MS. DEJA VU: WIT AND HUMOR OF A HOOKER

My life in haze

2005-06-16T01:32:00.000-05:00

My current state of being- horny and lonely.

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

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

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

My pink childhood

2005-05-21T18:36:00.000-05:00

Bakla! Bakla, baket ka ginawa?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish he paid me for my ass

2005-05-19T19:22:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

A different kind of assassination

2005-05-14T15:23:00.000-05:00

Was this US President a cock-sucker?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

Paranoia in the White House

2005-05-13T17:05:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Fear of character assassination among the Democrats

Politics

Fucking with a monster

2005-05-11T15:43:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personal

When she deprived me of her voice

2005-05-10T21:42:00.000-05:00

Her silence was a lesson for me.

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

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

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

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

That was my last for April

2005-05-10T09:28:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

Deja Vu

My last post

2005-04-30T13:40:00.000-05:00

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

Take care!

Deja Vu

My days with a wolf

2005-04-24T18:29:00.000-05:00

Where was wisdom when I needed it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The commercialization of the right wing idiocy

2005-04-23T14:26:00.000-05:00

She hates anything liberal including herself.

The rise of Ann Coulter in the mass media has made me think and question the critical thinking abilities of her supporters. Hating anything liberal does not make one a conservative. A true ideologue bases his views on acceptable reasons. Miss Coulter is an angry bitch who uses argumentum ad hominem as her tactic to market herself as an intellectual giant in the conservative arena. She uses her hate and anger as her dramatic persona to commodify her conservative thinking. Simply, she is selling mass hysteria and ignorance to the passive, fundamentalist zombies. If you dissect what she says, her ramblings are shalllow, illogical, and sophomoric. She is an intellectual bonsai adored by mental midgets whose logic is grounded on Genesis and sense of history on Noah's Arc. These morons are lucky that the idea of God exists. Without it, they have no outrageous reason to support their laughable, bizarre thoughts.

Her angry, bombastic style of expressing her dumb, empty, hysterical ideas is not new. Camille Paglia pioneered it in the academe. Miss Paglia's scholarly writings are more admirable and readable. She uses solid history and sound logic as the core of her theses. Her obnoxious style is just a literary ploy to rattle minds and raise adrenaline. Ann Coulter does not stimulate my mind. She is no Camille Paglia. She is a disgrace to women in the early days who fought for a liberal stand- freedom of expression. Without such radical thought centuries back, Miss Coulter would not have been a disgusting, boring blabbermouth that she is. She would still be flipping the bible pages daily, reserving her mouth for singing praises to the Lord, and spending the rest of her day in silence and subservience.

Ann Coulter's case is like that of a close-minded priest, who abhors fucking but jerks off a lot.

Politics

Sex tour extended

2005-04-08T14:50:00.000-05:00

I am still alive and fucking men.

I am currently in Los Angeles sucking and fucking with hot guys. I make them fuck each other too while I watch. My sex journal is almost filled. Bear with me. My blog will be a sex riot soon. I had too many group sex escapades. Wonderful sex life, indeed.

Oriental top

2005-04-01T03:21:00.000-06:00

The sensuality of the Orient is my mystique.

I have been fucking a lot of bottoms lately. Fucking hard asses is like a kung fu work out. I have sensed that my face has been changing lately. It is becoming like a face of a Shaolin monk. It must be the result of fucking and cumming too much. I use energy and excrete female hormones every time I hump and shoot. I need to be a bottom again soon if I don't want to look like Jackie Chan.

Being a covered top, I minimize the occupational hazard in my line of work. Besides, men cum easily when I bury some of my inches in their asses. Yoga has been a help lately. I can anal fuck a guy in a missionary position and blow him at the same time. I think I can blow myself soon if I continue my hardcore kundalini yoga flexible bending I have been working on. Self-suckers do exist.

I will be right back. Another bottom is in the area ready to get fucked. Ciao for now.

My absence from blogosphere

2005-03-27T22:37:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-22T14:31:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-21T18:02:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-21T00:18:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-19T18:44:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-19T14:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-18T20:31:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-18T16:55:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-17T22:23:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-16T19:21:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-15T16:20:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-14T18:10:00.000-06:00

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