Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours | Tags: 19 Kids and Counting, condoms, Duggers, overpopulation, reality television
Sometimes, as a writer, even an opinionated asshole writer, you have to practice a certain amount of self-censorship. Take this post, for example. Its original name was “19 Abortions and Counting”…but that was, admittedly, a little harsh. So I practiced some sensible self-censorship and changed the title. Mainly because the TV reality show I’m referring to (“19 Kids and Counting”) deals with the cutesy-pie named Dugger family, who apparently refuses to stop breeding. But it’s not really the Lil’ Dugglings that are at fault. So I thought equating the name of the show with abortion might not be in the best taste. Equating them with a 20-pack of Trojans seemed much more…well…tasteful.
The thing that really jerks my johnson about this show is that its very existence seems to say, “Hey, folks! Having 19 kids is not only socially responsible, but it’s kinda cute, too!” These people have been turned into celebutantes [my word for the modern American aristocracy of celebrity wherein you can become celebrated and famous (or infamous) simply by becoming well-known, regardless of the innate "right" or "wrong" nature of the reason(s) for becoming well-known] simply because they have decided to routinely squirt Dugglings out into the world.
From one perspective, it seems a little scary. Without much effort, I could write a screenplay for a horror movie with this same basic plot. By replacing cute little Mormonesque kids who all have names that begin with the letter “J” (my favorite Duggling name is Jedidiah) with midget werewolves, I might just have the next summer blockbuster.
From another perspective, the Dugglings are JUST DARLING. The people that share this particular outlook are just as horrifying to me as the thought of a family of cannibals raising a pack of midget werewolves. I’m just really honestly confused at how having 19 kids is heroic or admirable…or even INTERESTING.
You wanna do something heroic? Send Mr. Dugger a box of condoms.
Damn, man! Stay away from your poor wife for awhile!
Masturbate. Take up macrame. Play a fucking video game. Take a cold shower. SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Just don’t make it 20. Please.
What better way to welcome myself back to XSEX than a hate-and-lust filled rant starring everyone’s favorite middle school teacher, Debra LaFave?
Like most red-blooded American males, I followed the original story of Debra LeFave with a certain amount of fascination. And lust. Act self-righteous and indignant all you want. At least I’m honest. According to the media, many people apparently didn’t see her actions as criminal in the slightest. We’re talking about a 23-year old English teacher at a Florida Middle School who was arrested for having sex (oral and missionary) with a 14-year old male student. But because LaFave was–to be ubercrass–a redd hott high-slung yung thang, and her ‘victim’ was a male…well, you get the idea, here. There was a lot of high five-ing in a lot of locker rooms.
And as you may have guessed from my referring to the kid as a ‘victim’ (as opposed to a [72-point Bold font] V I C T I M ! [insert sobbing here]), I find it a little hard to see a kid who is bragging to his friends about banging the hot young teacher as a victim. So is there some sort of double standard? As much as it pains me to admit it, I guess in some ways a double standard does and will continue to exist. A teacher (male or female) that spends a lot of time building up a young person’s trust, only to seduce them with wine and Tylenol PM…that’s a little different. Isn’t it?
Even so, as I listen to Debra LaFave’s interview on Dateline on ID (Investigative Discovery), I can’t help but think about how incredibly hot she is. She’s not a goddess. Thee’s nothing unearthly or supernatural about her beauty. But she IS a sultry sex kitten just begging for some after school attention from my throbbing…errr…uhm…sorry.
My point is: come on! I don’t know what YOU were like when YOU were 14. But I would have gladly fucked a particularly sultry-looking watermelon. LaFave would be a fantasy come-to-life. Her sticky red lips and beautiful blue eyes are making me itchy. I can only imagine what they would have done to my 14-year old self. But what is really getting me even more than wondering if she’s wearing panties is how she’s telling the Dateline interviewer about how her father didn’t give her enough attention as a child. Sniff. I’m about to start crying. Or masturbating. Or both.
Just shut up and suck.
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours, SEX | Tags: bad tattoos, goth girls, jennifer love-hewitt, kat von d, maggotty roadkill, masturbation, sex in public places, sexy tattoo, tattoos, tattoos on girls, walmart
The short answer: YES. The long answer is a sad story involving check-out line literature, Wal-Mart bathroom masturbation, Right Said Fred (“I’m too sexy for my [insert item]“), Kat Von D, wikipedia, Vicodin and lots of shame. Buckets of shame, in fact. If you don’t have a lot of time, but you need a little more than a three-letter affirmative, I’ve provided a brief medium that may help get you by this question of universe-defining importance: Tattoos are sexy on some people, in some situations. Like a maggot-riddled three-day dead skunk laying on the otherwise perfectly naked and nubile body of Jennifer Love-Hewitt, there are situations that make sexy sick. To most people. Yes, I’m aware that there’s probably a whole “community” of freaks out there who find worm-infested road kill the perfect aphrodisiac for a night of passion with name-your-obsession. But speaking just for myself, there are some people who can get away with the shittiest-looking tramp stamp and others who would look much better with a whole other BODY tattooed over their original equipment.
