lightly slapped his face with my other foot. "Harder, Mistress." My God! He wanted me to kick his face. I moved back and changed to a comfortable position. I did not want to ruin his jaws. Now, I could do a round house slap on his chubby, clean-shaven cheeks. He loved it. "More, Mistress," he begged. I did foot-slap him three more times, while my right foot got busy jerking him. His crotch was wet from pre-cum. I could feel him gently biting and running his teeth on my other foot. His nibbling tickled and made me giggle. He thought I was enjoying.

Ryan sucked and licked my foot again and again with his spit all over. His mouth sounded like he melted sour candies. His facial expression looked like he was devouring all the meat on a buffalo wing. He took his time on each toe. He pushed and pulled my other foot on his crotch up and down. He got a rhythm now. The jerking got faster and faster, while his sucking covered my toes with more spit. His tongue explored the cracks and insides between my toes. Out of the blue, he held my right foot on his crotch as if to halt it, and my entire left toes were halfway stuffed and stuck in his mouth. He made a long, deep breath and shook like he was cold, and shivering in the middle of the snow. He paused and hugged my two feet together and kissed them like he was thankful he was alive. "I just came, Deja." he said with a very satisfied smile. He liked my feet he called my birthday gift. He was grateful I made his day. He dropped me home, and I wrote this experience on my journal. What a strange fetish, indeed!

Fetish

All about a transsexual pussy

look! it's a pussy. 

It is not only transsexuals who get pussies on a surgeon's operating table. Real women who have vaginal agenesis, an abnormal absence of a functional vagina, undergo the same procedure of vaginoplasty to remedy their birth defects. Are they less of a woman since they have surgically made pussies like what transsexuals have? Yes, transsexuals have no uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, etc., and they can't have babies. How about women with hysterectomy, tubal ligation, and ovarian problems, and those who are sterile? Are they less of a woman? How about those radical feminists and lesbians who don't want men and kids? Are they less of a woman?


if it has labia, clit, nerves, and it works, then it's a pussy. 

A transsexual may have a man-made pussy, but at least it's a fuckable, moist, orgasmic pussy with labia, clit, and sensitive nerves. Yes, she is biologically male, but who fucks genes, DNA, and chromosomes anyway? Men see and lust for faces, boobs, bodies, and pussies not those microscopic cells. If given a choice, they would rather pick up a drop-dead gorgeous transsexual with a pussy over a fat real woman who looks like a man. Men are visual, and any hole is fuckable. If some could fuck pillows, melons, chunks of liver, sheep, horses, dogs, asses and mouths, of course, others would fuck a transsexual's pussy. It looks and feels like one anyway, only tighter, and does not bleed and smell.


Yes, Harisu is a transsexual. 

If the pussy is Harisu's, for example, I don't think anyone can refuse to lick, finger, or fuck it. She may be a man biologically, but take her clothes off, there is nothing manly or male on her unless you get a microscope. Now, that is geeky. People say "ouch" for a transsexual who gets a "chop chop," but for a transsexual that is a dream. If a blind man can have an operation to be able to see, why can't a transsexual do something for herself since there is no way she can live and pass as a guy? If one does not look, feel, act, talk, and think like a guy, then that person is not a guy. Gender, after all, is what people perceive. Now, if that blind man is able to see after his eye operation, would you still call him blind?


If she looks like a man to you, then you are either blind or gay. You don't see or appreciate feminine beauty. Many real women would love to look like her. Ask her fans all over Asia. Again, if she is a man, then my nasty landlady is a superman. Harisu's ass looks better than her. In the final analysis, everything boils down to personality. After all, love is blind, and sincere lovers go beyond what they see. 

The gross anatomy of a cock

Wow! the leather looks good. 


I may be a hooker, but I like clean, nice cocks too. Who in this horney world would suck a rotten egg? It doesn't matter if one is cut or uncut. Get rid of the cheese and wipe off the grime. When I meet this kind of smelly men, I lead them first to my bathroom. For God's sake! Water is free. Go and wash up. My mouth is not a gloryhole where they can stick their cocks anytime. I consciously choose what to put in my mouth. I am what I eat. I get paid to suck a cock not to smell a rotting flesh. I am indeed picky who to kiss, suck, and fuck with. Hookers are human beings too. They look, smell, and touch.

