Friday, February 05, 2016

Notes on The Bikini Open (A Blow by Blow)

**Seeing all these lean, oiled bodies parade in the smallest of underwear aroused, of all urges, the need to write. That, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is some truly absurd, counter-cocksucker shit. But I have this list to show for it. Meanwhile, cheers to my 450th post. 

Credits to Barangay San Miguel's Facebook Page for the event, the pictures, and the material.

1. This impressive fiesta of faggots made up 110% of the audience. What's curious is that, with their long hair and their fake boobs and their potholder hips, they're mostly of the effeminate variety. I was wondering where the "discretely bisexual" population is, and then the male contestants started sashaying on the stage. 
Work it. 

2. The people in charge have decided to kick start the Bikini Open with a prayer. The audience complied to the emcees' request to stand up, and then the DJ played "The Prayer" as popularized by Celine Dion and Andrea Boccelli. Or Boticelli. Or Whatevercelli. 
I'd like you to meet two of my funniest friends, Powkie and Anton. 

3. This old lady to my right captured all this ceremony with her tablet whenever she felt like it. 
I do not selfie out of principle, so here's a photo of me in the crowd. The black tanktop I'm wearing should give me away. 

4. The best seats in the house are, of course, enjoyed by the judges. And then the next best seats, obviously, are those enjoyed by their friends. I was sitting behind my judge friend where I have dedicated, full frontal view. This, My Dearly Beloved, is VIP access. 

5. They had feathers, and spears, and sequins, and gilded scepters, and all shades of glitter, and magnificent halos. And that's just the men, those beautiful boys and their blameless sock bulges. The women are, well, they're okay.
Feathers. A spear. Sequins. Contestant Number 14 here sheds all that, and then some more, in the latter part of this sexy show. 

6. There's this drag queen who did a lip syncing gig. Her name's Maja Kubrador, and her act will be my death by laughing. 
Maja Kubrador is the natural beauty on the right. She elbow drops and then hadoukens her partner on the second intermission. 

7. One of the female contestants said she'd like to "Thank Oxygen for my pants." I had no idea what that dumbass was talking about. What pants? Meanwhile, I was thinking of thanking oxygen for the air. You have no idea how crowded this gym is. And the air smells like cocksucker breath, too.  
There's your homosexual litmus test. Yes, I am 100% fierce, thank God.

8. I look at the contestants' tattoos, and I promised myself that I'll get more. Way more. You see, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, the tattooed contestants are way sexier. 
And there was this other male contestant with tattoos on both of his knees. Meanwhile, Spear Boy here can impale me anytime as long as I'm not on lady guard duty.

9. It is the dragging motion with which these ladies and gentlemen sashay... no, walk... no, trudge across the stage that I find... It was unusual, at first, when Contestant Number One walked like she needed minor surgery on her left hip or left knee, or maybe a liposuction on her left foot. And then it became common when a succession of candidates, up to Contestant Number 28, continued faking this nearly sexy handicap. 
She limps towards the front and center, literally, and then bares all creamy whiteness. I guess it's some rehearsed handicap that's common with Bikini Open contestants.

10. I feel that it is my noble duty to report that one of the male contestants gazed at the other male candidates in a remarkably predatory behavior. 
Work it. 

11. His teasing would have given me an instant erection if he didn't have too much foundation on. And concealer. And if his nose wasn't that lined. Or his lips that MAC pale. 

12. Reflectorized underwear. 

13. You are killing me, Maja Kubrador. Your comedy is a felony, that's what it is. 
She climbs the walls of the gymnasium in this number. In those slacks.

14. You can make out the very fingerprint of their cock heads on those bikinis they are wearing. And no, it's not the fabric. It's something else. Are those, perhaps, fake cock heads? 
It will be funny if the female contestants had cock bulges too. Imagine this: Contestant Number Five walks to the center of the stage to receive the bouquet of flowers and cash prize given to the Thickest Hair. Her eyes smile her appreciation, the crowd  applauds, and then her left nut slides out of it's poor tuck.  

15. Like I said, the tattooed guys are always the hottest.
My basement flooded everytime Contestant Number Two walked that run way. Every single fucking time. 

