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

When longing tortures the body

2005-03-14T13:14:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-13T22:04:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-08T22:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-07T21:28:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-06T21:33:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-06T16:13:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-05T23:56:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-05T18:25:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-04T22:52:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-03T22:11:00.000-06:00

"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

2005-03-02T23:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-01T22:25:00.000-06:00

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

Fairy tales and human emotions

2005-02-28T20:30:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Fairy tales and gender relations

Life

Deja vu in bed

2005-02-27T23:42:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sexuality

Euthanasia and men's innate lust

2005-02-26T22:08:00.000-06:00

Who would want her to die?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

Postmodern poetry before Foucault

2005-02-26T00:28:00.000-06:00

Silence is poetry in itself.

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

The Emperor's New Sonnet

The Bashful One

,

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

Poetry

Gym and laundry room stories

2005-02-25T19:03:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personal

My birthday gift

2005-02-25T14:01:00.000-06:00

Trust yourself. Never trust dogs. They bark.

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

My nephew,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your aunt,

Isa.....

Life

Horseback riding in my bedroom

2005-02-24T20:34:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy

Insomnia as addiction

2005-02-24T14:54:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personal

The poetics of suicide

2005-02-23T20:34:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry

My latest oral craze

2005-02-23T15:16:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entertainment

Stain on my Prada

2005-02-22T19:32:00.000-06:00

What an expensive embarrassment!

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

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

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

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

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

Entertainment

If I were a muslim

2005-02-22T12:19:00.000-06:00

Don't get serious now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodbye Saddam;
welcome Uncle Sam.

Poetry

Ordered, mangled human anatomy

2005-02-22T00:02:00.000-06:00

Can this be an abstract painting?

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

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

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

My writing, tattoo, and lesbians

2005-02-21T14:50:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Personal

Testosterone and same-sex marriage

2005-02-21T11:19:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

Politics

Curiosity: a sexual nature of men

2005-02-20T19:27:00.000-06:00

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

Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fetish

Variety: men's way of spicing it up

2005-02-19T14:42:00.000-06:00

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

Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personal

Testosterone: the biology of divorce

2005-02-18T18:32:00.000-06:00

Click here to see what he was thinking.

Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

PS Variety as sexual spice among men is next.

Politics

Why I am not for same-sex marriage

2005-02-17T14:48:00.000-06:00

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

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

PS The biology of divorce is next

Politics

Understanding John Paul

2005-02-16T19:38:00.000-06:00

I understand pain and make it colorful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sex

The last wish

2005-02-16T04:02:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life

The curse of my wo-manhood

2005-02-15T20:22:00.000-06:00

This is not the kind of shots I lust for.

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

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

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

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

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

Diary

Spending Valentine's with a hot man

2005-02-14T23:01:00.000-06:00

I burnt my pain in the warmth of my ashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy

When Cupid's arrow hit my ass

2005-02-14T15:23:00.000-06:00

Next time, kid, aim it right.

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

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

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

February 14, 2005

Dear Ufuk,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Isa.....

Love

In bed with God

2005-02-13T20:21:00.000-06:00

when fishnets are not for fishing....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I realized there is really no blasphemy in bed.

Politics

On life and death of a blogger

2005-02-13T13:43:00.000-06:00

Shakespeare - a syphilic cock-sucking male slut

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

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

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

Blog

AIDS: An Idiot's Desired Suicide

2005-02-12T21:07:00.000-06:00

These are not multivitamins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry, I am very angry

Why them: a soldier's voice

2005-02-12T17:00:00.000-06:00

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

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

He said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My response:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

The Passion of Christ: Fucking

2005-02-11T17:23:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

Maxillofacial Workout

2005-02-10T17:58:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Health and wellness

Love in Polynesia

2005-02-10T09:25:00.000-06:00

Like an empty, white canvass, I felt alone.

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

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

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

My man, Paul Gaugin, was no more.

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

Personal

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

2005-02-09T19:10:00.000-06:00

She is a proof of a myth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

A hooker's fuck buddy

2005-02-08T20:34:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On money and my family

2005-02-08T17:21:00.000-06:00

This is my idea of a good life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disneyland is bad for kids

2005-02-07T19:53:00.000-06:00

I could only wish upon a star...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

personal

Prozac writing

2005-02-07T13:47:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Depression

Remembering my last depression

2005-02-07T03:30:00.000-06:00

my state of mind at this moment

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

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

I promise no more ecstasy for me.

Depression

My ecstasy experiment

2005-02-06T17:46:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

Drugs

Why them?

2005-02-06T05:50:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Iraq

Oral reflexology

2005-02-05T19:44:00.000-06:00

when feet are not for walking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fetish

All about a transsexual pussy

2005-02-04T23:43:00.000-06:00

look! it's a pussy.

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

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

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

Yes, Harisu is a transsexual.

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

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

The gross anatomy of a cock

2005-02-04T19:50:00.000-06:00

Wow! the leather looks good.

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

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

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

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

Nong Toom: the beautiful kickboxer

2005-02-04T15:22:00.000-06:00

"He fought like a man to become a woman"

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

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

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

killer kicks, punches, and beauty

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

Evolution of a specie: balls, bikes, and babes

2005-02-03T18:22:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gender

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

2005-02-02T22:02:00.000-06:00

The statue of puberty

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

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

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

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

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

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

Politics

The zen of blowjob

2005-02-02T04:26:00.000-06:00

The sensuality of a geisha is on her fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fetish

PS written last night.

Erotic cholesterol

2005-02-01T13:41:00.000-06:00

Salmonellaaaaaaaaaaa

i am the one
you poach
you scramble
you fry

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

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

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

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

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

your salivating tongue
wets me
plays my whites
juggles my yellows

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

Blogging is like sex

2005-01-31T21:45:00.000-06:00

Blog this virgin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blog

Missiles and muscles

2005-01-31T09:43:00.000-06:00

Of misery and men

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

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

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

Iraq

Existentialist fucking

2005-01-30T21:55:00.000-06:00

Even when I'm naked, I think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I, me, myself, and the world

2005-01-30T17:11:00.000-06:00

The world is everyone's to bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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