It is tough to describe a perfect cock. Those who like pain go for hung men. The ones who like to be tickled choose weenies. Average-sized cocks are safe and fun for all. The important orgasmic feature of a cock is not its length but width. Very long cocks stab; short ones make women sad. Thick cocks make women feel like virgins; thin ones loose like a granny's. If a man is not thick enough, he can use his fingers to add width. If he is unfortunately short, he better uses his tongue. Nobody says you can't be resourceful in bed. Thin or short cocks alone in loose pussies are funny. They either tickle or bore. Long cocks can still be a lot of fun. Hung ones can wear cock donuts, put a pillow under their thighs when they hump, or grip their cocks when they fuck. Remember the goal: you fuck women to make them cum not bleed.

Hairy, bushy cocks are indeed scary. Nobody would know if there are lice lurking or worms hiding. I always check a cock before I suck. Rashes, boils, warts, and lesions scare me. I refuse to touch infected cocks. If they insist, I can wear a glove and give them a handjob. Completely hairless cocks make me laugh. They look like birdies or, if hung, hairless puppies. I want a fucker not a joker. Leave some hair if you don't want me to laugh and accidentally bite your cock.

Balls are complicated matter. There are men who have just one, and others have three. Some have none. There are sets of big balls, small, and combination of both. There are fake ones too made of plastic or silicone. Balls are negligible if cocks are visible. My job is to suck not to locate a cock. Men with wennies have sensitive egos. I try my best not to offend them. I don't use my forefinger and thumb when I move and turn their balls or when i play their cocks. When I blow them, I close my eyes. I don't want to laugh. When I sit on them, my moans are louder. I say "ouch" and sigh. I let them feel they are hung. After all, hooking is acting. For a fee, I give them an ego-boosting fantasy.

Nong Toom: the beautiful kickboxer

"He fought like a man to become a woman" 


Kickboxing is the most brutal and bloodiest of all contact sports. Its arena has no place for women and sissies, except him. Meet Nong Toom, Thailand's kickboxing champ. He was what Oscar Dela Hoya was to American boxing. He was feared, idolized, and vilified. On the ring, he wore makeup, donned feminine headbands, and planted kisses on his opponents, who suffered bruises, broken bones, bleeding cuts, and humiliating losses from him. He was a household name in his country. Kickboxing is Thailand's football.

Nong Toom was on top of his game. He trained in kickboxing when he was a kid so he could beat bullies calling him a faggot, take out his very poor family from the gutter, and follow what his heart really desired. For six years he kicked hundreds of men's asses. He earned a lot of money, and helped his family. He trained and worked hard for a dream. He did not mind what other people thought and said. He silenced insults and taunts with his flying kicks, elbow cuts, and killer punches. He knocked them all out. He was the king of kickboxing. "He fought like a man to become a woman."

Who are we to judge him? Doesn't everyone have the right to be happy? If you don't like your life, live differently like Nong Toom. Suffering forever is not living life to the fullest. He did his best to achieve his goals. He fought for noble causes. His family now owned houses, cars, and businesses through his prizes. Nobody could tease him anymore after becoming a champ. All that was left for him was to become what he really is: a gorgeous woman hiding behind the wall of those muscles. He was ready, and could afford now. From a fierce kickboxer, Nong Toom is now an actress and female model. She also speaks for diversity and human rights in her country. She is the real form of human spirit. She defied everyone and abandoned everything in search of her happiness. Didn't Buddha do the same thing?


killer kicks, punches, and beauty 

Nong Toom has made me wonder: if transsexuals really have choices other than becoming what they really desire, why would they choose to become what the world hates, despises, and loathes?

Evolution of a specie: balls, bikes, and babes

See I am strong... and cold... grrrrr! 


Men, the male human species that is, develop and progress from conception to old age in the atmosphere of competition. They amplify the Darwinian model in sociological, brutal, and macho sense. This is how biological evolution is understood in a ghetto. Men compete, survive, and prosper in egos, motives, and for the heck of it. They fight, bully, brawl, fuck, brag, and compare from birth to death.

It all begins when a sperm competes with others in penetrating an egg when dad fucks mom without a condom. Dad's weak, slow sperms clear the way for the stronger ones and opt to watch the race. They applause, bow down, and die. The winner then becomes a baby.