A sad but unfortunately true story: Hating Wal-Mart as I do, I live in a small town where the necessities of modern living require the occassional stop for supplies. I figured if we went at 1 AM the place would be mostly empty. Bad assumption on my part. Every meth-addled freak in the county apparently decided to stock up on drain cleaner, frozen pizzas, tampons, and dandruff shampoo. And since everyone (myself included) also needs cigarettes–and Wal-Mart helpfully provides only one possible line for making tobacco-related purchases–we’re all in the SAME FUCKING LINE. This line also happens to be a “20 Items Or Less Please” line. But this apparently doesn’t apply to the bitch in front of me–or the jackass in front of her–since both of them have carts piled high with D-cell batteries (for vibrators), AA-cell batteries (for remote controls), the frozen pizzas, tampons and other things mentioned above, plus every other item people can’t do without at 1 in the morning in north Alabama. To make matters worse, the two 20-item rule ignoring assholes are actually talking (conspiring, really) about how one of the half-dozen or so DVD’s from Wal-Mart’s $5 cheap movie bin is really a $20 new release with a $5 label applied fraudulently. Of course, I hate Wal-Mart, so even though I hate these two criminal masterminds too, I’m not gonna spoil their sins.
So my friend and I, bored, start thinking up ridiculous sexual-themed dares we know neither one of us are going to do. I tell him I’ll give him $20 if he gets up on the counter, drops his shorts, and whips up a batch. The two criminal masterminds overhear us. They are horrified that one of us might publicly masturbate in the 20-or-fewer line at Wal-Mart. The woman tells my friend he’s a “evil monster.” This makes me laugh for a second, but my friend is overcome by righteous indignation. I’m the evil monster, but you two are talking about ways to screw this fine commercial establishment out of a copy of Avatar?
“You’ve got WAY more than 20 items, lady!” some guy grumbles behind me, and that settles things.
So our dares continue: wrap a $20 around my dick and reach into my pants to pay the cashier; refill one of the bottles of Gatorade we’ve been swilling in the line with pee; ask the cashier to demonstrate a “Dirty Sanchez” (we can’t remember if this is the real name, or if it even IS real, or even WHAT it is, and the cashier looks about 75). My friend suggests we could pretend to make out, which is followed by a minute of uncomfortable silence followed by another minute of snickering, then five minutes during which both of us call each other a “gaywad”. This caused him to erupt into even more maniacal laughter, since he is in fact gay. Neither of us knew what a “wad” represented in this particular cut-down.
Maybe two people have checked out. There are 15 people or so still in front of us, and at least ten people behind us, having variations of the “conversation” my friend and I are having, or plotting to steal things.
Then I get dared to go to the Wal-Mart restroom (directly across from the tobacco aisle, in case any of us addicts need to run shoot up after making our purchases; FYI: the Wal-Mart bathrooms also feature convenient baby diaper changing stations) and jack off, writing “Wal Mart Blows!” in my own spunk on the mirror. I consider this.
“Wal-Mart doesn’t sell porn,” I reason. “I can’t make a dry-run. Dude, I’m not 15 anymore. I need some kind of inspiration.”
My friend waves his hand across the row of check-out literature. To many people in our society, these magazines really ARE about the closest thing to literature that exists in their own personal universe. Yeah, I’m being a bit of a classist snob here. Which is kind of funny if you consider that the reason I’m perusing this reading material is to find some suitable photos to masturbate to in a public restroom. Okay, that’s not too funny now that I think about it. But we’re talking about shit like People, US, National Enquirer, Cosmopolitan, etc. The best choice is, of course, Cosmo, but that thing is like 500 pages and I don’t think I can get it unnoticed into the bathroom. Perhaps I can thin it down some by removing all the scratch-n-sniff perfume ads…maybe tear out all of those “surveys” (like “Is your Mister Right Right For You?”, “Is Romance A Part of Your Relationship?” and “10 Steps to put the ‘SEXY’ back into your Love Life”). No. That will draw unwanted attention, what with all the ripping and tearing and suchnot. I pick up a copy of a “summer swimsuit edition” of something. Maybe it’s People. Ahhh. Celebrities in bikinis…
Lady GaGa? Lady Gag. Britney Spears–apparently recovering from her recent bout with insanity–basks in the bronzing rays of some Mediterranean beach where guys with Uzi’s shoot you if you’re not wearing a speedo. She looks pissed. Page after page of starlet and celebutantes. One-pieces, two-pieces, bikinis, sarongs, speedos, strap-on’s (okay not really), etc. etc. Maybe I’ll just tear this one out and…OMG! Is that…Kat von D?? The tattoo lady from TLC’s ”reality” hit?
