Friday, August 26, 2016

Other People's Love Stories #4: Excerpts from a Blowjob

**There is no way to embellish this retelling any further, so I won't.





He holds my right hand, wraps my fingers in between his, moves them closer to his face, and then he starts planting slow kisses. This little boy of 22 has the softest lips, and those little boy kisses are a darling surprise. His breathing tickles the gap in between my fingers, how pleasurable, and I continue sucking on his little boy dick with renewed enthusiasm. To say the least, I was rather surprised at the gesture. And so I rallied on, undeterred, for I have an ejaculating mission to continue.

I was horny, you know, and I think I was doing a straight-up, bang up job. You seem I don't recall any of my boys kissing my hand while I was giving them head.

Fellatio has never been this romantic. I have decided to give this sweetheart such a violent orgasm that he'll be sucking his food for three days.

Friday, August 19, 2016

What We Talk About with My Android Friends

**And by "Androids," I mean my biologically male beloveds who have achieved such amazing augmentations to their, and I use this term apologetically, to their "masculine" forms. One of them still argues, to this day, that giving birth will soon be transferable. I'm still arguing against that. 

Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers? 






1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.

2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.

3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?

4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.

5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.

6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.

7. Hotel rates.

8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.

9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.

10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.





11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.

12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.

13. Forehead contours.

14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.

15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.

16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.

17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.

18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read  Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.

19. I wrote Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type in October 2010. And I can still see what it looks like with unnerving vividness.

20. He was chatting with me from inside a closet because his roommate had a paying client. This gives him peephole access to the perfect intercourse between business and pleasure. 

Friday, August 12, 2016

HBD to Me

You get to greet a person on his birthday once a year. So I don't think it's good fucking form that you abbreviate your well wishes with a god damn HBD. Girl, we're talking about a one time deal in 365 days, so I think it's just proper. Perhaps I'll let your HBD slip if you still have finger cramps from masturbating too much, but you don't. FY. And it doesn't matter to me that it's in social media. Who has time for real interaction these days? The least you could have done was to spell out your greetings. It's once a year. OMWTFGAF. 

I'm exaggerating of course. You know I'm a dick who loves dick. TY. 



I meant to enlarge on this update some more, and I was on leave for five days. But I was drunk for four days, and I had to attend to my sexy lady guard job on the sixth. 

Friday, August 05, 2016

There are Two Kinds of Salad Spinners in this Planet







This Essentialist Salad Spinner sits on the kitchen counter and waits for its owner to spin salad. It was meant to spin salad, its engineering is for spinning salad, and it was purchased to spin salad. This Essentialist Salad Spinner devotes all its salad spinner energies, which are mostly centripetal, to its one calling. And it attends to this purpose, which is arguably divine, with the focused dedication of an Essentialist Salad Spinner. It was meant to spin salad, and it will spin salad, and it will spin salad better than the next salad spinner, which is unacceptable if its not an Essentialist Salad Spinner.

Of course you should know, My Dearly Beloved Sweets Nuts, that by "spinning salad" we mean "washing leaves." And by "leaves" we mean the usual greens that are best enjoyed with dressing. These leaves include lettuce, arugula, and why the fuck am I listing greens, and the Essentialist Salad Spinner attends to these leaves with strict adherence to tradition. Do not doubt the Essentialist Salad Spinner for it married itself to its purpose in the same way that other people pronounce their marriage to Jesus. The Essentialist Salad Spinner knows its shit full well.



The Essentialist Salad Spinner came out of this box with pictures of a Salad Spinner on its front face, instructions for use at the right, product details on the left, and a picture of a thin lady enjoying a salad at the back face. Salad Lady is wearing a green tank top with a smiley face on it.

An Existentialist Salad Spinner, meanwhile, decides that it wants to do something else with its shelf life. It begins as a Salad Spinner from a similar box as the Essentialist Salad Spinner. It came with the same set of instructions, its colander is of the same proportions as the Essentialist, and its pull cord is just as long. The Existential Salad Spinner Agrees that he is built to wash leaves, but he Argues that washing leaves is too "de rigueur." The Existentialist Salad Spinner has appropriated its centripetal force to more personal purposes, like spinning stories, and it has no enthusiasm to the purpose that it has long abandoned.



I am familiar with this one Existential Salad Spinner in particular. His outer bowl is embellished with skull stickers and heart stickers. Anchor stickers adorn its handle, while there are variations of snake stickers and "Only God Will Judge Me" stickers on its cord. Most Existential Salad Spinners, however, limit themselves to simpler ornamentations, however, less extreme, if you may, on account of they don't have access to that many stickers on the kitchen counter. That doesn't make them any less of an Existential Salad Spinner. What sets them apart from the Essentialist Salad Spinner is this marked intention to be something else. Spinning salad isn't really its  thing. And it is not because it is lazy. Hell no, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, hell no. It has other uses for its centripetal force.

On its spare time, the Existentialist Salad Spinner absorbs the written works of Sartre and Kierkegaard, and has expressed an interest in the philosophy of Absurdism.

Friday, July 29, 2016

Blackie






My neighbor, Old Flaccid, decided to be a noisy motherfucker that morning. 

He kept shouting the same word twice per repetition, "Blackie! Blackie!," in this pattern that gave him breathing intervals. He was old, you see, and he looked like he was decaying because of his skin. It has the character of a withered scrotum. Old Flaccid needed to breathe, I guess, on account of this unproductive yelling, "Blackie! Blackie!," could be too much for his age. There is still some posture in him, however, and there is still some grit and spit and all purpose anger with each "Blackie!" that issued from that old mouth. He can't be that old. 

I will not know, for sure, just how old Old Flaccid is since I've tried my best to ignore him for the better part of a decade. I would hazard a guess and announce that he's a few years younger than the Ark of the Covenant, but I could be wrong. What I'm sure of, however, is that the calm of this wonderful 7am morning died to Old Flaccid's noisy reports. He was as loud as the loudest "I don't give a fuck" in the manner of bitter old people, and I wish he was senile so he'd shut the fuck up. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Now what you need to understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is that Blackie is this long haired cat that perched himself on top of this concrete wall that surrounded Old Flaccid's property. He's a feet away from these suspended electric cables that were interesting in what they can do to breathing things. And what you need to remember is that Blackie is brown. He's as brown as the golden feces of a one year old. He's as brown as undigested almonds. He's as brown  as the moisture on your underwear when you were praying to Jesus for dry fart a few seconds ago. I'm telling you, I have seen that cat several times before, and by cat I mean Blackie, and I've always known him to be brown. I'm looking at him in this morning sunlight, and yes, he is brown. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Blackie was ignoring Old Flaccid's authority because he had people to count. I guess that's what he's doing with the way his brown head followed everybody that passed his concrete wall. How long has he been at it? 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

Blackie's eyes pierced Old Flaccid's general direction. And they had the feline equivalent of "I wish you were senile so you'd shut the fuck up." I have seen that cat several times before, and I only liked him today. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

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