My absence from blogosphere

God! I'm getting old. That's according to a guy in San Francisco. Gay men, closeted or out, are indeed meticulous. They can see lines on my face and age on my hair and nails. Just shut up, dude. Blow me and bend over. If you are hot, I can do the same.

I am currently on my four-city sex tour. I have been too busy fucking and getting fucked. I will fill this blog again with my sexual thoughts and encounters when I get home. I miss interacting with you guys. I have to go now. A bottom client is coming soon.

Fellatio and American Polity

History will favorably judge her sloppy cock-sucking as the impetus of a significant political change in America.


Since I am not in the mood to write something about my sexually explicit philosophical thoughts, erotic encounters, and urge to get fucked deep and hard, let me use this blog space for politics. I have been watching too much current events on TV lately. I have observed the centrist transformation of Sen. Hillary Clinton through the tone of her speeches, the pronounced religiousity she has openly shown, and even the way she dresses. I think it is a good, effective move if she wants to run for president in 2008.

I have always believed that the ultimate maturity of a democratic polity is the eradication of right-and-left dichotomy. The American people will eventually become open-mindedly selective, reasonable, and flexible in an eclectic manner when it comes to their ideological leanings, political affiliations, and social voices. The government can't do anything but respond to the people's hodgepodge clamor. Thus, it will change also and adopt an inclusive, heterogenous, and generic policy and platform. It is a good thing. We will then have a developmental politics instead of a political one- politics for the sake of politicking. Elections will no longer be about Jesus but justice.

Going back to Sen. Clinton, she can easily sway the American public across the political spectrum in her favor. Her change of aura and politics would be believable and commendable. It would not look like a ploy or charade to win votes. It would even gain support, sympathy, and, eventually, political favor. This is only possible because the American population, who usually throng to voting booths during elections, in general, have a penchant for drama and soap opera. They root for the battered, the oppressed, and the wronged. They can relate to Sen. Clinton's marital humiliation, struggle, and woes.

Pres. Bill Clinton's infidelity suggests liberal attitude towards marriage and family values. It can be a potent, misguided notion that will mislead people to think that it is only unique among democrats. Even Monica Lewinsky, a power-hungry, social-climbing, cock-sucking slut from Malibu, is the best caricature of the degeneracy and immorality of what the general population loathe and despise: Hollywood. It may be over-stretched and off-tangent, but the current political climate we have is all about emotions, symbols, and images.

In short, the big mouth of Ms. Lewinsky around Pres. Clinton's cock and the cigar he dipped in her fat pussy could be catalysts for the reformist establishment of a major political centrism in American politics and could possibly give us the first female US President, if Sen. Clinton continues reinventing herself beyond speeches, church visits, and pastel-colored suits.

Politics

A lonely, horny hooker

Sighhhhhhh! I'm still not in the mood to read or write something with depth and worth my time. I need my energy and groove back.


I had two clients today. I only gave them blow jobs. It would be a waste of my hard on if I did let them fuck me. To me, that a cock is a cock does not make sense. I want my eyes to enjoy a beautiful vision too. Sex is not just filling my ass and my mouth or blowing and sitting on my cock. I want to use all my senses when I want to get laid. I want to feel him. In that way, I won't regret later.

I really need to get fucked. I miss David's juice that used to cure my boredom and writer's block. I might call him tonight and beg for his cock to give me a life again. How I wish he were still my fuck buddy. He used to scratch me every time I itched. He was on-call for fucking twenty-four-seven. I am tired of watching lesbian porn and jacking myself off. I am tired of dildoes and vibrators. Lord, please give me a hot, handsome, hung fucker. I want to scream.

Sex

The Oriental courtesan

kunichiwa!


Hi, folks. Sorry. I was not in the mood to write yesterday. My computer keyboard was acting up, so was my grandma for calling me five times asking for my current photo. She wanted to find out if I have been eating right. All those calories calculation, fats scare, and fear of carbohydrates in my mind are my grandma's infectious, vain hysteria affecting me.

To stop my grandmother from calling me again, I set up the lighting, an improvised tripod, and my cheap camera, put some makeup on, and wore my geisha garb. Voila! The image of an Oriental courtesan was digitally reproduced. So bear with my photo for now, since I had no erotic experience for the past three days to write. Clients don't bother me on weekends.

Sex

Sex under the watchful eyes of God

Does she disgust or turn Him on?


Have you ever wondered if God is watching you while you are jerking off? Since He is everywhere all of the time, does He observe us when we suck or fuck? Is He a nosey being, a busy voyeur, or a vigilant guard? Is He proud of the big cocks and nice boobs and pussies He made? How does He feel when He sees men with tiny weenies and women with nonexistent boobs? Does God realize that He overlooks sometimes? Does He frown upon men with penile enlargement and women with breast implants? What does He think about portable pussies, blow up dolls, dildoes,, and vibrators? Does He know how many times I play myself or get laid in a week? Does He laugh when I fake my orgasm or consider it a sinful lie? Is He happy when I make men feel good and cum? Does it hurt Him when I swallow? Does God think of me as a murderous, cannibalistic glutton? Does He watch me intently when I get fucked? Is He always on my business?

I used to be a very religious Catholic zombie before Buddha showed me the way to enlightenment. Now, I am eclectic when it comes to my religious belief. Before, I wondered a lot, with fear and guilt when I got fucked, if I displeased, disobeyed, and abandoned God. I took down the images of Mother Mary and a crucifix my mother installed on the walls of my room and replaced them with posters of hot male nude models and erotic prints of Man Ray. I get soft when I accidentally glance at religious icons and images when I jerk off or get laid. Even when I see clients in their hotels, I have to hide the room bible away from my view before I get naked. I still wonder though if God gets mad when I get fucked in the ass, a misuse of his creation intended for taking a dump. When I suck a cock during Holy Week, I still feel guilty for not fasting and for having meat in my lustful mouth. When I am alone satisfying myself, does He feel my longing? Is He sympathetic to my desire?

When I am on the verge of orgasm, I wonder if God hears me when I say His name. Does He cheer for me or help me triumph in my struggle to cum? When I make out with a guy, does He close his eyes? What does He think when men play my boobs and blow my cock at the same time? When I love a man, do I make God happy? When He sees me totally naked on my bed, does he pity me? Does He see me as His mistake? Does He condemn me for letting a surgeon alter His creation? Do my feminine face and body, 36D boobs, and eight-inch, thick cock scare Him? What did He want for me when He gave me a male body and a female mind? Is it His test I have failed? Is He regretful of my existence? Does God understand my predicament? Is He proud of me for surviving all the trials I have faced? Does He ever wonder what I have become? Is He mindful that I have suffered so much? I still wonder if there is God watching me.

Religion

My life along the margins

Even Lady Justice could not be fair. She could not see the scale and who to stab with her sword.


I am fine now. I also know why I felt down, crappy, and dejected yesterday. It was my mid-monthly PMS. It was delayed by three days due to the hormones shots I got late from my endocrinologist, who was out of town then. Before I went to bed last night, I wondered if God sees me suffering all the time because His creation's heart and mind does not fit to her body. How I wish He could recreate me again in an instant or perform magic on me. I want to wake up with a vagina and uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes that come with it. If I were a real woman, I would have been a doctor or lawyer by now. Most women in my family have either of those two as a profession.

My being a transsexual has always been a hindrance when it comes to any chances and opportunities I seek in life. When I was a kid I was not allowed to enter an oratory contest because I sounded like a girl, though I could deliver JFK's inaugural address by heart and with conviction. School plays in high school only used me as Shakespeare's Juliet in class and rehearsals. During the actual stage presentation, they had a bitch from another school for girls to play the part, though I was better-trained in acting than her. They were scared that the family of the would-be Romeo would cry foul if they saw their son romancing, hugging, and kissing a boy, who looked like a girl.

Even in college, I was not spared. My microbiology professor ignored my scientific paper on bacteriophage and wound healing for publication. I felt so discouraged, dismissed, and defeated. Since then, I closed my door to science and lost my interest in medicine. Had my paper been about hair, makeup, or fashion, I would be taken seriously. It is also hard for me to find a good corporate job, though I am good in business writing, marketing and advetising, and negotiation. I live my life and survive daily through gainful negotiation strategy, win-win interaction, image-building, and marketing myself. What more experience do they want from me? They think I am a company risk if hired, though I have no plan to file a sexual harassment lawsuit if called "faggot" or "cock-sucker" in an office environment. I wish I were a hot, muscular, goodlooking "fag". Life would have been easier and more fabulous.