Normally, I think a tattoo or three on a woman is a good thing. Just the right amount of spice to set off the cinnamon-n-sugar or whatever girls are supposed to be made of. But Kat’s pale skin is covered in these things. They make her look even paler. And don’t get me wrong: I like me a nice goth girl, especially on full moons. In fact, I once described my ideal girl as “beautiful but frail; wan and slightly sickly, perhaps suffering from consumption and addicted to laudanum, living in a drafty cold-water flat in Dickensian London…someone Edgar A. Poe would write poems about”. Sad-to-say, I wasn’t joking. So it wasn’t the paleness of Kat’s flesh that turned me off. I think it was all those damn tattoos. Oh, and the fact that she’s SUCH a bitch. Yeah, that definately played a part.
Wal-Mart’s bathroom was safe from my ribald jackery.
But when I got home I turned on the radio and looked up Kat von D on wikipedia. About the time I got to the details of her estrangement and subsequent divorce from a fellow tattooist, Right Said Fred came on, polluting the airwaves, my RV and my personal headspace with their smash hit “I’m Too Sexy”. Any follow-up masturbatory plans were dashed on the altar of 1990′s English gay anthems. Now, I like a good English gay anthem as well as the next straight guy, but Right Said Fred–like the aforementioned maggot-infested skunk–is like unto a bad tattoo.
I looked up Jennifer Love-Hewitt, pleasured myself with her wikipedia entry, and went to bed.
Filed under: Let's Play Dress-up! | Tags: descent from xanadu, harold robbins, hospital sex, hospital stays, nurse fantasy, sexy nurses, Vicodin
…which is, honestly, a bit misleading as a title. Because I got none. In 12 long days of hospitalization, I received no erotic sponge baths or chronic priapism treatment (supposedly a nurse-provided hand-job to relieve the “intense pain” of a chronic erect penis…if you believe the novel “Descent from Xanadu” by Harold Robbins that is) from scantily-clad (or otherwise) nurses.
But it wasn’t from lack of trying. Now, I’m not going to try and convince you that I was at my sexiest during these 12 days. I mean, with an IV and miscellaneous wires and other medical technology constantly connected to my svelte frame, it was hard to do any grooming. So I’m sure my hospital breath (made all the more potent from the nasty food they force on invalids), combined with my scraggly appearance and the doubtful fashion sense of the partially-ripped hospital johnny they forced me to wear, made me pretty damn irresistible…but obviously SOMETHING was up, as I was NOT on my game. How can they resist a guy like me? I wondered, calling for another complimentary Vicodin.
The weird thing was, ALL of my nurses during those 12 days were incredibly hot, with one exception. Think about how rare that must be: we’re talking 12 days–thats 24 12-hour shifts. And during all that time and all those nurses, ALL but ONE of them was fodder for my sick-bed sex fantasies! How can this be, you ask?
Well, quite probably you think that my standards are either always or were temporarily lowered, due to sickness. Wrong on both counts, my friends. I have incredibly high standards for erotic nurse fantasies. During this period there were no male nurses. There were no short, dumpy perpetually pissed-off divorced nurses whose jobs had become so tedious and unrewarding that they actually looked forward to going home to a gaggle of snot-nosed rug monsters at the end of 12 hours of wiping asses, cleaning pus from wounds, and handing out the aforementioned complimentary Vicodin. There were no pregnant nurses, either–to my knowledge. MY nurses were young, tan, well-built and well-proportioned. Actually, the sexiest nurse wasn’t a nurse at all but the girl who came in once-a-day to empty the garbage cans and clean the bathroom. The medical maid, or whatever you call them. She was 23, blonde, and beautiful.
I chatted them up. They were (for the most part) kind. I offered to share my Vicodin with several, but they declined. Sigh. No party girls. Nice to look at, but I wasn’t going to be able to start my own little throw-down while hooked-up to all this medical technology.
Oh, I said “all but one”, didn’t I? Don’t get me wrong. The “one” I refer to was an attractive cougar. But she was a little slow with my 3 A.M. Vicodin (hey, I stayed UP for those!), and when she DID arrive she was a little bitchy. So you can’t win em all over to the Dark Side, I guess. Still, all-in-all, I’d have to say my hospital stay was visually stimulating but physically depressing. I’ll blame it on the johnny. It didn’t do much for my figure.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Anotha Sucka Sucks Down Monogamy
Guys…love is DEAD. It’s a myth your mommy told you, along with Santa Claus and the fucking Easter Bunny. Don’t believe the hype! Love is a chemical reaction that occurs in your brain and between your legs. Nothing more. And now, one more of my friends has bought the bullshit, hook, line, and sinker.