 16. It's the boys and their push ups, and their spider web bikinis, and their seductive gymnastics. One bikini was garters and an eye patch, and it was red, and the way his balls juggled left and right in them was spectacular. He smiles vaingloriously, and he's taking it all in. They're doing all these for so little cash, but something tells me it's more than that. 
Two words. Cockhead fingerprint.

17. My friend, the judge, had the best best seat in the house. No contest. No fucking contest. You don't see the contestants displaying their biggest angles from where you are in the back row, right? 

18. At the end of this long day of beautiful teasing boys who allow themselves to be air-fondled, and their encouraged crotches, and their glistening litheness, and their suggestive gymnastics, at the end of all this, I am suddenly sick of dick. 
This is Dick. Dick has been walking around progressively smaller bikinis for more than three hours now. Dick is tired of this shit and shows it on his face. Dick is honest but persevering. Be like Dick. 

19. There is something slightly melancholic about seeing these men and women displaying themselves with nothing more than a smile and an eye patch, or spider webs, or ropes of fabric. 
This is where, after about three hours, they give out the minor prizes and send the losers home. The remaining contestants parade in smaller bikinis after this brief intermission. That goes on for another hour or so. The losers are lucky.  Be like the... I'm kidding, My Dearly Beloved. Be like Dick, instead. 

20. It has been four hours now, and nobody has won yet. 

Friday, January 29, 2016

Let Me Hug You, Girl

**I need to be good at something. I'm not saying this because I'm drunk, but because I really need to be good at something else, and not just putting dicks in my anus. So let me write some more, instead.

It is now five in the morning, and I can hear him fucking her in the other room. There is no groaning or moaning or cursing involved. Where's the sexual grammar that blooms with expressive delight? And this is decidedly boring most especially when there's nothing to see. It's the irregular thrusting sound that muscle upon muscle upon the iron frame of a four post bed that's giving them away. It's muffled, but distinct, a soft whoomp/creak followed shortly by a series of irregular whoomp/creeks, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, pffooottt went my unoccupied ass, and then a succession of the usual whoomp/creaks.  

I am not one to judge. Maybe it is acceptable for two consenting, exceedingly drunk adults to fuck each other most especially when they're attracted to each other right off the bat. Several hours of brandy ignites, and then intensifies, the magnetic intention, and his erection, and that explains my listening to the Whoomp... Creak Show. I get that, and I am not going to knock on their door just to be a lousy friend and tell him that his real girlfriend will not know anything. I say real because there is an alarming increase in the population of Drinking Sessions Girlfriends. I have no choice but to come to terms with that minority. The Whoomp... Creak Show will not air otherwise. 

It is now 5:40 in the morning. And they're still at it.

I now bear Unfortunate Knowledge. His forward thrusts are singular, and I can give you a list of three or four dirty boys that will out fuck him ten times out of ten. This is not what disappoints me, however. I used to look up to him because of his flowery homilies about loyalty and fidelity and The Great Love, you know, the usual crap that weakens in the face of two liters of brandy and three hours of flirting. I'm still hearing him fucking her in the other room. The Whoomp... Creak Show is still airing. Whatever happened to all that face, pretty boy?

I mildly wonder how looking at him tomorrow will be like. He did me no harm, he bore me no false witness, he ruptured none of my tight orifices, he did me no wrong. It is now 6:10 in the morning, and I am waving a cheerful Fuck You to fidelity. I learned today that Nearly Nothing beats a raging erection.

Friday, January 22, 2016

Love Your Dogs

This group of kids ranging from four to six years old were my captive audience as I gave my dog a bath in the garage. Cohen, least exciting name for a dog, was roughly 30 pounds. His fleas were 70 percent of his body weight, I suppose, for I felt those blood sucking grapes behind his ears, and along his back, and between his toes, and under his arm pits and leg pits, and all over his wet body. Those parasites felt dreadful as my gloves lathered Cohen's infested torso. He was more of a tree now, I imagine, than he was a dog. And he bore the most vicious fruit for they were pallid and had multiple legs that thrashed as I picked one off him for inspection. 