Even opportunities in social services and health, I get profiled and rejected. I sent out too many resumes and had interviews from almost all of them. After they photocopied my social security card, that was when I usually got a letter telling me the position was either internally filled or scrapped out for company downsizing. I got tired of receiving such mail, typing my curriculum vitae, and spending time for interviews. I gave up. I did not wear Prada or Armani suits to face unappealing, less-educated, power-tripping human resources people just to experience their prejudice, homophobia/transphobia, and rejection after a background check. I have no energy to do something repeatedly when I already know what will be the outcome.

I am not a sadomasochist to unfair, close-minded refusal of giving me a chance. I don't push myself to an opportunity not made available for me. That's why I want to be where I am handsomely paid, desired, and needed: on my bed.

Life

Wishing for amnesia

I am currently in an unforgiving labyrinth of grips and grabs of guilt, denial, and regret. I hope I am still coherent and sane.

I always wonder why I was born with sensitivity. Was I destined by my birth to paint or to write? It is so painful to see myself suffering from something I am quite not sure what it is. When I write poetry, I see colors in my mind; when I touch a canvass, I hear voices. I just can't do anything. I hate illusions and uncertainties. My ideal existence goes around the exactness of time and the physicality of space. Memories and imaginations are brutal. They endlessly haunt me. To live without past and history is equally cruel. It's like moving on a journey without remembering rests, stops, and detours. I wish I was not born to feel pain and see suffering. It's great a punishment.

Why can't I just admire the fragrant blooms of cut flowers instead of lamenting their eventual drying and fading? Why can't I just listen to the chirping of wounded birds instead of feeling their agony in flying above the dark, poisoned sky? I just want to live not suffer. I want the stars. I need the moon. From dusk to midnight, I am alone waiting for the next dawn. What kind of a curse is this cycle of surviving? Why can't I just sleep, dream, and forget? I want to sing so they will hear me, but I can't. My heart is too weak to express the depth of my sad lullabies. I want to dance so they can see the grace of my limbs, but I can't. My body, dry and untouched, is hopeless and tired. I don't know what I am feeling right now. I need to get fucked.

Life

To live or to leave is my choice

I want the sunset to lead me to my place in the horizon.


I feel awfully melancholic today. My heart's beating is like a sad song. The fire in my belly reminds me of my fear and vulnerabilities. The removal of Terri Schiavo's feeding tube makes me lonely and scared about life and death. I called my grandmother for comfort. We have the same clause in our last wills: follow the doctor's advice not the lawyer's. If put in the same situation, and I still have a slimmest chance to survive through God's miracle and science, I don't want to die or be put to death by my loved ones. If living seems unbearable, I will hang myself or call a Dr. Jack Kevorkian. I want to live and die in my own terms. I want to choose.

If I can choose my own death, I want to expire in my peaceful sleep or vanish in a calm, blue ocean. I want my dreams to stop my breathing, or to swim among dolphins and ride on waves towards oblivion. I am not scared of darkness or silence. If it's my time, I will go. In the future, if I get to have a husband, I will only ask, through shadows and premonitions, for his last kiss on my spiritless lips before my soul soars high. Love brought me here in this cruel universe. I want the same when I am ready to sail for afterlife. If I still can utter a word or two, I simply want to say: thank you.

Politics

Scott Peterson: a lesson for a pregnant wife

This sitting-kneeling sex position is the safest, most comfortable and versatile, and easiest way to orgasm with a pregnant woman. They can even kiss without any harm on her tummy. He can also play her boobs and fuck her ass while fingering her pussy.


The first time the Laci Peterson murder case hit the news, I already thought of sex and infidelity as her husband's motive of bumping her and their unborn child off, even when Amber Frey was still massaging and stripping away from the media. My heart went to Laci. Scott Peterson deserves the death penalty the court meted out yesterday. I do believe that this case should not only be analyzed within the confines of law and criminal justice. We should also understand the deplorable, heinous act of Scott Peterson in relation to extramarital sex and pregnancy, so women and wives out there will have a clear view of why a man like him could think and commit a murder perpetrated against his own wife and unborn son. There must be a reason why a seemingly happy marriage ended in a gruesome affair.

Pregnancy, as a stage or period in a marital union, is exciting and fulfilling. It can also be sad, chaotic, and even dark. Wives, who are pregnant, should accept the fact that even with their physical condition, their husbands will always remain horny and sex-starved and will ask some form of sex. They can't do anything about it but take care of their husband's sexual needs if they want their marriages to work. I blew too many married men with pregnant wives. I was a good alternative for them since wrecking a family is not one of my job descriptions. These selfish, self-centered, ungrateful husbands, in their neediest times, are vulnerable to the manipulative ways of young, hot girls they find in bars, lounges, and strip clubs whose nightly missions are to peddle sex, meet men, and use them for money or emotional security.

Pregnant wives can do something to avoid such unfaithfulness in their husband's part. They can prevent their husbands from fishing for vaginas and going astray. Pregnancy should not be dealt with like a drama, a source for blackmail, or a reason to be a prima donna. Even a nine-month pregnant woman can still engage in an orgasmic sexual intercourse with her husband. They can fuck employing many safe, comfortable sex positions such as sixty-nine missionary, doggy, cowgirl, spoon, and many variations of sitting-and-kneeling stance. If the wife is not in the mood to fuck, she can blow her husband or let him eat her out while he jerks off. She can give him a hand too. If she does not want to do anything sexual for nine months, she needs to buy her husband a portable silicone pussy or a blowup doll, allow him to rent porn videos, and encourage him to masturbate. Celibacy is not in a horny married man's vocabulary.

A wife's pregnancy does not imply that her husband has to be asexual or celibate throughout the nine-month period. After buying stuff for babies at Toys R' Us, she should take her husband to a sex store and buy everything he needs for playing and satisfying himself if sex, in any form, is impossible. She should not misunderstand him when he is awfully horny. Her fingers and toes are enough to make her husband's mouth busy. His honesty should be appreciated. Even if he licks her smelly ass or swollen pussy, she should avoid becoming indifferent and calling him names like "dog" or "pig." Men are emotionally sensitive in bed. Sulking, insulting them, and ignoring their sexual plea will drive them away to find comfort and pleasure in the arms of other women, who can give them what their wives won't and can't. Pregnant wives should understand that their husbands have sexual needs they need to attend to as long as they are together. They should not push them away and dismiss them as unreasonable, horny fuckers if they want their marriage intact.

Scott Peterson met Amber Frey during Laci's pregnancy. He cheated and eventually fell in love with his other woman and killed Laci and their unborn baby. Such infidelity during a wife's pregnancy is common. If love, honesty, and faithfulness are very strong in a perfect marriage, a pregnant wife does not have to worry, but in this imperfect world, a perfect husband is rare.

Politics

I ain't Michael Jackson

If this horny guy were sixteen, should he wait one or two more years before he could fuck a twenty-five year old? Why should he limit himself by only fucking his hand or a pillow when he could pound a pussy or an ass? Would it be all right if he would fuck with another sixteen year old instead of an older one? How would his lust and desire differ to those of older men's? Unexamined morality just sucks, and is full of contradictions.


I had a young yet mentally and physically mature client I met last night through AOL. Brad was boyish in his manners and facial features, but he was big and very muscular. It must be the training and steroids from wrestling and football. He was tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. He had an average-sized cock, which was abnormally thick like a Red Bull can. He told me he was nineteen years old. He lived five blocks from me. He offered to pay me one hundred fifty for petting, making out, and sucking. I told him that I could make out with him if he looked like the photo he sent, and that I would use a condom to blow him. With his looks, his offered price was not bad at all. We made a deal. I gave him my phone number and address. Ten minutes later, he was on my door.