The competition continues in fetal stage. Male hormones called testosterone battle it out with the female's estrogen. This is a duel of strength, quality, and quantity. If testosterone wins, mom and dad get a boy; if estrogen, a girl. If it ends up a tie, that means both have the same strength and amount in the biochemistry affecting the development of a fetus, mom and dad will have a queer baby boy (or girl). Don't worry, queer-bashers. It's just a theory.

Testosterone wins, and it's a healthy baby boy after nine months. Dad is happy and proud, while mom shakes milk and changes the diaper. They take turns to take care of him. They both struggle for him when in comes to time and effort for his innocent affection. Dad shows him off to friends and relatives for comparison on whose traits the baby boy inherited most. Mom has the boobies and the baby feeding bottles; she always wins. She has the baby's trust and stronger bond. Dad has to wait when the baby is old enough to play big toys, ask how to wee wee into the potty, and compare him to other dads.

Now, the baby becomes a kid. He walks and talks. He plays his weenie and scratches his balls. He is observant. He wants to shave with cream too and wears undies like dad. When he sees dad naked, the boy starts to wonder and compare. Someday, he will have that big, if not, bigger. He grows up choosing dark colors over pastels and light ones. He dislikes violin and piano. He gets fast remote-controlled cars, fireman costume, cool Nike shoes, and baseball caps. He plays batman, climbs trees, and totes toyguns. This boy is definitely not a sissy.

Puberty comes. The boy is bigger, so is his weenie. He now calls it a dick. He eyes girls, bullies geeks, and slugs it out with other strong kids. He runs, jumps, and wrestles. He competes in anything he has chances to win, from fastest pisser to longest pee and biggest dick to most cum shots. He gets into countless races and duels with his friends. Who can finish an entire cig without blowing a smoke? Who can steal an Algebra test paper, or a book from the library, or Mr. Spriggle's reading eyeglasses? The competition continues. Who gets to drive a car first? Who wins a kiss from the most popular cheerleader? Who gets to fuck her comes the prom? This boy is in heat. It seems life is sexual Olympics for him.

Years after, the boy is now a man. It's no longer just a dick but a big, busy cock. He is now competing differently. It's a battle of the brawns. From football to baseball to basketball, he reigns supreme. He jogs, workouts, and picks up women. In surfing, swimming, and fucking, he is the man. Even his games are different. He has balls now. He is no mama's boy, and like all other adult men, he wants independence from dad. He goes to college, competes for sports scholarships, lives freely without stress, binges with friends, and competes in fucking babes. The one who gets to finish a keg of beer will get the price: a stripper. What a competition!

Real maturity sets in. The guy is now thinking about jobs, family, and settling down. He sends out resumes, contacts his connections, and starts a business. In this kind of economy, one has to kill for a great job. He works hard, gets promoted, and his business succeeds. What a winner! He has time, resources, and money now. He buys a big house, gets a new car, and drives a Harley, his baby. He shows his bike off, takes it to town for a road display, joins bike shows and competitions, and rides with wild women and fucks them on his bike. His tinkering, washing, and shining always pay off.

The guy is now in his mid 30's. It's time to find a domestic babe he can fuck twenty-four-seven. He dates, puts ads, and cruises bars. He is trying and looking hard. Time is running out for him. He doesn't want to be called "grandpa" by his future kids. Age is very important in the dating scene. It is tough and nasty out there. Men in his 20's are boytoys, 30's lovers, and 40's sugar daddies. 50's and above have no chances unless they are millionaires, and dying. After countless of dating and fucking, the man meets the one- a young, hot, pretty blondie. At last, he has a gorgeous girlfriend to show off to his friends and take home to mom and dad.

After years of struggling and competing, the guy ultimately makes it. He has everything now including a trophy babe. He loves and spoils her. He settles down. Eventually, he marries her and fucks her on their honeymoon somewhere in the Caribbean, yes, without a condom. Another cycle of evolution of a man begins.

PS Don't be shy. You can leave a comment.

Gender

Jacko, jacking off, jacker moms, and jacked up kids

The statue of puberty 


Most child molesters caught and reprimanded in America are white men. It seems Michael Jackson has reached the zenith of his racial transformation. His name is not Ouijima Mumbeki or anything that remotely sounds like that. Though he has ugly, jaundiced white skin, still he does not look African or Negroid, to be exact. He has millions of dollars, mansions, and real bling bling's most black men dream and fail to achieve. He had white wives before, and all his children look Caucasian to me. He has Liz Taylor not Oprah as his best friend. He doesn't rap or do hip hop. And yes, the child molestation allegations and settlements have completed the racial crossing over of Michael. Indeed, Jacko is white now.