Anotha sucka is born.
Now he too has disappeared from our social circle of enlightened (read: free) men and women. He is already talking about her being “the one” as if the truth weren’t staring him in the face every time he looked in a mirror. Come on, man! Pull yourself together! Your divorce left you angry, bitter and lonely. Now the first thing that comes along, and a few weeks later you are “in love”?? COME ON. FIGHT THE POWER!
Sigh. So now, whenever we call? “Oh, uhm, well Suzie wants to go shopping for tampons and I’m going along to offer my support. Maybe next time.” And again and again, ad naseum ad infinitum.
Another one sucked down by the lie of love.
Filed under: I'll Show You Mine | Tags: bisexuality, breaking up with your lesbian girlfriend, i like dick, lesbian friends, monogamy, pussy versus dick
It’s time for dick. I KNOW it’s time for dick, because my girlfriend is starting to aggravate me, and this happens every few months, which is why I can’t keep a steady relationship for longer than my sexual moods last. Supposedly, I’m a bisexual. My friend Greg says I’m just greedy, but as he’s not getting much play from either end of the spectrum, what the fuck does HE know, am I right? Even if I AM just greedy…what of it? My lesbian friends try (once a year or so) to convince me that I need to come out of the closet and quit playing with boys, period. Well, that’s not going to happen. Why? Because I LIKE dick. Duh. Which is how I know I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool lezz-bo. But I also happen to like pussy. They are different. I get in the mood for one, and then I start hankerin’ for the other.
For a few months now, I’ve been a good little girl. I’ve maintained a monogamous relationship with one woman. But we’re starting to get on each other’s nerves…and just yesterday I caught myself looking wistfully at the tight jeans of a stockboy at Wal-Mart. There’s just something about those stockboys, makes me feel all warm and gushy inside.
Now, all this long while I’ve not thought about a good stiff dick even once. Well, okay, that’s a lie. But thinking about it and having one stuck up in you is two very different things, I can assure you. I have been a good girl. I promise. But me and my girl are starting to take each other for granted…which is always what happens in my relationships. Plus, I don’t fantasize about her like I did in the beginning. For the first couple months we took a steamy shower every day…and it was bliss. We’d soap each other up and slide around on the tiles, making out under the spray until the water turned cold, then we’d tumble out onto the bedroom shag and lick each other dry. Yummy.
But now it’s like: “I’m gonna go take a shower.” / “Ok.” / “Uhm…you wanna join me?” / “Oh. Uhm, I don’t know. You go ahead. I’m gonna finish the TV Guide crossword.”
We still have sex…but it’s starting to feel like a chore instead of a sweaty, throbbing adventure in vaginaland.
So it’s time for dick. I’m dreading the conversation, even though I was very upfront with my girlfriend about my sexuality. But she’s one of those girls that thinks my bisexuality is bullshit. She thinks I’m still afraid to come out of the closet, that I’m afraid to admit to my friends and family that I’m a muff-diver for realsies. Which is just totally batshit, but try telling HER that! The bottom line is, it’s time for dick. In six or eight months, I will wake up one morning, look across the bed at the dick, and he’ll fart in his sleep, or reach down and scratch his nuts, and I’ll get this same sort of feeling again. But then it will be: “I really need some pussy.” Sigh.
What a life.
Filed under: Deviant | Tags: gross stuff, modern perversity online, perversions online, pus videos, two girls one cup, weird porn
By GP & 3J
PART 1: The Challenge: “It’s ON, bitch!”
LUST. Say it. Go on…nobody will hear you. La-La-L-U-S-T…lluuusssst…Even the name sounds naughty. (And nice.) It makes your mouth water, makes you drool. Makes you hard (or wet or both). And you can apply it to so MANY wonderful lusty things: a gram of really good, flaky coke (the kind that’s real yellow)…a set of golf clubs…a beautiful tall blonde…a pair of Bruno Magli shoes…so what happened to lust? It used to be about something sexy. But–more and more often–it’s about something sick. A flood of “alternative sexuality” threatens to drown the sexy in sewage–literally, in some cases. Take the popularity of “Two Girls, One Cup”. (Don’t pretend you’ve never heard of it). Youtube may eschew your standard, garden-variety porn, but if you don’t need to see skin you can find examples of almost any kind of weirdness imaginable. Scrape a little deeper below the surface of the Web and the porn begins to change from skin and sin to something darker. Youtube’s rather mild (though completely disgusting) pus videos give way to castration, videotaped suicides…and worse. And the comments are sometimes more disturbing than the main event. They reveal–with all the anonymity of email servers–a fascination with blood, bodily fluids and brutality that is as old as sin itself.