The moment I saw him, I felt I should give him a huge discount. Brad could pass as a Calvin Klein model. He looked edgy, fresh, and innocent. As he got inside my apartment, he grabbed me, pinned me on the wall, and molested my peachy red-glossed lips. It was amazing how I locked the door without even looking. His mouth was very rough on my lips. My tongue was no match to his. He was a good kisser. His breath was minty, and his spit sweet. I was so turned on, so was Brad. His touch made me shake. His muscles alone were enough a visual Viagra for me. He had a face of a typical all-American Midwestern white male. He was very young, wild, and hot.

By the time we reached the bedroom, we were both naked. His body felt good in my embrace. His steroids-induced contours and bulges were well-defined, and felt warm. We settled on the bed and wet-kissed some more. I touched his cock, while he played my breasts. We were very turned on. Brad stroked what he did to me. It was his first time. I let him. It was hard to say no to him. He wanted to experience what I could uniquely offer. I put a condom on and pushed him down. With his hands massaging my boobs and fingers twisting my nipples, he went on me up and down. My hands controlled the kinky motion of his head. He took his time, and had fun.

It was my mouth's turn. Brad was clean. He smelled good all over. His smooth, well-tanned, hard body was very willing to my licks, kisses, and playful bites. He could not believe his encounter with me would be this erotic. After safely blowing him for a while, I moved up and on top of him. We kissed again and took turns in softly stroking and licking each other's tongue between our wet lips. I ground myself on him. My boobs rested on his muscular chest. We sensually rubbed, and I moved slowly in vertical grinding back and forth.

Brad turned me on big time. Everything of him was hard. I stopped and laid myself beside him. I did not want to explode so soon. We faced each other and kissed wildly again. Our hands explored each other's chest, tummy, and thighs. We could tell from our eyes that we did not want to cum yet. We turned sideways. Our naked bodies were facing each other ready for an erotic match. We hugged tightly and tongued each other's ears, neck, and chin. His mouth was versatile, so was mine. His cock, just below mine hitting his belly bottom, felt good against my skin. We were both feverish and sweating.

He asked me if we could do sixty-nine. I just smiled to express my approval. Brad turned half-way and clock-wise. We satisfied ourselves and licked each other's ass sideways. He loved it. I did too. He then gently pushed me down to the side, so I could lie down on my back. He was on top of me. His face caressed my excitement, while he was fucking my mouth. I reached his head with my trembling hands and led his mouth to the right direction. I felt his warm mouth, wet lips, and probing tongue. It was electrifying. There was a fire in my tummy. I tried to finger him to find out if he would like it. He pleaded not to. He was not ready yet. I licked him instead.

Brad's cock over-stretched my mouth. He was that thick. I thought it would surely feel good in my ass. His width would definitely make me shoot a lot. I held and halted his head and begged him to fuck me. I was ready to tell him he could keep his money. I would even pay just for him to be inside me. He really made me hot, wild, and horny. He was hesitant at first. I persuaded him to think of my hole as a tight pussy. He changed his position and turned me facedown. He spat along the crevice of my ass. I had lube, but I wanted pain. He laid his cock along the crack and slid it up and down. It felt wonderful.

Brad was about to put his cock inside me when I turned to face him. I wanted to see the orgasmic expression on his face and comfortably play myself. He gently entered me. The pain was what I wanted. My ass felt painfully filled. With his girth, I expected it. He held onto my lactating breasts, kissed me, and humped my ass in a slow rhythm. I grabbed his butt cheeks and pushed him deeper in me. With his cock still inside, he changed to a kneel-squat stance, held my waists, and pulled me towards him and my butt on his lap. He held my ankles and raised my legs up in the air. His fucking became faster, harder, and deeper. He drilled my ass like a real man.

Brad took my condom off and asked me to play myself. I did, while I pinched and milked my nipples. He then placed my calves on his shoulders and licked my legs. He could massage with his tongue. Though the positions of my back and neck were uncomfortable, everything felt good. His rough handling of my body was very erotic. He fucked and fucked me good, while I stroked myself. He played my boobs too. My milk amazed him. We were sweating and loudly moaning. Moments later, he pulled it out, took the condom, and jerked himself off. We came at the same time. I shot all over my breasts, and Brad on my belly. We both had great orgasms.

We got up and had a shower together. After drying himself, he picked up his clothes scattered all over the floor in the living room. While flipping his wallet to pay me, he dropped his driver's license. I picked it up for him. His real name was David. He was such a typical John. I got the money, yelled at him, and called him names. I pushed him out towards the door and cussed him. Brad was very confused and apologetic. He was scared too that I might make a big drama out of his scary lie. I was not in the mood to hear his excuses. I told him never to contact me again. He was such a dangerous liar. I was so mad and nervous. Brad was not only lying about his name. He was just seventeen. I saw 10-10-87 on his license. I did not even let him explain. I slammed the door on him.

I went straight to my computer and did a research. Brad, in Chicago, was of legal age to fuck after all. Only then was I able to relax and breathe without guilt, fear, and paranoia. I was too tired to call or sent him an e-mail to apologize for my understandable outburst. I went to bed thinking about him. Though he was only seventeen, he did fuck me better than most of the guys, who were in their twenties and thirties, I slept with before. It was not Brad's fault to be born later. His lust and mine were the same. He was as horny and wild as me. He pounded my ass, manhandled my body, and shot his load like a sexually skilled older man. If he were sixteen, would I be a pedophile or child molester even though he lied, instant messaged me first on line, and initiated our sexual encounter?

I hope we will meet again when he reaches eighteen to be on the safe side. I want him to fuck me again. I will never forget David, his rough fucking, and his very thick cock.

Sex

Confession of a lez porn addict

Some women don't need cocks to have fun.


I think porn, in general, should be promoted and subsidized by the government. It is a good tool for safe sex and a health aid for sex education. Condom use and strict AIDS testing are now mandatory in adult movie industry. Religion and morality should not invade one's bedroom and control his lustful thoughts and sexual urge. Incest in Amish communities, rapes in religious cults, and pedophilia in Catholic church are lessons for us to realize that sex in any form, if rigidly controlled, would result to sex crimes and bigger problems. To enjoy sex, it should be free from paranoia, shame, and guilt. Religious sculptures and reliefs found in Hindu temples in India are as pornographic as the sex videos you rent from Blockbuster. Porn magazines would look like a bible if compared to Kama Sutra, the Pillow Book, and sacred Taoist and Arabic texts on sexual pleasure.

I myself resort to porn when I am horny instead of cruising theaters, dark alleys, truck stops, park bushes, sex clubs, bath houses, and gloryholes. I feel safer and more comfortable lying on my bed, sticking a dildo in my ass, and playing myself with scented lube while watching videos of two or more women in their sensual acrobatics involving versatile arms, legs, hands, fingers, and tongues. Their sex toys are very innovative. Lesbian porn turns me on, but being with a woman does not do anything for me. I made out with one just two weeks ago and accidentally fingered a pussy before. I felt strange and troubled afterwards. It was a combo of guilt and confusion bothering me for days. I guess only my eyes have bisexual and lesbian desire.

I know why I like lesbian porn. I love watching beautiful people in streets, cafes, malls, clubs, and bars. The artist in me is just voracious when it comes to observing eye-catching and head-turning men and women. All lesbian porn videos I bought, rented, or borrowed feature hot, gorgeous, horny, uninhibited women. They sexually satisfy each other with techniques and resourcefulness. It is fun to watch while I stroke myself, explore my ass, and grab and play my boobs and nipples. Even when they twirl each other's hair and wiggle their tongues are so erotic. When they make out is definitely a sexually charged visual treat. I think women satisfying each other in the absence of phallic power exuded by men is a facet of an open-minded, applicable, inclusive feminism at its best.

I like straight porn too, but, most of the time, heterosexual porn actors gross me out. Almost all straight porn videos have ugly, fat, hairy men as fuckers. Porn is fantasy. It should show the best a lustful mind can think of. Celluloid fucking is not just about cocks and shots of cum. Face, body, and sex appeal are as important as kissing, blowing, and humping. Ron Jeremy sticking his huge cock into a hot woman's pussy or ass just turns me off. Straight porn producers and directors can do better than that. They should not play the manipulative role of homophobic, sexist psychologists in making sex videos. Horny men and women are old enough to know if sticking fingers or fists in their assholes is pleasurable or not.