Fuck the civil rights movement and the white supremacists. If a man can become a woman or vice-versa, why can't a black brother turn himself into a white dude? Nobody has the monopoly of the white race. Let the Vietnamese Elvis or the native Mexican Liberache who can't even pronounce "America" properly have fun in Vegas. Copycats are performers anyway. Michael is a performer but a sick one. If he hates himself, why single him out? Many gay men and lesbians hate themselves too that they don't want to come out and proudly unfurl their fabulous rainbow flag. Jacko's hard-on for white boys has nothing to do with his race even if indeed racial cock size is a fact. He does not penetrate. He only touches white boys' weenies.

Jacking off with others is not bad. It can be fun actually. You will get to see what an uncut cock looks like if you are cut and how cum smells or how it looks if you are still a blank-shooter. There are men in frat houses and college dorms who do it when they watch porn or share nasty mags. Others would even jerk each other off out of curiosity. Some boys staying in dorm schools compare sizes. There are friends who organize jackfests when they are bored. Other small boys, who are too young to know about clitoris, sleep over or camp out and play themselves and each other. There are buddies who take turns, older cousins who demonstrate, big brothers who teach, and bullies who show off. Even some married grown ups resort to group play for a kink. Add the barracks guys, the lonely seamen, the gym horndogs, the park cruisers, and the jail maniacs to the picture then you will get the idea what "circle jerk" really means, well literally.

If indeed Michael jerked those kids off or jerked with them, still I won't blame him. The guy is sick. He thinks he is a white kid. Who the hell on earth spends two grand a month for gums and candies? I think popcorn and soda are not included in that budget. Who's in his right mind would turn his mansion into a circus and buy kiddie stuff for interior design and landscaping? For God's sake! Jacko is in his 40's. I blame the parents of those boys for putting them within his reach. He is wacko. Yes he can moonwalk, but he is harmful. The parents are guilty of child abandonment and endangerment. They should go to jail first before Michael does. No chicken refuses a kernel of corn. These fucked up parents should have known better.

I blame the kids too. If they thought that Jacko was strange the first time he touched them, why did they still hang out with him? Give me a break. Kids are not that dumb and innocent. If extorting money from Michael was not the primary motive, then it was either he did give the boys good handjobs or those boys liked doing it with him. Maybe they really loved Michael's candy that much that they did not care if he fondled, stretched, and twisted their tootsie rolls. Damn kids! They think life is a trick-or-treat. I don't know what other reasons one may have for hanging out with a sick person, especially if he is not a mental health professional. Growing up with a brand of being Michael Jackson's eye candy doesn't sound cute at all.

If cats and dogs can call 911, twelve year-old boys certainly can and even kick Michael's ass and yes, his falling nose. Nobody rapes or molests the willing.

Politics

The zen of blowjob

The sensuality of a geisha is on her fingertips. 


Since I started giving blowjobs when I was ten years old, I had never seen a cock that would linger forever in my memory until today. Steve called me this morning and scheduled an appointment for 3:00 PM. He was very specific with what he did not want- sex. "I just want a blowjob, Deja," he explained on the phone. For me, a blowjob is just like licking a lollipop or brushing my teeth. It is never sex. I find no pleasure in having meat in my mouth that I can't gnaw, chew, swallow, and digest. A toothpick is more orally pleasurable than a cock. It tickles those tiny protruding gums between my teeth.

"I charge two hundred, hun," I replied. Steve agreed and told me he would give me extra one hundred dollars. In this business, when tricks give you extra bills that do not seem like tips, expect a catch to follow. "What for?" I asked. He had a unique request, He told me about his stint in the US military base in Okinawa, his old job teaching English in Tokyo, and his former Japanese girlfriend in Osaka. This man was all over the land of the rising sun. He knew some of the language, culture, and even Noh and Kabuki. Steve wanted me to be his fantasy geisha.

"Mmmmmm.... I charge four hundred for that. Makeup takes time," I elaborated. He haggled, and we settled at three bucks and a half. I was a geisha last Halloween, so costume was not really a problem, but I did not have chopsticks for my hair. I had no time to go to Chinatown, two-hour cab ride from my place. I called up my favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered lo mein noodles for delivery. Voila! I got my two sets of chopsticks.

