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Sunday, November 23, 2014

THEY DIED FUCKING

When I was a kid my parents knew a couple called George and Georgia. Both were made of that exotic mongrel mix you get in southeastern Europe, the land bridge going into Turkey and the Middle East. Mobs of marauders and rapists have been through there for centuries.


George was swarthy and handsome. He'd have looked right at home with a top-knot and Fu Manchu, shirtless and carrying a scimitar. Georgia wasn't magazine beautiful but had a rare blonde sensuality. Not easy for a woman with pale hair, pale skin and pale gray eyes to come off fiery but she did it with a kind of deeper sweet hunger.

Their real strength was others didn't exist for them. George was a typical man of his era, tall and masculine, didn't dance, a sublime undertone of confidence and power. Women went all girlish and soft near him.

The same way men doted on Georgia's sweetness, which seemed to be for the whole world but she was just being a good girl. When those two looked at one another, they burned everything else away. Married but no kids, which was strange for the time and she openly dismissed the idea as "Not for us."

I guess they were too busy fucking to be parents. I was like ten or something and at some big wedding or baptism in a church basement me and a few other kids saw George and Georgia steaming up their car windows out in the parking lot. I guess they couldn't wait to get home, just had to take a break from the drinking and socializing to lay on a good fuck. They seemed a lot younger than my parents or their other friends. Fucking will do that. Amazing they didn't get sick of one another the way couples usually do.

Anyway, my original point was about this thing Georgia would do. A couple times she dropped George off at a cafeteria my old man owned a piece of. George was a highly skilled carpenter. He usually did bowling alley lanes with an uncle of mine but since my old man had found him a cool hotrod Buick at a good price, George came round for a few days and built a new cafeteria counter.

I'd be sitting outside peeling potatoes in the alley way and see them pull in and she'd wipe his mouth and his mustache with her hand. Actually, more like fondle his face and mouth, this really slutty smile on her. I didn't recognize it as such then, being just some stupid kid, but I realized later on what her look meant.

I asked my old man about the mouth fondling and he was never a subtle guy. "She wipes her wet pussy first," he grunted then gave me a leer and winked but didn't explain further and I didn't ask since I had no clue what he was talking about.

George and Georgia looked so natural in his hopped-up Buick Skylark coupe. They were a pair of Balkan fuck freaks yet easily slipped into the beautiful American open road forever nihilism of that very romantic era. Now it's all about gas mileage and hard-on drugs and traffic tickets.

I'm talking about ancient ideas pushed so well by those old hotrods merging speed and love in a perfect way cuz they had a front bench seat, like a big sofa, so were pretty much made for George and Georgia. Not like cars nowadays with the straight jacket bucket seats you're strapped into and can't touch each other. Well, maybe hold hands.

Try giving a driver's seat blow job in your average commuter car today. The one doing the blowing will end up eviscerated by some lever or other plastic protuberance - and you'll both get a raft of tickets issued by some safety-obsessed paramilitary idiot cop.

The crazy thing is not long after George built the cafeteria counter they were both killed in a high speed crash. The police said it happened for no apparent reason on a straight away, during a warm sunny day. So I figure they must have died fucking, Georgia straddling George in the driver's seat, the windshield fogged up, her ass knocks the steering wheel sideways and the Buick bashes into the guard rail at 100 mph and goes cartwheeling down a steep rocky gorge to explode on impact - their huge A-Bomb mushroom cloud of burnin' hot love. Talk about going out in style...



Friday, November 14, 2014

PLEASE BRING A CHEMISE

An acquaintance of mine in Bangkok recently got the following message and thought I'd find it amusing. She works in the skin trade and ended up on the mailing list of what is a local "swingers collective."
I think I'll give up trying to write satire. The names have not been changed in order to protect the credulous...


If you come alone or with your partner please be here no later than 6pm; please bring a chemise or something similar to wear when not actively engaged. You do not have to, it is not required but most of the ladies like slipping something on even if it is waist or hip long when they take a break for a drink or snack, or go to the bathroom to freshen up.

pleas email us at bewithus@yahoo.com and all we ask for is a face picture so we know who is showing up at the door. this is not required either but is a good comfort factor for us.

I think the youngest is 30 and the oldest, bringing his GF too if I remember right, is 65 or 66 and I am 60 and I am a Master.

I hope it is not a problem that all the males are white.

When you get to the house we will give the ladies a quick tour, we have three bedrooms and three full baths w/three showers.