I do understand the psychology behind unappealing, undesirable actors in straight porn. Producers and directors of straight sex videos want viewers to focus on women and on their pretty faces, boobs, pussies, and hot bodies. That's how they curb and prevent homosexual curiosities among heterosexual men and promote and encourage lesbian curiousities among heterosexual women who are into straight porn. I don't wonder why most men have hots for lesbian sex, and some women get excited watching hot gay or bisexual men fucking or develop lesbian tendencies. Just imagine if Ron Jeremy looks like one of those hot, handsome, muscular gay porn actors fucking a supermodel-looking slut. Straight men would be confused who to jerk off for. Women, who are exclusively into straight sex, would be wondering if hot men in straight porn turn their husbands or boyfriends on. That stress alone among heterosexual women is enough for them to lose sexual excitements and fake their orgasms.

Gay porn is hot, but sleazy, dirty, and tedious to watch. Gay men featured in such videos are all hunks. I used to watch it. The display of Adonis complex through their chiseled looks, bulging muscles, and smooth, perfect bodies is just too much a self-conceit. Rough sex from start to end bores me. I want variety from soft, slow, and smooth to fast, tough, and rough. I like when gay men make out, pet, play nipples, hug, wrestle, jerk each other off, suck, cock-to-cock rub, and ass-fuck. What turns me off though is their variation of eating asses. They call it rimming. Licking a clean ass is fine. I did it before in high school with John Paul. Sticking their entire tongues into buttholes just gross me out and make me want to puke. It softens my hard on. For days, I cannot eat my burger with mustard on it. The worst part of a gay porn is when gay men make out after they rim each other. It is just disgusting. I can share spit but not shit. The smell and aftertaste are not sensual at all. I want to cum not to stop in the middle of fucking to use my toothbrush and gargle listerine. My mouth is not a toilet bowl, nor my tongue a toilet paper. Sex need not be dirty to make it fun.

Shemale porn is the worst visual turn off of all. It insults and degrades me as a transsexual viewer. Besides, most actors in shemale videos are not really transsexuals but cross-dressing gay men pretending. Messy wigs, clowny makeup, and false tits made of foam, bird seeds, rolled socks, or water balloons just don't make me hard. Most men fucking chicks with dicks either wear glasses or put baseball caps on. They are ashamed to reveal their faces. They need masks and fake goatees to conceal their identities. Most of the time, only their cocks fucking shemales' asses, backs when they sit on cocks, or their heads sucking are shown in the shemale videos. What kind of porn is that? These confused Fuckers in denial are ashamed to be seen beside a shemale who makes them cum. I watch porn to see eroticism and sensuality not men's guilt, shame, and paranoia.

Lesbian porn is just hot, bold, wild, unrestrained, imaginative, sensual, exotic, and extraordinary. I love it.

Sexuality

Gambling with God

If heaven is full of hunks, I want to believe God exists.


Five days in bed made me wonder about the existence of God. I was scared of dying and not knowing if there was an omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent powerful entity up there who had a checklist of all my sins, faults, and misgivings. Believing in God is like Black Jack. I just can't bet all my chips unless I am sure I would get an exact twenty-one. It is also like Poker. What if everything is just a bluff or a lie? Are we just fooling our own selves?

In times of need, I convince myself that there is God out of fear that later I might find out He indeed exists. I don't want to miss out for not listening. The feeling will be like a lotto would-be winner I ignore after he tells me to put in a couple of bucks for the winning numbers he saw in his dream. I could not forgive myself for such stubborn stance against luck and chance. I simply want to believe that there is God because I am not sure if there is none.

Even a nymphomaniac has God to blame for her uncontrollable, surging libido. Some murderers point above for the inner voice that makes them bloodthirsty. I blame God for my unfortunate lot. He is a piñata for our anger, angst, and misery. We need Him when we cannot really find the cause of an effect. God becomes a placebo when we are sick. He is our imaginary friend when we are lonely. When we are abandoned, we find solace in the thought that from a distance, He is watching. God makes us feel good.

I want to believe in God because there are things I can't explain. I don't want my doubts to remain as such forever. I need to fear someone or something to put myself in a right place, where I am just a fraction of a dot in the universe. I also need God to talk to when I am alone crying or laughing. His silence is the answer to my question and His conversation. Maybe He really laughs with me with His hand covering His mouth. That's why He can't speak. Maybe He also cries with me. I just can't hear because my sobs are louder than His.

I need God because I am just human. I need to gamble with my destiny. I need to rise up beyond my arrogance.

Religion

When longing tortures the body

When midnight never sleeps like an endless memory of a childhood, my fear of shadows becomes a ritual, while my longing for the warmth of a whisper numbs me in silence.


I like to think. I rationalize anything I experience. I do believe that something happens for a reason, and it is the result of the cause-and-effect dichotomy. Before I went to bed last night, I thought hard why I got very ill. Was it the lo mein noodles I had in Chinatown or the winter blues or the memory of Rahul?

I called my friend in California yesterday to ask him if he was all right last week after I took him out for an authentic Chinese dinner. He loved the food, and he did not get sick afterwards. Lo mein, a recycled meat and shrimp salvaged from a leftover dish added with rice noodles and spices, was definitely not the culprit.

I thought maybe it was due to a cabin fever common during a gloomy, cold winter. The icy weather in the city is not really like Siberia's, where you have to stay indoors to survive. I still get to shop, eat in restaurants, and go clubbing even if the temperature is below zero. Besides, I have fur and cashmere to keep me warm.

I went to bed last night thinking it was Rahul who made me sick. His memory plagued my mind like a virus to a body. Unfulfilled desire is lethal. There are bees who just die because flowers do not bloom. Birds kill themselves because broken wings cannot fly. In my case, my body could no longer bear the disease of the deprived mind.

Life

A loveless life is like an empty bowl

I missed my grandma's love and onion soup.


Sorry, folks. I had a nasty viral fever with asthma and stomach upset that came with it. I was not able to blog since I was in bed or on the potty all the time. It was tough without my mother or grandma to take care of me. David, my former fuck buddy, visited me everyday to fill my table basket with fresh fruits and bowls with chicken soup he got from my favorite Vietnamese restaurant. My relatives were on the phone to check on me five times a day. My grandmother cried three times. My mom was sad. My sister updated me with his clinical opinion about my condition everyday. My father was like a hypnotist conditioning my mind with three numbers: 911. My friends took turns in taking care of me and filling my rooms with roses, lilacs, tulips, anthuriums, and birds of paradise. I felt so loved for the last five days. I was so thankful that there are still people who take care of me and make me feel I am human. No man is an island, indeed.

The last time I got terribly sick was two years ago, when I was still with Ufuk, my former Turkish boyfriend. I had flu and pneumonia that time. It was a bummer. I could not even let Ufuk kiss me. His presence was a cure in itself though. I was motivated to recuperate in a record time so we could make out and make love again. For three days of confinement in my bedroom, Ufuk never went out to party or hang out with his friends. He rented straight porn and action film videos and dvd's, stacked the fridge with cans and cans of beer, and stayed home with me. It was through him then when I learned the power of love to heal. Without feeling his body and lips against mine challenged me to get better. I wanted to feel his cock inside me so bad, but my flesh was weak. I doubled my medical doze thinking Ufuk would be fucking me soon. It worked. Without him on top of me was making my spirit ill, and it had no cure.

I hope next time I get sick, I will have a boyfriend by then. Five days in bed without someone telling me how much he loved me were more torturous than a combo of stomach cramp, muscle spasm, headache, and high fever I had while sitting on the potty for hours, waiting for something to come out, and thinking about the life of being alone. I am glad that Ufuk did love me before, and my friends, family, and relatives love and care for me unconditionally. I still wish though my doctor could prescribe love, and Walgreens had it. I would not have succumbed to almost a week of battling it out with the cruelty of my helpless, weak, battered body. I need a hot soup in my empty bowl. I need warmth. I need to love again.

Diary

The pleasure of touch

Great sex starts from a simple touch.


I had very interesting clients today. I met them before for a Tantric session. They were a couple in their mid-thirties. Both of them looked good for their age, but not my type. They were into yoga, Oriental bodywork, and alternative medicine. The wife called me this morning to schedule an incall appointment for three in the afternoon. It must be their day off from work. They decided to see me since they were in town to see a gynecologist. They were from the suburbs. The wife had a vaginal pain problem lately when they had sexual intercourse. They wanted to learn an orgasmic alternative to sex and penetration. Even two fingers hurt according to her.