I was all dressed up in my red and yellow kimono of dragons, kois and Oriental curlicues, when Steve called again. He was downstairs. I buzzed him in. I hurriedly put my fake, long eyelashes on, more beige facial powder, and the reddest lipstick I could find. I fixed and refixed the bamboo chopsticks holding my hair like a bird's nest and pulled some strands and bangs for natural, virginal look. I sprayed myself with Issey Miyake Ylang-ylang perfume to remind him the scent of orchard blossoms in Nagoya. I burnt sticks of sandalwood incense, played Buddhist ambient music, and turned my Asian-designed floor lamp on. Wow! I just reconstructed an Oriental sex den in Japan circa 1950's. I sat down on my bed and obediently waited for my American GI. I would be an Oriental courtesan for an hour to a White man. What a classic cliche!

Incall sex work is all about drama and ambiance. I dutifully played the role for a fourth of my monthly rent. The elevator must be busy. It took Steve three minutes to get to my apartment. I am on the 21st floor. He was sweating, and visibly excited. His crotch was bulging. I offered him a bottle of water. I got my Japanese fan and used it on him in a slow, calculated right-and-left motion. He did not really need my fan. The air conditioner was fully on. Chicago's weather was weird today. It was cold outside and muggy inside. It must be the centralized heating system. I continued fanning him to make him feel I was indeed subservient. It turned him on. The plot of my geisha drama just began. In this business, to make a session quicker, tease and turn your client on big time.

"I am Noriko," I introduced myself with a submissive smile. I did not use "Deja." It would have sounded like Oprah's hairstylist, Latricia or Lanaya. Steve's fantasy would have been diluted with southside Chicago nuances. He was purist. He really thought I was Japanese. He said too many complimentary adjectives in one minute. The guy was a walking thesaurus. "Arigatu," I thankfully responded in a very shy manner with my eyes directly looking to the floor. Damn! His shoes were wet from the melting snow outside. I did not want him to ruin my expensive flokati rug I bought in Greece last summer. Like domesticated Japanese women in Akira Kurosawa's films, I got down on my knees like a traditional Japanese wife would to his husband. I requested him to sit, and took his shoes off in a delicate manner and instant grace even though his feet smelled.

Steve was a gym rat. He was obviously an ex-marine or army guy. He was handsome. He must be in his early 30's. He looked Italian or Turkish or combination of both. He told me he owned a strip club in the suburbs. He was in town on business. I inferiorly listened to him like a servant to his master. I stood up and walked like there was a book on top of my head. My movement was slow, graceful, and choreographed. He followed me to my bedroom. Soft Buddhist chant was on. We sat on the bed. I took off his shirt. He had the body I would love to have my head leaned on forever. He was hairless, smooth, and all muscles. His tattoos were very telling of his fetish on anything Japanese. On his right chest, he had a kanji symbol for "strength," and on the left was a chinky-eyed girl in a traditional Oriental garb surrounded by cherry blossoms. I moved my hand and touched the image like It was such a visual masterpiece. My fingertips tiptoed. He responded with a tickled smile. He liked my soft hand caressing his chest. "She's my ex, Natsuko. She was a nice girl, but she was hooked on drugs," his sad story began.

Psychology is important when you decide to become a hooker. Most John's need hookers not just for recreational fucking or great blowjob. They want to be listened and taken care of. Unlike with the professional therapists, hookers don't keep records or require series of sessions. Steve paid me to listen to him and satisfy his fantasy. I had no complaints. His story, though tragic, was interesting, and he spoke no ebonics. "The last time I heard, she was in Tokyo streetwalking," he ended his story with a feeling of guilt and regret. He could have done something. Streetwalking is both sad and dangerous. Fucking behind the bushes or along the seedy alleys does not sound right. Even in cars scares the hell out of me. Sex, paid or not, should always be discreet and private.

"Sorry to hear that. I hope she is okay by now," I said with a hint of sadness in my voice. Hookers should always empathize with their Johns. I got up and changed the CD. Though relaxing, the Buddhist chant coming from the stereo was not arousing enough. I played Enya. Steve took his pants off. He had no underwear. He had the biggest cock I have ever seen in person. He leaned his head with a pillow on the wall. His body was relaxed and stretched on my bed. In a folded knee-position, I settled between his legs he widely spread. His eyes were on my face; mine were on his cock. It was huge, maybe a ruler and soda-can thick. I controlled myself and went back to my submissive geisha mode.