It’s a sick, sad world we live in. As a couple ‘liberal’ Gen-X’ers, we’re SUPPOSED to feel all warm and fuzzy inside about our fellow human beings, no matter how sick and sad our fellow humans are in the privacy of their bedrooms. This was pretty easy to do for a long time. After all, 3Jane is (she claims) a bisexual [NOTE/G.P.: Which to me is pretty much the same as saying you are the Easter Bunny; my personal belief is that you are either straight or gay. Or greedy.] [NOTE/3Jane: Fuck you.], and though I myself am straight, I’ve many close friends and relatives who pitch for the other team, and this has never bothered me or made me feel in any way threatened. Both of us share the opinion that being gay shouldn’t preclude you from being a fully-functional member of society, or sharing in the rights and responsibilities of said society. Basically, we don’t CARE who you love. From this point, Jane and I begin to differ somewhat in our beliefs. I still believe in monogamy, despite my own failures to maintain it from time-to-time. Jane believes that you can have a functional, healthy relationship with two or more different partners at the same time. Personally, I have seen this type of thing kill more than one otherwise strong relationship, and I tend to believe that “open marriages” become closed chapters rather quickly. Be that as it may (or may not), both Jane and I are fairly liberal about sex in general. So long as you and your significant other (or plaything) are both over 18 and there is no violence involved (unless of course it’s of a mutually-desireable nature), have at it. There has rarely been a more unexciting subject for me than what someone else does in the privacy of his or her boudoir. Unless I have an invitation.
Of course–as we’ve previously noted–this is a sick, sad world we live in, ladies and gentlemen. There is no limit to the perversity of the human mind. Just meander through the Internet for an hour, and you can find some very dark and disturbing perversity. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to find this stuff, either. For the lazy, there are webstes like Craigslist, Youtube, Ebaum’s World, That’s Phucked, and Portal of Evil.
So what happened to eating pussy? Sucking dick? Big tits and cocks and juicy, hot love? Have we traded in “sexy” lust for “sick lust”? Does being all-inclusive mean including those who get off watching videos of some guy getting the pus drained from an abcess on his ass? COME ON! “Sexy” is increasingly being hidden underneath a nasty layer of mung and foulness. Do we have to be THIS accepting of what turns each other on, that somehow it’s “okay” if you get your rocks off watching some fat guy sit on an empty mayonnaise jar and then stick a screwdriver up his pee-hole?
Jane and I have spent the last two hours trying to “out-gross” each other, like a couple of giggling 10-year old boys reading Garbage Pail Kids cards to each other…or filling out Mad Libs with words like “ass maggot”, “douche”, and “titty eater”. We’re texting each other: “OMG!! Go to Youtube and type in ‘ass pus suck’ “. We’ve watched two Asian women drink from a large cup they’ve defecated and vomited into; an off-duty Australian RN remove bot fly larvae from the back of her boyfriend; a naked woman fart and queef [NOTE: for the uninformed, a 'queef' is basically a pussy fart] into a large chocolate cake, blowing frosting into the air and coating her naughty girl parts in Duncan Hines Double Fudge Deluxe; a ‘Doctors Without Borders’ doctor in rural India drain two liters of yellow-green pus from a young man’s back; and–finally–a woman dressed as a nun, jabbering in German, chases a man dressed as a priest (but inexplicably naked below the waist) down, sticks a couple fingers up his ass, pulls out a turd, then smears the “dookie” (as she calls it)across her face and eats what’s left. Jane and I are laughing so hard we’re crying [NOTE/3J: I was mostly trying not to throw up by this point], and this was the EASY stuff to find.
So we decide to go on a treasure hunt, of sorts: what is the grossest, most perverse stuff on the Internet?
Filed under: Psychopathia Sexualis, SEX | Tags: Disney World, Disney World sex fantasies, following people, lonely tourists, stalkers, theme parks, tourists, video taping strangers
I’ve just returned from Florida. It was a wonderful and much-needed time for relaxing, being with my loving, supportive family, introspection…okay, fine. I was stalking her.
I don’t know WHY I thought that following a beautiful young woman through a theme park was going to turn out positively for anyone involved, but apparently I must have…I mean, why else would I have done it, right? I’ll admit that it is not natural and certainly not acceptable for a 40-year old man to follow an incredibly attractive, vivacious, and seemingly intelligent, cultured, and witty young lady (especially one with gorgeous waves of black hair, cafe-au lait skin, full red lips and black Wayfarers that made her look like a European supermodel…a young woman speaking Portugeuse with a raspy, melodic voice that the weirdo-in-question [me] first glimpsed while riding “Splash Mountain”–alone, I might add) through that fantasyland of good, clean American fun. We are talking about Disney World: America’s premier family-friendly vacation wonderland, packed to the gills with tourists for the Mother’s Day weekend. In fact, I was there ON Mother’s Day, WITH my mother (and father), who raised me not to do things like this. Or, at the very least, not to talk about them. All of which adds greatly to my shame, I assure you.