I did never encounter such a problem when I was a massage therapist. I went back to my books on Tantric and Taoist way of pleasuring a partner through touch. After a quick review, I called them up and told them to have a light lunch and a shower together afterwards. They had to soap and touch each other to put themselves in a sensual mood. While waiting for them, I burned Nag Champa incense sticks and prepared a mixture of grapeseed, almond, jojoba, and lavender essential oils. I laid yoga mats on the floor and put a white linen on top and two pillows laid across from each other. With the ambient light and the meditational music, I was ready.

They arrived early. I gave each of them a bottled water. We chatted, and I explained everything they would be doing. I turned the heater on and lit a candle. I wanted them to sweat so everything would feel and seem natural. They got fully naked, and the wife lay down on the covered mats. Hard surface was intentional since I suspected her vaginal pain was partly because of her posture during sex and mostly due to stress. I asked the husband to rub his hands together and touch his wife lightly from forehead to her toes as if he was teasing her through his erotic touch. I then let him use the heated oil, give his wife a relaxing massage, and focus on pressure points and erogenous zones. The were very relaxed and turned on.

After the husband did all my massage instructions, it was his wife's turn to touch him. She did good. I then told them to sit facing each other, breathe, relax, tangle their legs, and make out. They played each other's nipples, massage napes, and stroked thighs. I let them touch each other's sex organ softly and teasingly with their fingertips. I taught the husband how to use the heel of his palm on his wife's vagina, roll her labia, run his forefinger along the slit, and stroke her clit. He laid her down. He did perfect. It was now his wife's turn. He lay down. Following my instructions, she cupped her husband's balls, stroked his cock slowly, and touched his shaft softly. She did wonderful. They were sweating, oily, and very excited. They loved it. I could tell through their deep breathings.

I was about to instruct them how to finger and stroke each other's sex organ in a feather-touch fashion when both of them asked me if they could just go ahead and have sex. They could not take it anymore. After telling them to relax, forget any problem or pain, and just focus on their excitement and the pleasure they felt, I went to the bathroom. I let them do what they wanted. I did not fully close the door so I could watch. I also told them to take their time and have sex like they would give each other a sensual massage. I watched and listened to them while I masturbated. Moments later, I heard their loud gasps and moans. They were about to come, so was I. It was so erotic to hear them come. They came a lot and had great orgasms. I got out after I had mine. They were all smile. I asked about the vaginal pain. She was fine. She felt no pain at all. I told them what I thought. They both agreed. They were thankful. I let them use my shower. I got my five hundred bucks, and they left. They now knew the mantra: relax, excite, and enjoy.

Sex can be painful and uncomfortable if you are not prepared, excited, and relaxed. A trouble-free mind is important in great sex. Mental or physical stress affects the strength and flexibility of tissues, muscles, and bones. Never view sex as a bedroom responsibility or a household chore. It is both a need and want. Make your partner feel wanted, and that you need to relieve yourself. To enjoy sex, focus on what excites you. Your partner will do the same. When you only think how to satisfy your partner and make him/her come without considering yourself, sex becomes like a job not a pleasure. Communication is also imperative. Sex, after all, is giving and taking energy, time, space, body, mind, senses, and orgasm.

Sex

The truth about Jerry Springer Show

My last client looked like this cross-dressing cartoon.

I am back to my trade today after a week of self-exile in my bedroom. I sucked four guys. I kicked out the fifth one. He wanted to wear my lingerie and stilettos. I told him to go home and wear his wife's clothing. I was not so in the mood to turn a closeted fag into a hairy, ugly, fat, forty-year old manly woman. I just feel insulted when I encounter cross-dressers. To them, dressing up is sexual fun.


There's no way Roberta Close would say she's a man.

Cross-dressers have the nerve to show up on Jerry Springer Show in their messy wigs and funny make up, and announce to the whole world they are transsexuals. No real transsexual would out herself on a national network and say he is a man. This is one of the reasons why the general population do not understand us. They think we are like those clown-looking men in drag they see on TV.


Tula didn't even tell James Bond that she's a he.

I just feel that cross-dressers are stealing our identity for fun. They should be proud of who they are and what they do. They should not represent a group where they are not part of. They should tell upfront that they are cross-dressers not transsexuals. In a way, their misleading disclosure makes our lives harder by confusing the public. What is fun for them is life for us. That is the difference.

Fantasy

A hooker's politics

sickle to decapitate heads and hammer to smash bones


I checked my Blogorama blog reviews three days ago and found a rating of seven out of ten, the highest, from a political blogger. I did not mind it because I presumed his standards were that high. I have no plan of reviewing political blogs not because I hate politics or have no idea about it. I just find political blogs very partisan, analytically shallow, and devoid of human interest. Besides, I leave the job of reviewing political blogs to politically minded bloggers, who know their turf with fervor and great enthusiasm.

I love politics. It is the treasure throve of topics best for arguments and killing time. I grew up exposed by my father to classics like Plato's Republic and the philosophy and ethics of Socrates and Aristotle. I was a Marxist in my critical analysis in high school and college. My father was very influential in my politics. He encouraged me to read Karl Marx's Das Kapital and reformist writings of Mao Zedong. Political thoughts of European philosophers were also my early intellectual staple. He also forced me to read world history instead of Barbara Cartland's pocketbooks.

I was very much into the issue of class struggle. Even when I wrote a critique on the obscene photographs of Mapplethorpe in my art history class, I used Marxism as my theoretical framework. I even argued once with a theologian that Jesus was a capitalist and Judas a socialist using the bible as my source for historiography. After exposing myself to literature and arts of the oppressed writers and artists from communist Russia and socialist China, I began to rethink my political leanings. The artist in me revolted. I craved for a thought that propagates beauty and freedom.

The Stalinist Purges in Russia and the Great Hunger and death in China during Mao's reign disillusioned me, so did Cuba's socialist nightmare. I tried to convince myself that maybe communism and socialism in other countries worked. After reading Pol Pot's deadly experiment in Cambodia and the terror of Peru's Sendero Luminoso, I totally gave up my leftist politics. I cursed Karl Marx for making me his intellectual zombie for years. I wasted so much time believing in his Utopia. From then on, I have become eclectic in my critical analysis on anything that comes up in my mind.

Honestly, I find American politics boring. It lacks individualism. Even how to smile or wave their hands, politicians are controlled and coached by their parties. Protests and marches are not spontaneous but well-planned ahead of time and partly organized and funded by political parties. I find third world politics more interesting. Their political systems are not all about policy and lobbying. They are people-oriented. People react even if the price of onions goes up by one cent. In America, lobbyists do the stuff the common people should be doing in a democracy. It seems to me the church is more democratic than the state. They rise up even for just a gay cartoon character on TV or an artist's inverted cross inside a clear jar of piss.

Politics to me is not just campaign and election. It should be the people's participation in shaping a democratic landscape where they can speak and be heard. Surveys are only conducted for the approval rating of politicians. I haven't heard of any town meeting where concerned residents discuss what is good for their community socio-economically but more on what kind of shrubs they are going to plant or housepaint to use. There are no grassroots political mobilization. Citizens are too controlled by the media. There are school meetings, however, organized only to discuss about homosexual students and their activities and banning a book with the word masturbation in it.

Others speak up against evolution and science in such avenues. It seems idiocy, fundamentalist morality, and ignorance are more important than outsourcing and job loss, economic inflation, and gross overtaxation. I guess people believe that when they get hungry, God's Manna will just drop from heaven or a messiah will come to multiply bread and fish for everyone. What do you expect when most cast their ballots in the name of Jesus?

What a waste of a participatory democracy!

Politics

Passion and meaningless sex

Even when alone, one can passionately satisfy herself.


I went out last night to exorcise myself from the demons of my memory of Rahul's lust and desire. I wanted to get wild and meet hot people on their weekend hunt to reorient myself that a one night stand is just that- no-string attached kind of fun. I really wanted to get rid of him in my mind. I thought I could by being a slut. I wore my shortest micro miniskirt; a see-through, lacy top showing my belly button and flat tummy, and if closer, my boobs and nipples; and six-inch stilettos. I left my apartment with a scent to lure my sexual preys, and ready to hunt someone, who could show me again how not to love but just fuck and have fun.