I took the chopsticks off my head one by one almost in a slow motion. He found it sexy. I had to take them off. I did not want to poke his eyes. I pulled my hair down roll by roll and flipped them to my right shoulder. It seemed sensual to him. When I tease, I stroke and twirl my hair with my forefinger. Using a full hand means you need a brush. A finger is seduction. Hair play always works. "Wow! You have silky, long hair," he exclaimed like he was my Vidal Sasson hairstylist, who hasn't seen me for a long time. My waist-long hair reached his crotch and tickled his balls. He liked the sensation and just smiled at me. In a submissive fashion, I bowed down and embraced his waist like a trunk of a tree and leaned my cheeks on his hard abs. I sensually directed my breathing towards his bellybutton. "You are so sweet, babe," he said while stroking my hair.

I accidentally glanced towards my alarm clock. It must be a habit now. It was twenty more minutes to go before my session with him would be up. In my mind, I should forget the time, and just have fun. Steve was hot anyway. When I opened the door earlier and saw him, I felt I should pay him for just showing up in front of me. He was that handsome. I got up, set my hair on my back, and disrobed myself enough for my breasts to peek out of my kimono. I looked at him. We had our eyes locked. I have mastered the art of begging just with my pleading eyes. His cock moved and wanted to get up. Steve was very hung.

I changed to a comfortable sitting position. I massaged his inner thighs and ran my fingers on his torso like feathers. I could see his big cock with well-defined veins pulsating. I held it on my hand. I wanted to measure it. Holy God! It was still flaccid. I got suddenly scared. Locked jaw was possible with his size "Are you still semi-hard?" I astonishingly asked. He just smiled and asked me to play his nipples with my tongue. He wanted me to turn him on more and really make him hard. I took my kimono off halfway down. I relaxed. I needed to concentrate and have fun. I moved up with the tip of my tongue licking and rolling from his thighs to his neck, and stopped for noisy, moist, sensual kisses on his erogenous zones. I wet, licked, and played his nipples like I was following a how-to manual. I took my time thinking nipple play would make him cum. My mouth would be saved from tears and lacerations. Steve was just warming up.

I got bored with his nipples, I moved up to his neck. He smelled so good. He moved down from his leaning position and pulled me up a bit more. My breasts were softly resting on his chest, and his lips captured mine. I don't usually kiss, but Steve was hot, and his affection, though temporary and imagined, seemed real to me. I went with the flow. We changed positions. He was on top of me. He kissed me like we would never see each other again. He paused only to breathe. He got up and sat down on the bed. He placed my head on his lap, held my nape up, and kissed me with my hair flowing down. It was sweet, hot, romantic, but very uncomfortable. I felt he had forgotten that I am a hooker, and sometimes, I did forget too that he was my John.

"I have never kissed with someone like this before not even with my ex-boyfriends," I told him while we were both catching our breaths. As if it was a clue that I wanted more, Steve kissed me again from my forehead to my lips, then down to my neck and to my breasts. My God! It surely felt good. His Mediterranean thick lips playfully pressed and twisted my nipples. I became wet. There was no way I could have faked my orgasm. He nibbled on my raisin-sized nipples left and right. I was not afraid of his teeth. Gentle bite is sensual. He cupped my breasts with his manly hands, and voraciously sucked them with his wet lips moving up and down. I could hear his hungry, busy mouth. Steve's spits were all over. My boobs looked like snowcapped Mount Fuji in winter.

It was more than an hour already. I could read his mind. He wanted something that I dreaded- blowing him. He took off my kimono and thong, and he lay down. I was dripping. I opened a magnum-sized condom and put it on him. Holy Cow! It was not enough to fully cover his cock. I checked the remaining inches from the base to make sure Steve's cock was free from warts, boils, rashes, and lesions. I am paranoid of herpes, gonorrhea, other STD's and yes, HIV. "I am clean and healthy, babe. Besides I will not come in your mouth. I have a condom on," he assured me. I listened. Now, the real job began.