For–doubt me as you might–I am not a person who makes stalking foreign visitors to Central Florida theme parks a regular part of my life. In fact, I’ve never done anything like this before.
It’s always seemed a little sad to me, these wandering hordes of tourists at theme parks. As the introverted son of a raging extrovert (and a walking repository of 67 years of Trivial Pursuit answers and esoterica gleaned from the History Channel and Reader’s Digest), I’ve had to put up with my dad engaging strangers in small talk pretty much all of my life. Now that he’s retired, he’s just gotten worse. He’ll chat up the bag boy in the grocery store (treating him to the history of the paper bag), the bitchy woman in the DMV (who smacks her gum and glares at him with her dead weasel eyes but never interrupts his diatribe on the failure of the American infrastructure), or a family from Indiana in front of us in the line for “Space Mountain”. Weird as this might be, I used to find it terribly depressing–even as a very young child–to get into these kinds of conversations with people while waiting in line. I remember once–waiting in line for an hour to ride “Pirates of the Caribbean”–my dad and mom both were chatting up a young couple with kids about the same age as my brother and I. They got so friendly with this family of strangers that we all ended up not only riding in the same boat through “Pirates”, but walking en masse to “The Country Bear Jamboree” and sitting together through that horrid spectacle as well. I believe we saw them again, an hour or so later, at the aptly-named (and horribly saccharine) “It’s a Small World”, and once I came out of the dark with that satanic song tra-la-laing around in my head, I was almost in tears. After that, my dad shook hands with the other dad, my mom made some kind of womanspeak with the other mom, and we went our seperate ways. I remember having this crushing feeling of depression and loss, though I’m not sure I ever even said much to the kids. It was the knowledge that I was never going to see them again.
Yeah, well, wipe your eyes. I’m confident that this sad tale has made you pretty sure that I’m EXACTLY the sort of person that stalks pretty South American tourists through the well-manicured paths of Disney World. Maybe you’re right. Whatever the case, I was still lucid enough to realize that the likelihood of me getting it on with this woman was somewhat less than zero.
But, let me tell you, she had stung me GOOD and DEEP. I felt like a 14-year old again: all sweaty and tongue-tied. The thing was, she wasn’t a supermodel (despite the Wayfarers and little white summer dress). She was incredibly beautiful in that way that makes us Americans feel dowdy and ham-fisted by comparison. Her words were like musical laughter, like lyrics in a language you can’t speak…but, somehow, you can understand the nature of the song perfectly. Her skin was flawless and golden, and i knew–knew absolutely–that if I touched her, she’d be more than just warm, she’d be feverish. She took off her sunglasses to dry them after we got splashed on the ride, and for just an instant we made eye contact. She had those big brown eyes that are so dark you can’t really see the irises, and for the first time in my life I knew what all those poets I used to think were overly-romantic and silly meant when they spoke of “drowning” in someone’s eyes. I felt a moment of vertigo, and then she smiled. Maybe some little kid was behind me, waving at her, maybe it was for me. I’ll never know, I guess. Dimly, I was aware of some hulking guy with her, but he was like a pesky mosquito. Whatever he said (or didn’t say) was just an inconsequential whine. Background noise. Muzak.
I knew what I was doing was insane. I got out my cell phone, turned on the video record feature.
And I followed her.
I guess I followed her AND her guy-friend (I’m still trying to decide if I prefer to think of him as her brother or a gay friend from college), technically–but, like I said, he was background. Dimly, I was aware that this was not only foolish and somewhat disturbing, but also likely to end badly. The guy-friend (gay brother, maybe) could turn around and catch me, red-handed. He would see the truth in my eyes and beat the snot out of me while she stood behind him, looking at me like I was communicable. Which, of course, I suppose I wanted to be.
Or maybe the Disney security goons would notice what was going on from their hidden underground control center deep below the smiley, sugar-coated streets of the Magic Kingdom. My family and I happened to be at Disney World one day when the late Princess Diana was visiting the park with the royal princes. We read later that the royal party was whisked around underground, emerging from secret entrances to move to the front of the line so they could enjoy “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” without paparazzi harrassment. Or having to talk to “the Commons”. Then again, maybe Princess Di found meeting strangers that she would likely never see again a little sad, too.