The moment I got inside the club, I saw a hot, young couple dancing. Many single men and women there, but they caught my eyes. It must be his muscles and her pretty face. I got my glass of Chardonnay and settled in the corner while chatting with my friend, the club bouncer. I could not resist but dance to the upbeat music. After lighting my cigarette, I danced my way to the crowd. Most of them were rolling and sweating. They must be on ecstasy. I did my slutty moves. Moments later, I was surrounded by sexually-charged, touchy men. I felt uncomfortable. I moved to a different spot.

While puffing my cigarette and blowing to the side, I saw the hot couple again. They saw me too and smiled. The expressions on their faces were inviting. I took my time observing their gestures and reading their minds. I was not sure if they were just a friendly or happy couple. I danced, sipped my wine, and smoked ignoring men who approached me with overused pickup lines and funny ploys. My focus was to be with the couple. I went to the bathroom to retouch my makeup. I saw the girl in front of the mirror also doing her face. We greeted each other. She told me her boyfriend liked me, so did she. We got out together and joined her boyfriend in the dance floor.

She introduced me to her boyfriend. They were really hot. They bought me another glass of wine. That was the hint I was waiting. They indeed liked me. We danced and touched. Minutes later, her boyfriend led as to a dark corner of the club where sex-starved people lurked. They started kissing. I stood there like a referee. I did not know how to join in. I was never in that kind of situation before. I waited for another clue. The girlfriend whispered to me that she wanted to see her boyfriend make out with me. I did not refuse. We kissed and he played my boobs while his girlfriend watched.

He went down and sucked on my nipples. The next thing I knew I was kissing with a woman. While the guy had my boobs and tummy, the girl enjoyed my lips and began to grab my crotch. She whispered again that his boyfriend would love it. I was not surprised. They had a fantasy to be with a girl like me. The guy kissed me again and ground his cock on mine while the girl kissed my neck and ran her hands on my butt from behind. I was not excited at all. I excused myself and went home. I realized that women, no matter how gorgeous, don't turn me on, and nonpaying men, who just want to try because I am different, turn me off.

I also realized that even in a one-night stand, passion is important to make sex fun. I did not feel passionate with the hot couple last night like when I was with Rahul. I have understood myself now. Passion like love has its own place and time.


Sex

Chiu: a chick with a dick

God, sometimes, gives what you don't need.


You can call her a freak, but also ask who makes freaks? I thought God, if he indeed exists, is perfect. Why does he create such a human being just to be in limbo? Chiu is a young man who cannot pass as one. He has not taken female hormones or had plastic surgeries. Imagine him without his huge cock. Doesn't he look like a young woman? His smile is of pain. I have the same painful one.

How can he find a girlfriend with that pretty face and gorgeous body? How can he get a real straight boyfriend with that cock? Even gay men won't find her alluring. He is too pretty and feminine for their homosexual lusts. They want muscles, masculine face, and masculinity. Chiu does not have those. Who are we then to tell this guy not to change his gender but suffer and hide or kill himself?

Chiu is selling his hard ons on line. He jerks off for some money. Soon his cock will be a pussy. He will get boobs too. He will have a new life. His suffering will be over. It just saddens me to think that governments could subsidize people's choices for abortion and drug addiction, but not help men like Chiu, who wants to live than commit suicide. People can understand murderers, but not us who suffer in silence. It's never a choice for Chiu or me. We were born this way.

Where God overlooked, surgeons will fix them soon.

Politics

Wishing my groove back

I want birds to soar me high.


I woke up today still longing for Rahul.

I called my grandmother, and we chatted. She too fell in love with her only one-night stand after the liberation of her country from the hands of the Japanese after the Second World War. She was sixteen then when she met an American GI from Iowa. She still has his photo somewhere. She learned to love and make love from him that night, when her countrymen were celebrating for victory. The next day my grandmother's man disappeared like a thief in the silent darkness of the night. She lost him forever. She cursed the world and mourned like there was death. She has never loved that easy since then. My grandmother eventually forgot him and moved on.

I realized through my grandmother that promises are profoundly cruel. I cannot hope for something I don't know if it's within my grasp. I just want to fall in love not to wish forever. I hate and fear false hopes. They are endless. I want real kisses not imagined lips. I desire for a passionate touch not a trace of a forgettable memory. My being is my lips, my breasts, my thighs, my mind, and my heart. I want them satisfied. Yes, inches satisfy my joy, but love makes me feel wanted, longed, and desired. It makes me feel I am human. I don't want to constantly curse my destiny to suffer and mourn like there will be no tomorrow's for my misfortune. It is hard to forget or to move on even if it's only instant, anonymous love. I wish I could just lay myself beside someone and thank him for his existence.


Love

The pain of losing a stranger

This is all I have been doing.


I am currently in an emotional turmoil. I can't even finish my last post. I just can't write or think anymore. Even getting up from my bed has seemed like a torture. I haven't worked for six days now. My fling with Rahul has made me depressed. I have felt so alone and forgotten as if he just used me and left me with a promise. I wish I did not do it, even though we had a nice time together. I forgot that it is not only my body that craves, I also have a heart that desires.

I also wish I were a hot, handsome, muscular, educated, classy man like him, so I could just fuck anyone. It is hard to have a sad fate like mine. I am neither male nor female. I have a libido of a man and a heart of a woman. I fuck, but I also fall in love. If I were a man, I could just be like Rahul. Promises and false hopes could get me laid. I would not be thinking of falling in love after a one-night stand.


Life

Fairy tales, fetish, and bizarre sex

"Hi, ho, hi, ho.... into Snow White we go...."


I am not quite sure if even fetish, fantasy, and kinky sex are not spared by bedtime stories and fairy tales. I do believe though that boys and girls get their early education on looks, hotness, and desirability from the characters in fairy tales. Masculinity and femininity are so well defined that these kids could relate and resemble themselves to. They also learn images they consider nasty, ugly, and scary from the tales. I think there is a psycholinguistic connection between witch and bitch. Witches in bedtime stories are mean and they could transform themselves into howling, rabid black dogs. Fair becoming fairy also has the same folk etymology since there are no ugly, dark, and masculine-looking fairies in fairy tales.

I am not surprised why even in Africa the Cinderella in an African folktale is light-skinned. In Asia, women spend a lot for skin whitening pills, cream and cosmetic procedures, and Asian men prefer fair-skinned partners. I don't think this phenomenon is a remnant of a colonial past. It is obviously the effect of people's early notion of what is beautiful. Fairy tales are the culprit why white skin has become a standard for beauty and a sexual fetish. From skin, the fetishism moves onto pussy. Some prefer shaved pussies. Pubes are just too dark. They then check if the labial color is pinkish or dark brown. They prefer the former. Other men are picky when it comes to nipples too. They salivate for pinkish and light-colored areolas. Nipple size is also probed by these meticulous fetishists.

I have wondered even then why female lead characters in fairy tales always have long hair, and they are petite. It is hard to tell if these physical descriptions have influenced men who have fetishes for long hair and women's body size. I have met both of these fetishists before. I initially thought they called me for my long hair so they could grab and pull my head when I would blow them. They were not that rough at all. Most of them just brushed, touched, and stroked my hair while they jerked off. Others wanted me to play their balls with my hair. I did tickle a man's ass with the ends of my hair once. I still don't get it though how long hair becomes such a turn on for these men. I also think that some men want petite women because they are easy to toss, turn, and tumble in bed, and their pussies are tighter and smaller due to the size of their pelvic bones.

Even women's preference for muscles, hairless, smooth skin, and chiseled square jaws, I believe, is influenced by what they have known early then about men from fairy tales. If you look at the way these male lead characters has been illustrated on fairy tale books, it seems there were already gyms, personal trainers, and work out regimen then. If you read their character descriptions, they sound like Brad Pitt or Leonardo di Caprio gracing the People Magazine's hot list. I have wondered too why these characters have been depicted to have soft skin. European or Caucasian men are not naturally smooth without electrolysis, laser hair removal, and waxing. They have also been written about as experts in handling swords, riding horses, and romancing with women. These are good combination of talents, indeed. These men have been made to appear heroic, brave, and chivalrous. Women get wet with those qualities in a man.