I needed a great deal of presence of mind since I did not want to ruin my mouth, throat and jaw. I wanted to give him an unforgettable blowjob that will make him remember and call me again for more. I relaxed and breathed in and out. I started licking his balls. His breathing was long and deep. I rolled and wiggled my tongue like a cobra to its prey. I wet-kissed his balls like they were his lips. His body was contracting and quivering. His legs were extendedly stretched. I held his feet to relax him. They were stiff. He must have liked my introductory blowjob skills. I ran my tongue from his balls up to his shaft in a linear motion back and forth, and, in between, sucked him with my oral vacuum technique. I licked his balls aggressively for more spit I needed for the grand finale- the real deep throat. "Blow me, babe," he begged. I held his cock with my hand on top of the other. Oh! My God! There was still remaining inches I could slap. He was very long and thick.

I needed to loosen up more and relax my gag reflex. I breathed like I was about to dive into the water. "Hun, you are too big for my Asian mouth," I blurted to express my hesitation. His face looked disappointed. He really wanted me to blow him. He begged endlessly. He wanted me to try anyhow, and that I could stop if it hurt. No cock has ever hurt or ruined my mouth. I thought Steve's would be the one. I closed my eyes with my lips gently kissing his shaft ready to blow and my hands still gripping onto his cock. Before I could start going down, I remembered what my sensei told me during that one karate tournament when I was a kid. To assure me that I could beat my older, bigger opponents, he said that in Zen, there is something in nothing, and nothing in something. I listened to my sensei. I became confident; I won.

"What a nirvana!" I naughtily told myself. I could handle Steve's cock now with ease and great aplomb. I did condition my mind that his cock was not that huge, and that my throat could take it anytime. I knelt and fixed and rolled my hair into a bun. I was ready. The blowing began. My left hand played his balls, and my right held and jerked his cock. Spit in my mouth was enough to lube Steve's cock down to my throat. I jerked him off while my head went up and down. His moans made me wilder. He turned me on. I blew air inside my mouth to make my spit warm. Guys like warm mouths. I jerked him off in synch with the motion of my head. My throat was relaxed. It was opening up.

Steve's cock felt like a smooth, oversized Tropical banana sliding effortlessly in and out of my mouth and my throat. I could see his face in near orgasm. Between deep, struggling breathings, he mentioned "God" like he was in a confessional. In sex, there is no blasphemy. He moaned and sighed. I sped up the motion of my hand up and down. I could feel my throat accepting his cock like a mouth of a goldfish swallowing a worm. I blew and wiggled my tongue on the slit of his shaft. He loved it. I gently used my teeth to scratch the sides of his cock. He liked it. The pauses in his breathing were so erotic. I jerked and blew him at the same time and in rhythm. His breathing was becoming deeper, and his sighs longer. "Babe, I am coming. Please don't stop," he begged. I blew and jerked him off some more. I could hear my warm spit overflowing in and out. "Hun, don't stop," he pleaded. I blew him again and again with more suction and more warm spit. When I moved up, I paused to lick and wiggle my tongue again on his shaft . He was shaking. His moans became louder and louder. I put and ran my left forefinger in his mouth and on his lips. He found it very sexy. I had to shut him up. My conservative neighbors have kids.

"Faster, babe," he requested. His legs were hard and stiff. He held my head and pushed and pulled me up and down. I jerked him with my two hands and more spit as lube. I wiggled my tongue on his shaft again and again, while I inhaled the much-needed air. With enough oxygen in my lungs, I went down for my final deep throat. Up and down in my throat, I blew Steve. "Ohhhhhhhhhh!" he came. What a load! My cheeks swelled like a puffer fish as he gently pulled his cock out. He was all smile. He thought I was the best. He got up and cleaned himself in the bathroom. He gave me extra fifty dollars and left. He was definitely a workout.

Looking back, now I knew why he did not want to have sex. Steve was sweet, nice, and gentle. He did not want to hurt me. Still naked, I went back to my bedroom and watched some lesbian porn. With my two vibrators and Steve in my mind, I took care of myself. I had a multiple-orgasm, and called it a wonderful day.

Fetish



PS written last night.

Erotic cholesterol

Salmonellaaaaaaaaaaa 


i am the one
you poach
you scramble
you fry

in heat i crack
you tear off my skin
you break my bone
half-and-half

i creep on your plate
as omelet
i am a beauty
on your sunshine toast

i glaze your cookies
mold your meatballs
soften your cake
i am versatile on your fire

you boil me just after dawn
i am your hot soup for lunch
at night
i am your dessert

i am your meringue
your sour pickle
for loaves and buns
i am your sweet filling.

your salivating tongue
wets me
plays my whites
juggles my yellows

oh! my destiny
hot with pepper
tasty with salt
i melt in your bite.