If the Disney goons noticed me stalking this beautiful woman (and her gay brother), they would surround me, carry me off to the Disney underworld, and I might never be seen again. (Or maybe I’d emerge several days later from one of those secret entrances, with a nice clean haircut, a Disney t-shirt and nametag on, wearing a pair of mouse ears, ready to smile at the tourists and direct them to “Please step off to the left, onto the moving platform”).
As it turned out, my mother called me on my cell phone.
When I got back to wear she and my father were waiting, he was deep in conversation with an older Canadian couple and my mother said she had a headache and wanted to leave.
P.S. I know what I did was wrong. I guess. Sorta. Or at least weird. And I know that I will never see that beautiful young woman again. But that’s okay. I’ve got the video.
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: bisexuality, chris hanson, teen girls, Teen Sex Addicts
3Jane here, hiya.
So I’m reading Greg’s last post and I’m absolutely amazed at what he doesn’t say. I’m assuming because–as I mentioned the other day–our menfolk have become little whiny scaredy-cats, he just won’t say what he means. So I will.
Every swingin dick over 29 that I know wants to bang a hott young thang. Why do you think Chris Hanson’s “To Catch A Predator” series keeps getting plenty of takers? Now, I’m not equating the guys on Hanson’s sexploitation series with your average swingin dick. Obviously the guys that Hanson gets to play his reindeer games aren’t just playing out a Hanna Montana fantasy in their heads. They take it to the next level. Now, the reason I can’t stand this series is simple: these guys AREN’T being arrested for committing any REAL crime. The girls they engage in cybersex with are adults who PRETEND to be teen girls. Now, I’m not saying it isn’t creepy that these dudes show up at Hanson’s sting ready to party with who they THINK is a teen girl (or boy). But they are chasing an illusion. We’ve gotten to the point in this country where we’re arresting people for showing up at a HOUSE?? Come on! I mean, as Greg pointed out in his post, quite a large percentage of people online aren’t who they seem. I mean, take me for example. You prolly think I’m a loud mouthed fat chick who is pissed because I can’t get a date. Well, you’d be wrong. I’m a hott, 30 year old who’s pissed because she’s 30. If we start persecuting people for TYPING…well, maybe its time I become a revolutionary or something.
Let’s face it, folks…guys ALL want to bang hott teen girls. They’re mad because they didn’t do this in high school when they were practically SWIMMING in teen poon. And many of these guys are having a mid-life crisis. Why do you think you see these balding 45-year old tax attorneys with two kids and a mortgage driving around in a Trans Am blasting White Snake and trying to pick up girls on the high school volley ball team..? Oh, wait…that sounds like my dad.
But as a confirmed bi-sexsual, I can tell ya, people: giggling teen girls aren’t all that. For the very reasons Greg pointed out in his post. I’ve shagged a few in my day, and, believe me, I’d rather have a 25-year old dental hygiene tech ANY DAY. After all, teen girls aren’t in their prime, as his post suggests. Supposedly that comes later for us chicks. I dunno about that, but I can honestly say, I’d rather leave the teens to their algebra tests, dermatologist appointments, and BFF-texting.
Filed under: Let's Play Dress-up! | Tags: Aztec priests, cyberpunk, cybersex, meat puppets, sex workers, skinwalker, smoking meth, Teen Sex Addicts, teenage girls, trailer park girls, transgender, wearing skin, William Gibson
Okay, so I don’t really want to be a giggling teenage girl. At least, not for any meaningful amount of time. But imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when science might let us “try on” different bodies. Is it so hard to believe? Making spare parts to order is still in its infancy, but it IS possible. And we already try on different personas for recreational (even therapeutic) reasons. Millions of people waste (or invest, depending on your point-of-view) much of their real life pretending to be someone else, online. Probably 75% of the “teenage girls” in chat rooms are bored, middle-aged guys. And there are even virtual spaces–like Second Life–where you can interact with other people doing the same exact thing. Who knows? You might even meet your soul mate, fall in love, and live happily ever after. Blah blah blah. Of course, creating an online avatar is a LOOOOOONNNNGGGG way from slipping on somebody else’s body or controlling another human being like a puppet. Plus, even if you could do this, there would be all kinds of legal and ethical arguments. I mean, what if you killed someone or robbed a bank while using another person’s body? I suppose the way to go would be to make up a body using your own genetic material as raw materials. In the wild, weird world of science fiction, both of these examples are well-used ideas. Cyberpunk demigod William Gibson envisioned a dystopian future where men and women rented out their flesh while their minds wandered through a fantasyland of simulated stimuli (Simstim for short). This sort of prostitution–where your body became a “meat puppet” for the sexual entertainment of others–was the background Gibson invented for his most sensual (and strong) female character: Molly Millions (aka Sally Shears). [If you want to get an idea of what this compelling character looked like (at least in my mind's eye), think of Daryl Hannah's Pris in the seminal cyberpunk film Blade Runner.]