My interest in fairy tales is not just to remember my childhood and relive past memories but to understand the way I think, feel, and act as an adult. I always go back to my childhood when I want to analyze my certain behavior on anything by understanding its early development when I was a kid. Since I was in my teens, my fascination towards sexual fantasy, fetish, and kinky sex has replaced fairy tales and bedtime stories. I have evolved into an open-minded, thinking person who wants to understand the complexities of human mind, sex, and desire. I have become intrigued by people who are into adult alternative sex. It's not that I find pleasure or pain derived from such unconventional way of satisfying one's urge orgasmic. I just find these people worthy of a second look before I dismiss their sexual activities as sick, degenerate, and bizarre. I want to know what made them do such strange acts of pleasuring, how did they start, and what influenced them.

Lately, I have been reading BDSM erotica and spent time on fantasy chats on Yahoo and AOL. I have been realizing too that the knowledge I have had so far from those materials and through the interactive avenue of sharing information on line does not really seem new, shocking, or unfamiliar to me. It is like my deja vu in fetish, strange desire, and kinky sex. I thought hard why I felt such familiarity like I have already known them. I went back to my childhood days. I found out my early exposure to subtle alternative sexual fantasy that has stayed in my mind subconsciously. I could trace it back to my mother's bedtime stories and fairy tales.


Cinderella

When I first heard of a foot and shoe fetish, I thought of Cinderella's glass slippers. I imagined how her bare foot tiptoed until she reached her carriage. It must be cute and uncomfortable. I thought the prince was a foot and shoe fetishist. I found that part of glass slippers inconsistent with the rest of the story. Her carriage, horses, and gown and jewelry vanished except her shoe. I could not find any reason for such literary blunder. Had it been her handkerchief with her scent, I would not have thought that there was some hint of foot and shoe fetish in Cinderella's story.

When my mother read Cinderella's story to us, I was so disheartened when she did all the chores by herself, and her stepmother and stepsisters were cruel to her. I felt like I wanted to tell her to report them to the cops or protest. I already knew human rights then. What they did to her was gross slavery. When I reread her story again in high school for our creative writing class, I did feel that Cinderella was a passive sadomasochistic slave. If she were into BDSM, what she did was a double whammy a fetish. I also thought of her fairy godmother as her madam pimping her out.


Beauty and the Beast

I did not do much thinking about the story of Belle and her beast. It was clear to me then that this fairy tale was a blatant case of zoophilia or bestiality. When I heard about a show in a red district in Bangkok, Thailand, where a hot woman got fucked by a dog on stage in front of mostly American male tourists, I was sad. It did not shock me though. Considering what I knew about Asian economy and the romance between a fair lady and a scary beast in a fairy tale, I did not question the veracity of what I heard about the Thai dog sex show. I also read too many sex ads online where people looked for cubs and bears. They were not looking to have sex with these animals. They wanted to hook up with hairy young and older men.

I saw extreme cases of body modification on TV. There was a man who transformed himself into a cat through a full-body tattoo and with some implanted foreign objects under his brows. There was also a couple who wanted themselves tattoed to look like black-spotted leopards. They had nylon whiskers too and scary-looking contact lenses. After watching them explain about their horrible fantasy, I did wonder why they did such strange, permanent, painful changes in their looks. I thought it was a reverse of the story of transformation of the beast in the fairy tale. Maybe they just wanted to shock people or make a radical change or statement. Had they been real beasts with the same intellect and fetish to be extremely different they had, like Belle's beast, they would want to become human.


Sleeping Beauty

Believe it or not, I chatted with a couple of guys who had a sleep-related fetish. They wanted to touch or kiss sleeping women. I forgot the official paraphilic name of this fetish. I also read some medical papers on sleep sex, where sleepwalkers engaged in sex. After our chats, where they told me that they preferred young, beautiful women, I instantly thought of Sleeping Beauty. I also asked them if their fantasy was a crime under assault and rape. They only wanted to do this to a person they knew. Both of them did it before to their girlfriends. When the latter woke up, they fucked of course. I found it very similar to the prince who woke up the sleeping princess with a kiss. They then got married, fucked, and lived happily ever after.

The most bizarre erotic stories I encountered were that of necrophilia. I heard about men who desecrated and forced themselves into dead bodies of young beautiful women not just out of lust and desperate need to fuck. Their urge and desire bordered between pity and romance. These fetishists wished these women were still alive. They also had this deep feeling that these women were too pretty and young to be dead. There were cases about husbands who did not bury their wives and continued sleeping with them in the same bed. I wonder why most cases of necrophilia were perpetrated by men. Is it because a dead man's cock is stiffly flacid, and won't get functionally hard for a woman who is into this kind of fantasy? Is it also because there is no male Sleeping Beauty lurking in the threshold of someone's subconscious.

There were also men who had sex with comatose patients. Known cases of this kind of criminal offense were mostly committed by male caregivers who fell in love to their patients. After watching a Pedro Almodovar's film about a woman in a coma who got pregnant in a hospice care facility and her male nurse who fell in love to her, Sleeping Beauty came up in my mind. I left the theater asking myself what made her wake up if the story indeed happened. Was it the prince's soft kiss or raging hard on?


Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

I saw and read too many sexually explicit cartoons and stories about Snow White. Most of them showed and presented her in a wild orgy with the seven dwarfs. There are even porn videos by a porn actress and seven small men. I tried to understand why pornographers thought of a sexual orgy in their twisted interpretation of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I went back to my organizational psychology book, and reread a chapter on group dynamics. A woman in a company of men even in a bible study or in a religious convent could have the same fate as Snow White's in pornography. Had Mary Magdalene been considered an apostle, she too would be caricatured as a Christian whore with twelve saintly fuckers.

I chatted with men and women on line who had a fantasy of having sex with midgets. I thought, that time, they were just smart, horny fuckers. Besides being easy to throw around in weight and size, midgets or small people did not have to kneel or bend down to give them head or eat them out. I was wrong. I found out later through my sincere questions needy of their honest answers that these fetishists lusting for midgets were latent pedophiles. Due to existing criminal laws, they opted for grown up small people than innocent children to control their illegal urge. When I saw the comic illustration above, I did not think twice that the Story of Snow White could also bring out twisted interpretation related to pedophilia. It has partly convinced me that maybe bedtime stories and fairy tales have an effect also on people's wild imaginations, kinky curiousities, outrageously lustful preferences, strange fantasies, and bizarre desires.


PS Added on March 5

Fantasy

Fairy tales, love, and dating

They already had extreme makeover even then.


I went to a preparatory high school for boys. I had no direct observation on how young girls, my age then, dated and found love. All my knowledge about teen dating and relationships, aside from my own experiences with the boys who treated me like a girl, was through my sister. I watched her grow into a young lady, develop hots for boys, eventually find a boyfriend, and lose her virginity. I was once my sister's fairy godmother during her nerdy teens. I gave her a makeover, picked up her prom dress, and made her look fabulous. One of the jocks who avoided her before I swayed my wand became her first boyfriend. My sister learned from me that it is possible to adore Stephen Hawking and still flip the pages of a Vogue magazine.

I believe fairy tales have a cognitive influence on the way young girls go out and interact with boys. These stories are not only for bedtime but for dating and finding love as well. Aside from a perfect girl looking for a perfect guy and real love and a liberated slut, who just want sex and fuck buddies, there are four categories of pretty girls who pattern their love hunting techniques after the female lead characters of the well-known bedtime fairy tales. If you analyze each tale, it is really a how-to manual helpful in understanding boys, their games, and their emotions. Girls get to learn the power of drama. These categories also apply to women who are on the hunt for men.


Cinderella

This type of girls uses the transformation of their looks from plain Jane to Barbie as the source of their drama. During proms, for instance, you see some geeks becoming and looking like supermodel babes. These are girls who hide their beauty behind big, thick glasses, messy hair, and freckles. They find Algebra more worthy of their time than making themselves look like Britney Spears. They are usually the butt of jokes. Boys are embarrassed to be with them.

