Abracafreakindabra by khemistry
August 24, 2013, 11:55 pm
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours

Ok Khem here. Greggie is taking care of his diabetes the old fashioned way: morphine. Not really he has bad bad neuropathy so I’m sick of having ta defend him from drug nazis. You’ll be the first one screaming when you get into an accident or have a chronic pain problem like he does.

But he would kill me (and will) when he reads I have said this as he doesn’t like folks knowing.
So far its been hard to get help.

But what I WANTED to discuss is how different drugs affect sex.
Does anyone know of some? I’d like to make a list before talking too much about it.
I took Dr. Morrison’s (Daytona State College when I lived up there) Human Sexuality classes and he sez there a chemical you can inject into the base of the penis for a night of REAL fun. Like superboner. Imagine this mixed with a shot of Jagermeister a line of coke and some molly. Okay have I just invented a heart attack chemical or the most pleasurable substance on earth? Or both?


What to say when something really IS ‘Gay’ by khemistry
December 8, 2012, 12:54 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Okay so I’ve seen the political infomercials or whatever they are properly to be called by Wanda Sykes-Hall (hope that’s right but I don’t have a pretentious-y hyphenated name so if it’s not eat me) and others about why saying something is “gay” is NOT COOL. Okay. I gotcha, sister. I like Wanda’s comedy, and in theory I agree with what she’s trying to say. But that’s really gay. I mean, come ON. That is gay Wanda and you KNOW IT IS.

The real deal is this: why is ANYBODY concerned with what I stick into my vagina or what my brother sticks his (probably microscopic) penis into? Gay, straight, Martian, horse fucker, or my friend Rajneesh who seriously jacked off into a can of Crisco. He now tells everyone it was performance art. Well, Raj, unless your name is Genesis P. Orridge you were not doing performance art you were masturbating into a (hopefully willing and appropriately-aged) can of Crisco. Which, I think we can all agree, is gay.

Which is my point. QUIT TAKING AWAY BITS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND SAYING “SORRY THIS IS NOW OWNED EXCLUSIVELY BY MEN WHO LOVE BUTTER” or WHATEVER. I LIKE saying GAY. I mean no harm by it. I like homosexuals, and I don’t mean in the same way that I say “I like black people”….in other words, just to appear a certain way when the truth is I only know four black people and two of them are assholes, the third is an ex and the fourth is my best girlfriend. Who is gay. And THAT is REALLY gay. Like, for realsies.

So get the corndog out cho ass and pull yer little dingus out of the crisco. Cause thats really just gay.

19 Condoms and Counting by khemistry

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.

Hot 4 Teacher: The Delicious Debra LaFave by khemistry
January 29, 2011, 12:51 pm
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours, SEX, Uncategorized

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.

ARE TATTOOS SEXY? by khemistry

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.

HOSPITAL SEX by Gregory Purvis

…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.

Anotha Sucka by Gregory Purvis
June 20, 2010, 7:40 am
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.