Friday, March 17, 2006

This late hour overwhelms me with a feeling of pure lust and need.

The need to pull someone's hair while they suck my cock.

The desire to bend over and have a girl take my ass.

The fucking urge to be used and to use.

So much energy wasted.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

I was just walking back to my office and was reminded of how the street I was on used to look. Up until a few years ago, this area was filled with porn shops, live nudes, and prostitutes. Now, only a store and one club remain, and the block has been cleaned up. In my years at school, however, it was paradise for a young kid from a small town. It offered plenty of places to get into trouble or to pick up a magazine or to stare at women in various states of undress.

There was one place, the Roman, that had massage parlors upstairs. Downstairs was a huge porn shop, acrid with the scent of pine cleaner that permeates every den of filth I have ever been in, with few exceptions.

If you walked down the hallway, and entered a gate, you could pay $5 for 5 tokens. These tokens allowed you into the room to see a curtain raise, revealing a girl in some state of undress. A thick, clear wall was between the two of you and you were allowed a telephone to speak on. On the wall was lube and paper towels. You really shouldn’t look down on the floor or on the walls.

As the metal curtain mechanically and slowly rose, you never knew what you were getting. Sometimes, you’d be unenthused. Other times, you may be titillated.

This time, however…

I obviously had too much to drink. I believe it was some type of vodka that I’d be ill advised to have ever tried and would shun today. But in those heady pre-legal days, any drink was good drink. One can’t be a snob when one grows up running through the woods clutching a warm six-pack of Old Milwaukee. That said, we were at some party that I can barely remember, on the roof of a restaurant, probably illegally, and drinks flowed, and at some point I just wanted to leave.

I walked the streets with a purpose in mind. I wanted to see someone naked and I knew that if I tried to do it in person, I would just be rude and uncouth. In my own eyes, anyways. I’ve always been a pervert, but I’m unwilling at times to think that anyone else would like to be a part of my reindeer games.

To the Roman, which was a long walk under what was then harrowing streets. Sober, I wouldn’t have even attempted this 2:15 AM run. But bolstered by the literal spirits of Russian potatoes, it seemed like a great idea.

The first few gates that opened in the booth offered nothing special. I was moderately worked up, and let’s face it, in your late teens, any nudity is great. It wasn’t until the last room, with a fresh batch of 5 tokens, that I was smitten.

She had curly red hair and pale, white skin. She was already nude by the time the curtain was up, as she probably had had plenty of customers. As I scanned her cube I noticed a phone, some cigarettes, discarded clothes in a pile, and one of those huge dildos that always seem to get made, but never bought.

Her eyes trailed me, and looking back now, look, I’m no looker. I just wanted to get many look words in that sentence, sorry, I’ve been reading way too much Tom Robbins. That said…

The point is, I was probably the only 19 year old she saw that night. So I’d like to convince myself that her words were genuine. I know now that they may not have been. But let’s, for the sake of fantasy, be nice. Maybe she enjoyed what she saw and wanted to see more. And for the first time in one of those booths, she did. I dropped my shorts and found myself instantly erect. And I realized that this was the first time that I had been nude in front of a member of the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why I was so excited.

The receiver was against my ear. And her words purred in my ears. “Let me see you stroke that cock for me.”

That was all I needed. A heady cocktail of liquor, young lust, and forbidden things all clouded my mind. I saw the head of her dildo disappear inside of her and my breath quickened. Token after token disappeared, and I could barely speak, other than to say, “This is my last one.”

“Then let me give you a show,” she laughed.

Her ass hit the glass hard and she spread herself open, her asshole glistening, winking at me. She looked over her shoulder as I exploded all over the glass. As the curtain closed, our eyes stayed locked. My pants came back to public decency.

I bolted out of the booth, down the steps, and into the streets, my mind racing, and the air growing cold with the start of autumn. It was the first time in my life, of many, that I felt my consciousness float above my body and at the same time, forward in time, in remind myself that this was something important to be remembered sometime later.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Are blogs the new masturbation? Or worse?

Should I have to know what’s in your head when you get off and do you care to know what’s in mine? In our world’s overwhelming desire to eradicate privacy, is this just another way to destroy what is alone and uniquely yours in your head? Or, better, is this the only way that some of us have to communicate?

This is what keeps me from writing all of the time.

I don’t know who is interested in hearing about my fantasies of lying on my stomach, cock in hand, tugging at myself while I have my tongue inside a girl, coming all over myself more from the taste of her than my own touch?

Is that interesting?

Or looking down on a gleaming, porcelain white ass, streaked pink with the stinging marks of my calloused hands. Sound enveloping the room, liquid and flesh smacking together in a stereo accompaniment.

I guess maybe it could be. Maybe I should just overcome my distaste for the internet and unload all of the evil in my head.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Like any red-blooded male, I download plenty of pornography. And most of it, to be fair, completely sucks. Because unlike any other red-blooded male, I work in an industry that demands creativity and rigorously reviews all movies, television, music, just let’s say media all for the artistic elements. Things have to stand out.

So I demand proper lighting. A story is not essential, but I want a flow of shot-to-shot. I want interesting camera angles. And I want something different. I could do well without ever seeing fake breasts or peroxide.