With contact lenses, new hairstyle, and makeup, they become what the really are: beautiful Cinderella's. They are now ready to hunt the jocks who have been avoiding them and face the snotty cheerleaders, slutty blondes, and mean bitches who have bullied them and made fun of their yellow teeth, funny ponytails, and dorky talk and walk. These girls can now find love that has been elusive before their beauty makeover. Simply, it is the revenge of the nerds.


Snow White

This kind of girls does not have any identity crisis. They are not tomboys either. They just find the company of the boys safe and nurturing. They hang out with the boys as friends. The boys then are protective of them. They treat these girls like sisters. They spend time together watching movies or going to malls. The friendly boys who hang out with these girls are usually sissies or just nice fellows, who want girls as good friends.

The girls of this type learn a lot from their male friends. They basically understand anything about boys from them. With the acquired expertise on how to put up with the drama from boys and how to shut them up, these girls are now ready for dating. Their male friends are supportively behind them. They advise the girls or threaten the boys they are dating when something becomes rough and tough. They are simply the girls' confidante and security guards.


Sleeping Beauty

These are the most dramatic girls of all. They give boys hard time. They are hard to get. Boys have to really put their time and efforts before they get to have them. At school, boys' hardships include helping these girls with their assignments, research stuff, and projects, carrying their books and bags for them, and being just around with these girls. The latter use their vulnerabilities to entice boys they like. Boys stick around because of the time and efforts they have already spent. They also like to be these girls' heroes.

The drama of this type of girls includes sulking, locking inside the room and not eating, made up illnesses like heart condition and cancer, and depression and suicide attempt. They are very dramatic, indeed. Boys are blackmailed that way. They get to behave because these girls have some sort of special conditions. They try hard not to hurt them and love these girls ten folds more. Boys just don't want to be blamed when drama becomes real.


Beauty (Belle)

My sister falls under this category. I like this type of girls. They are more interested in knowing boys rather than just looking at them. They are more into character and personality than looks and muscles. These girls have the ugliness of boys at their advantage in avoiding drama. No bitches, blondes, and bombshells would dare to steal their nice, ugly boyfriends from them. They feel secure and safe in that regard. They don't have to worry much that their boyfriends might cheat either. Ugly cheaters are rare. Besides, they are nice boys.

I have observed that ugly boys in the company of beautiful girls usually bloom. It's either the plastic surgery advised by these girls or love just makes them look great. In my experience, when I had boyfriends I always tried to look my best. Aside from wanting to get fucked, I just felt pretty being loved, thus, I had to look like one too. I agree with one of my blog readers, who said that looks is only for lust, and character is for love and passion, but that thought does not always hold true in real life. Everyone still dreams to be with someone who has looks, personality, and character, and who is lustful, passionate and loving. Who doesn't dream of perfection?

As my sister said, her affection has made her boyfriend look hot. The last time I saw my sister's boyfriend, he did really look way better than before he met her. He had muscles from working out. He got LASIK so he could throw away his glasses. He had his ears pinned down, and got a nose job. My sister taught him diet, hygiene, and fashion. He had stylish haircut, well-tanned skin, and clean nails. My sister now has a nice, handsome man. They have been engaged for almost a year. There is indeed a prince behind the beast.


Next: Fairy tales, fetish, and bizarre sex

Love

Fairy tales and gender relations

Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation saved her.


Children's sexual identification and concept of gender are not only learned at home and school. Besides electronic and circulated mass media, bedtime stories and fairy tales are also rich repositories of conventions and stereotypes that reinforce the hegemonic definition of what is feminine or masculine and influence children's knowledge of male-female relationship and gender relations. The rigid personification and the clear illustration of the behaviors and manners of the characters in tales and stories are influential and effective when it comes to children's idea on what a man or a woman should be. They start to learn sexual archetypes and gender stereotypes early from these materials.

I was four years old then when my father castigated me with his barrage of harsh words and forced me to realize I was not a girl. He was fed up of seeing me in my sister's clothes and my mother's makeup. My long hair and girlish manners also made him fuming mad. I received his sermon on gender with much hesitation and confusion. I thought he was lying or joking. Everything started when I refused to share the bathroom with my brother. I protested that I was a girl, and I did not want him to see my naked body. It even felt strange coming out from the bathroom not fully covered with a towel like how my mother would wrap herself.

It was through bedtime stories and fairy tales that I realized the truth behind my father's outburst and what I should be to please him. Sleeping Beauty enlightened me that I was my father's son. When one of the boys in the neighborhood punched me for being a sissy, I wished and waited for my prince, my hero. I felt I was a damsel in distress. Nobody came to my rescue because I was not like those beautiful princesses. I was not a girl. I faked my passing out in soccer camps, falling and collapsing in baseball fields, and drowning several times, but still no boy or man kissed me and gave me air like what I saw on TV showing a lifeguard at work. I thought mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was only for girls, thus Sleeping Beauty survived.

I always wondered why witches and sorceresses in fairy tales were always women. I thought men could also wear black, do black magic, and ride on a broomstick. Later I found out that these villainous characters should be women to make tales sound real. I learned that through my experience with my family. When I made my mother angry she would usually yell, call me names, and reprimand me with a threat of not buying what I wanted. When I did the same to my father, I usually got spanked and grounded. He wasted no word.

My sister too thought she could be a witch. When we had a quarrel, she usually tried to cast her make-believe spell. Her bad wishes for me ranged from my rose plant dying to not receiving dolls for Christmas. She made me cry one time when she did cast a spell with her umbrella that I would lose my bird. The next day, Ming, our Siamese cat, killed Tiny Candy. I was sad. My brothers were different when we fought. They usually pushed, kicked, or punched me without even saying a word. They were never like witches and sorceresses who only used words, curses, and spells to inflict cruelty and pain. They went straight to bloody action.

Fairies made me wonder too. Why they were always women baffled me until I heard boys in our neighborhood and at school calling me names like queer, sissy, fag, and yes, fairy. I thought a male fairy had to be gay. He should know basic ballet and look good in a tutu. Graceful moves and delicate manners came up in my mind when I thought of a fairy. Had Cinderella's fairy godmother been a gay man, she would have missed the ball and the chance to meet her prince. Her gown would not have been finished in time. Her fairy gay godmother would need days to design and sew her gown and make her shoes. Hair and makeup would take time too. If fairies were straight men, we would not have lovely fairy tales. These male fairies would use sticks or baseball bats instead of magic wands, and we would have gruesome bedtime stories for kids.

I did never like tales centered on boys or guys. I thought they were silly and outrageous. I wanted real men even then, not some funny-looking characters. Pinocchio was a wood, the other one was a walking bread, and Peter Pan seemed like a bird. I just found their stories boring and beyond my reality. Robin Hood had human qualities, but I did not find him desirable and hot at all. My brothers could make up different versions about his story. I found him brute and wild, and he had no class. I desired a cultured prince not a man from a ghetto. I did, however, find his socialist idea very interesting. I thought robbing the rich for the poor was cool. If Robin Hood were a woman, she would have been a maid or a prostitute not a thief, and it would be a totally different story.

I did ask my mother what if Cinderella were a man. She thought the story would not be the same. She was right. He would have no car to fix and plumbing to do. If horny, he would end up doing his stepmother and stepsisters. That would be too pornographic for kids. He could even kill them all to end his misery, but then that would be a story about murder. A male Snow White would have been a very short tale. All he needed was to bend down and ask one of the dwarfs to give him a Heimlich Maneuver. The chunk of a poisonous apple would have come out. He could think such an easy remedy. Men are innately resourceful. After all, they invented fire.

Someone wrote a comment on my post on euthanasia and men's lust. He said that if Sleeping Beauty were a man, he would be good-looking too. I definitely agree to his proposition, but a male Sleeping Beauty must be a handsome gay man. I don't think a frail, dainty princess in an intricate, long, puffy gown could slay a dragon or clear gigantic vines. There were no Survivor and Fear Factor then. The story would sound unreal, over-stretched, and shallow if the hero were a woman. The story of Beauty and the beast popped up in my mind too when I thought about men's heroism in fairy tales. What would be the story like if they were of a different gender? I think a female beast would be dead, and a handsome, patient village man would be celebrated a hero. Men, after all, are hunters for kill, conquest, and glory.

Next: Fairy tales, love, and dating

Politics