I asked one member of my audience, a girl of four I imagine, if she had a dog. That smile on her face as she shook her head was a beautiful thing of innocence. What about a cat, then? She said no because they were too poor for pets. And then I had half a mind to gift her with one of Cohen's fleas to get her started. And Cohen, being the sweetest plagued thing with feet that he is, I'm certain Cohen wouldn't mind sharing. He's a darling, I tell you.

Cohen died a slow death later that year. The vet said that rat urine inflamed his liver to bursting, and my heart continues to bleed for his presence, fleas and all. 

Friday, January 15, 2016

A Prostitution Story

"Sir? Excuse me Sir, but the lady you're with is actually a boy in his passport. See?" Pangyao, the horny Chinese national, barely concealed his shock as he returned the evidence to the overly made up front desk receptionist. He thanked her in embarrassed Mandarin, and then he stormed out of that hotel with his head below his left armpit. 

That look of cruel triumph on her face, lurid with foundation, was truly an evil thing. 

Meanwhile, She (or He, depending on where you stand in this train wreck that is Gender Labels) has been waiting in Room 420 with this expensive lingerie, black lace, that did nothing for His (or Her) sense of decency. I say that because His (or Her) flaccid dick, which is now glutathione-pink, was still visible below his ass if you wanted to look at Him (or Her) from behind. He (or She) has no idea that He (or She) will be waiting long, so He (or She) takes a Selfie and captions it with Beijing's temperature. 

His (or Her) perfect surgery gets 70 plus Likes within the hour. Meanwhile, Pangyao's wife gets ready to fuck her husband in earnest since it has been ages since he's home this early.

Friday, January 08, 2016

How to Deliver Your Self from Evil

**It has been glacial periods since I wrote anything for The Mistress of the Universe. So imagine my juvenile thrill when she gave me a deadline for this account. What you are about to read now, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is the undistilled verbal diarrhea. Meanwhile, the edited submission appears here. 

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Edmund Burke  

If Evil was a foot and a half long, scuttled on four short legs, was coated in fur that's as black as corruption, and had a leathery tail that's as long as its body, then I woke up to the sight of it on my kitchen floor. It wasn't doing any scuttling this time on account of Evil was, to my mounting horror, Evil was half-trapped in this Glue Board. A part of me was convinced that It isn't sticking around to make friends. Half of Evil's horrible length, from its lower feet to some of its tail, was stuck to this Glue Board that I got in Puregold for fifty five pesos. 

Evil was not moving for the time being, like it was calculating a pandemic, and it was truly the most disgusting thing. Meanwhile, that Glue Board was truly the most amazing thing, and I have elected to purchase more of it if I live through this ugly ordeal. Anyway. 

I was frozen, briefly, from the sofa I slept in. I stood up, and Evil tried to scamper a few inches towards the open kitchen door. That slight movement paralyzed my courage all the more, because it meant I was not making all this shit up. "There's this adult rat that's half trapped on this glue board on my kitchen floor" shoved the sleep off me, and I armed myself with a purpose. I cannot allow, I will not allow Evil to live. It will return with an infernal appetite and an infestation of other Evils, and I cannot, will not live with that. Evil will triumph if a good fag like me did nothing, and besides, what will Jesus say? 

The fading sunlight of that afternoon poured on Evil, and it betrayed Evil's true form. The hair on my arms prickled. Evil was plump like gluttony and its scraggly coat of hair, not fur, was black like sin. Its gray, leathery tail was the whip that scourged people who take hourly selfies for all of Eternity. I see that Evil's bottom legs and maybe four inches of its tail were caught on the GlueBoard, and this explains Evil's restricted movement. I will not be able to unsee this oppressive image, and it is now an indelible nightmare in my brain, but I imagine that Evil's nuts were glued to the board as well, and that would make things tolerable because it is funny. 

H.P. Lovecraft wrote a short story, The Dreams in the Witch-House, where the antagonist, obviously a witch, owned a curious familiar. It was this large rat with the face of a man. Brown Jenkin teleports, was fluent in taunts, gnaws on human flesh with relish, and was altogether a mean little freak. He had nothing on this thing of Evil, however.  