So if you COULD…would you? Just to see what it’s like. Nobody’s saying you have to have sex using your temporary flesh playpen–though I’m sure 99.997% of sexual tourists renting another person’s body would be doing so for this specific reason. But it might be fun just to check things out from a different perspective. It’s a question I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion.
The Internet–which is, as everyone knows, mostly porn anyway–is also the home to the world’s greatest treasure trove of freaky-deakyness. A little searching brings up a medical clearinghouse of information on gender reassignment surgery. Now, that’s obviously taking things a bit too far for the casual tourist. I mean, that’s one of those things that can’t exactly be undone. But it is fascinating. So far, male to female reassignment has been the most aesthetically successful. Apparently it’s easier to cut things off than to make up new things using flesh as a kind of play dough. After viewing some examples of the results I was pretty amazed. But not amazed enough to pay tens of thousands of dollars to a surgeon to bobbitt my hobbit, so-to-speak. After all, I don’t want to be a woman. But I’m secure enough in my sexuality to not get all freaked out by thinking about it.
But if I could try on someone elses’s skin (preferrably not in the ancient Aztec manner, where priests would flay sacrificial victims and wear their skin around like a cloak), I’d want it to be either someone famous…or a giggling teenage girl.
As I write this post, using McDonald’s free wi-fi (since apparently Hugh’s Net technicians can’t provide even half-assed customer service), there is a table full of giggling teenage girls sitting across from me. Occasionally, one of them will stare at me, lean down and whisper conspiratorially to her friends, then all of them will break into paroxysms of giggles. Now, if this had happened to me as a teenager (which it did, quite frequently) I would have turned six shades of red. As a “responsible grown-up” (what a clever disguise), I like to try to embarass people who annoy me. It’s a game I rarely get to play with teen girls, because (as are almost all males aged 30-90) I’m invisible to them. I don’t exist (apparently), or maybe I don’t show up on their radar, I don’t really know what the deal is. So, grinning gleefully, I shout (it’s important to do this part as loudly as possible; and sure, people are gonna look at you kinda funny, and the management may ask you to leave. So what?): “Hey, girls!”
When they look up, I see gazelle-like wariness. No more giggles, girls? (“Like, oh my God, Meghan! I think that old man is, like, staring at us, or something. Is he, like, talking to us? Maybe he’s, like, one of those crazy homeless people who talk to themselves…oh MY God…”)
“Hey! Girls!” I yell in my reddest of redneck voices. “Ya’ll like Iron Maiden? Woo! IRON MAIDEN!! Man, that’s some good jams, right there! Ya’ll ever hear em do “Powerslave”? Now that there is rock! That’s rock and ROLL, the real deal, right there!” Then I air-guitar a few bars of a “Powerslave”/”The Trooper” medley for them. They are mortified. Too scared to move, too confused to remember how to giggle.
The manager, who I notice has both his ears pierced and is wearing what looks like large brass door knobs in them (this is probably not part of the official management dress code), is laughing hysterically, so I don’t have to worry about him calling the cops. I go back to typing on my laptop, feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.
So, I know what you may be thinking (well, besides “that guy is probably a danger to himself and/or others”): WHY would I want to be a giggling teenage girl–even for one minute?
Well, let me stress: it ain’t so I can text my BFF Dakota how much “like, my mom is SUCH a bitch, and you know Austin is maybe, like THE ONE I’d go all the way with, maybe, but I don’t know, because I think I really, really like Tyler, too, except that Mackenzie said SHE likes Tyler, and I’m not really, like, sure if she means MY Tyler–well, you know–or Jaden’s brother Tyler, who works at Baskin Robbins…yeah, the Tyler that we saw last weekend at Aeropostale, you are SUCH a ditz, my GOD…”
I mean, if you are going to try on the opposite sex like a nice pair of jeans, do you REALLY want to try on your mother or your second grade teacher? I figure the way to do it is pick a nice, healthy teenage girl, get in and out quick. No time for mood swings or cramps. Don’t wanna take any algebra test or see what a birth control pill tastes like. Maybe take a cruise around, see what it feels like to be that age again, to be at the height of your physical ripeness, with NO worries or responsibilities AT ALL…before the corruption of age, kids, a loveless marriage, maybe a few years on crystal meth, living in some trailer with a guy (not named Austin or Tyler or Jaden) who has shitty jailhouse tats (maybe “Nookie” or “Tool” across his knuckles) who occasionally passes out in the yard trying to find his keys (they’re in your truck, dipshit).
Ahhh. The springtime of youth.