It’s kind of sad, in a way, because when you first see porn, it all seems so wonderful and amazing. I could have held onto a page of lingerie from a Sears catalogue for months. A ripped up single picture from Playboy could last almost a year. And now, it’s all so rote and boring. All filled with similar faces and what seems, in most mainstream porn, an almost relentless race toward anal sex and a facial cumshot, dogged by choking and slapping.

Look, I know, looking at these movies, I’m not looking for The Magnificent Ambersons. I’m looking for a prurient release or at the very least, inspiration. I mean, not many people watched Fellini with their dicks in their hands. I’m just saying.

The film I downloaded today had a most unfortunate title. I Banged My Husband in the Ass. Horrid. Just ridiculous. But hey, we’re not here to discuss words, we’re here to discuss sex. Hot sex. Sweaty sex. And this was the sex. Trust me.

The guy in the scene is really scrawny with tattoos, but that belies his girth. Seriously, it made me afraid for the girl a few times. That said, the girl wouldn’t be attractive to me if wasn’t for how hot this scene is. She’s curvy, which is nice, but she has too large plastic breasts and blonde dreadlocks. I guess she’s attractive enough.

What I enjoyed about this video was the fact that unlike most of the femdom type pornography that’s out there, this wasn’t one-sided or mean spirited. This was all about two people getting dirty and enjoying one another’s bodies. Which is what it should all be about.

You could actually see the lust in one another’s eyes in parts of this, as they kiss and she’s stroking his mammoth erection. Or when he’s thrusting his hips, his cock deep inside her throat. By the end, they are both sweaty, he’s just come, and is kneeling inside her thighs watching her rub her clit to climax.

My favorite parts? Well, best of all, a crazily composed shot through his thighs of her licking his asshole while stroking him, his head turned upward in abject excitement, and the camera moving behind them to see her slowly slide fingers in as he takes over playing with his shaft. Or him licking her while stroking himself. That was nice.

The lighting is poor. I haven’t even listened to the sound yet. But it does what all pornography should aspire to…make you feel lust, something I’ve found missing in porn as of late. This movie makes my ass hungry to be teased and fucked and prodded and played with. It makes me hunger for the taste of wet pussy. And it makes me wish that was me, stroking myself as a lover grasps my hips, slamming into me as I make a mess for her.

Monday, December 05, 2005

You ask me all the time why I can’t share with you in person what I can in prose.

I feel like if the words I had in my head came into the real world and escaped the pixels you read on the screen that it’d be too far, that there would be no going back, and frankly that scares me.

I’m not accustomed to telling people what I need. Or want.

How can I look you in the eyes and tell you how badly I want to lock eyes with you as you slide down my body? That I wonder about the scent of the insides of your thighs? What it’d be like to kiss your wrists, elbows, the backs of your knees? To stroke my hand along your cheek and feel my cock inside your mouth, poking and prodding out, your skin flush and red and hot?

What's on my mind, you ask.

So many things...sometimes, I confess, I can't keep my eyes away from stealing looks. At your forehead. At your brastrap. Just at you in general.

How does someone tell someone that? I’m of the firm believer that fantasy is above reality and I dare not ruin that for you.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Stories

Revelationary thought...

I dream of being other people, a lot, maybe like a bar fly, romanically drinking my life and art away in some Parisian cafe in the turn of the century or a run down bar in the bowery, cheap rotgut stinging my belly. I don't ever dream of being me, or someone normal. It's always a dream of the movies.

And I realized, our society is nearly tied up in 90 minutes to two hours. Always an ending in an hour to TV shows. And maybe that's why life seemed more simple at one point, because stories like The Odyssey took weeks and months to tell. No one reads books, which take forever and a day, and back then, you could only read during the day or by candle light.

You never see how hard it is in the stories of people affected with a traumatic illness in the movies. Everyone is always brave and strong and true.

No one ever gets tempted, and if they do, they are usually killed or able to reconcile.

Our morality and rules for ethics is shaped by culture and in effect, our attention spans for our lives have decreased while our need and ability to live longer increases.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Bored sameness

I yearn to talk to someone, to share something, anything.

The same web sites, the same movies, the same, the same, the same...it's all in my head and none of it interesting. I want some spark, I want something different, I want it to not be I and the same - sharing and learning, that's what i want. I feel insulated in an amber of sexlessness and plastic.

Anyone ever feel that way? If a blog falls in the forest, does anyone hear it?

Blogs were made for these

Life is, or at least it should be, a constant redefinition and search for answers.

I’ve gone the opposite route from Descartes. He questioned everything and then realized that he couldn’t question God and therefore, existence. His round of questioning led him to find something to believe in.

Instead, I sit here in a dark office with headphones on and the only thing I can be thankful is that I like the song that I’m listening to.

I’m overwhelmed at times – when one tries to be understanding to the world, all ones does is become the receptacle for the refuse. Or to put it in better parlance, I’m covered in shit.

Somedays, I add up the times that I get talked down to. Other times, I just sit here and try to will the world…stop it from spinning, but only where I sit, so I can be thrown into space and blow up like a giant balloon and pop, spinning and careening wildly through the ether until I disappear.

I feel like a kid at Christmas, but I don’t even count down to anything positive. I dream of a day when all the hard work pays off and when I can actually believe people when they talk to me and when I can believe in you again. Because really, I don’t believe in anything at all ever.

The other shoe will always drop. The good will always die young. But I’m getting old.