I remembered we have a hammer in the garage. And a box of sandwich bags. I decided that I have some smiting to do. 

I stood up and walked on barefoot towards the locked screen door, my eyes glued and offended at Evil's oppressive presence on my kitchen floor. A sharp click issued when I undid the lock, but what happened next was as alarming as the lack of standards in the writing that you are reading now. I heard cardboard scrape across my kitchen floor at the same time the lock was released. Terror grew in my heart as I moved my head to where Evil was. The kitchen floor was now exorcised of the presence that possessed it a few seconds back. Where was it? I know that I should be relieved, but I committed myself to cleansing my house once and for all, so I braced myself and walked towards the open kitchen door. 

What I saw next nearly shocked the Christian faith out of me. 

And I wouldn't have lived through this awful turn of events were it not for two words of Divine Providence: "Glued Nuts." You see, Evil's panicked scuttling caused the whole length of its form, that plump black form, to stick on The Glue Board. And it was far more revolting because I am now seeing it up close. Evil was now as completely helpless as it was hideous on The Glue Board. It is now entirely stationary, except for it's small, scheming head that moved left and right as it contemplated its current circumstance. I crossed myself for protection. Glued Nuts. 

I rushed back to the garage to where The Hammer is. It's nothing more than a used claw hammer, really, but it will serve a heavenly function today. I wrapped the business end of The Hammer with two sandwich bags. Things will be particularly messy, there will be blood, and you will not catch me scrubbing rat brain off the head of some claw hammer. Meanwhile, I am now reinforced with implements of retribution. I have my faith, and a claw hammer that's wrapped in two sandwich bags. I am ready. And with God as my witness, I will get shit done.

My feet approached with caution because Evil, trapped as it was, grew in size with each step I made towards it. The Glue Board excelled in its divine purpose, but God damn this monstrous Evil! My heart was on the verge of collapse as I squatted next to this helpless abomination, but I have decided to be brave. I was then a foot next to Evil stuck in The Glue Board. I paused, and with what little measure of courage I have about me, I squatted down. My heart was paralyzed in my throat as I gripped the Hammer on my left hand. Time slowed down. Imagine the smell of an adult rat.  

I hovered my Hammer of Good two to three inches above Evil's hysterical head, made one upward swing, for practice, took a deep breath, and then I closed my eyes. I repeated that trajectory in my head, and then brought the Hammer down in one thunderous wallop. 


The air was still, and everything was silent save for my heart beating in my throat along with that troubled worrying in my head. That was deafening for good reason. Did I miss? I have good aim, usually, but I smited Evil on the head, hopefully, with my eyes closed. So there's a considerable chance that my Hammer of Good fucked up, my aim might have gone to hell, and I might need to hammer Evil on the head one more time for good measure. 

I opened my eyes. The Glueboard, to my mounting anxiety, was now flipped over, and all I could see was four inches of Evil's leathery tail sticking out from below. It wasn't moving. I let go of The Hammer, carefully, and I stood up with expectation. I might have done it. I might have perished Evil. I might have triumphed, and Edmund Burke will be so proud. My heart resumed its rightful place in my chest, and I noticed I'm breathing easier now. I have calmed down. And with this resurgence of confidence in this immaculate accomplishment, I tapped the Glue Board with my left foot, and then it twitched. 

The Glue Board shivered with the living Evil trapped below it. And it shuddered again. Evil lived, oh Lord, Evil survived my smiting, and it mocked my courage with this display of sheer protest. Indignation coursed through my veins as I decided to... No, I was too exasperated to think straight (not to mention too gay), so I stomped on the Glue Board, twice, with every fiber of irritation in my person. And then it was still. 

I tapped the Glue Board one more time, and it was lifeless. I left it alone for a minute, and it remained utterly still. So I took a garbage bag and heaved The Glue Board into it. A slight pool of blood marked my triumph. And, for what it's worth, I could have bled that pool myself, for I have never killed anything larger than Pestilence, which is a cockroach, prior to perishing Evil today. 


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