One bedroom has a king sized bed and one has a queen while the middle room has a double.

We have a range of toys and equipment, all well sanitized but pls bring your own if you wish something specific.

If you have special requirements, pls write them down so it can be circulated among the men attending so there are no awkward or embarrassing moments.

Please let me know if you d anal...you can tell me Saturday. We want to make sure the guys know who does so they do not try anything with those that do NOT.

Okay, we currently have several couples; 4-5 single men and 2-3 Single females.


We are in the Esmeralda apartments; 64-66 Soi Nagmduplee, Rama 4 Rd.
Apt 7C, tell the guards you are visiting RichardMcCormick.

Nagmduplee is Sathonr area; behind the big Q House Lumpini.

It can be accessed down Sathon Soi 1 or off of Rama 4. Soi 1 dead ends on nagmduplee , turn RIGHT, 25 ' entrance to Esmeralda on RIGHT we are in UPPER tower.

From Rama 4 you turn directly onto Nagmduplee. Stay straight, all cab drivers want to turn. When you pass the only 7-11 (scary I know) you are close. Stay straight. Pass the intersection (Soi 1 enters on your right) and again stay straight and 25' on right side

Walking distance from the 7-11 or the IBIS Hotel on Soi Nagmduplee.

Again - upper tower.

Anything else? Oh, no drugs, no drunks and no vulgar language. We will have drinks and snacks. We just folk to have fun and get what they want.

And please be aware we practice safe sex and keep to strict safe word limits and all encounters will be monitored to keep all safe and for no misunderstandings.

And if you wish a particular group activity such as GB, please let us know beforehand to again ensure there is no embarrassment.

 Roger?

Master Richard



Friday, October 24, 2014

ANGRY WRITERS OF THE APOCALYPSE

I got an email from some pretend college in Canada offering weekend courses in how to write fiction and get published.
"We're Ready When You Are."
They make it sound as if you're building a deck. 5 Easy Steps To Being A Nuisance!

The course will "Launch you toward the top tier in the highly competitive world of modern fiction." But it doesn't say where you'll land after being launched toward the top tier.

SIMPLE. STRAIGHT FORWARD. WRITE FICTION. GET PUBLISHED.

I love this IKEA style branding. It's 10 hours over 2 days of "a simple and easily understood assignment and peer-review based learning process."

PT Barnum and Ripley got rich off these rubes. Incredible they'll pay $350 each to be diapered and stroked by some loser in bad glasses and a plaid shirt.

But the really depressing part is the "Instructor."
Paid pretty much shit, a dumpy middle aged schmendrick must drag his sorry ass outa bed on a freezing Saturday morning in some obscure hick town called Parry Sound and go deal with the aspirations of a bunch of angry housewives and the one geeky guy who's got half a foot out the closet door and wants to start a fiction magazine but not pay anybody.

So here's the "instructor" - driving his shitty little leased car across the wind swept plains of some Canadian steppe, full of dread at the upcoming two days locked in a room with a load of big mouthed yentas who'll sit at the front and kibitz and openly compare him to some other asshole instructor and demand their money's worth.

While getting his drive-thru ten dollar coffee from the new Cognoscenti's outlet, he prays for a willowy little English lit major to show up and sit at the back of the class and shyly pull out a copy of his pointless novel, hoping he'll personally sign it. He'll tell her she has talent, she's not like the others. He checks his bald spot in the rearview mirror and wishes he had the money to buy Rogaine on a regular basis.

He curses himself yet again for being such a putz as to marry that fucking cow who ditched his ass after screwing some hockey player. He honks long and loud at nothing, mutters bitterly to himself. She's living downtown in HIS condo with their ingrate kid while he had to move to this whitebread buttfuck end of nowhere and beg for a job as an "Associate Instructor" at a former agricultural school after they took federal money to create an "arts based curriculum" for the hags who bought big boxes houses up here a hundred miles from town because they were too cheap and stupid to have cashed in on the red hot real estate market in the city and now he's making $175 bucks for 10 hours of HIS time to teach them how to get published.

He knows if he had any balls he'd drive to the city, find that other bitch, his so-called publisher, and beat her to death with a tire iron. His most recent novel, A Dog's Breath, won two "non-monetary" but noteworthy awards and he once again got zero attention because his grant-whore publisher couldn't give away free money, let alone sell a fucking book.

And forget having his bonehead students actually work on whatever garbage they type on their laptops, which are worth more than he makes in a month. He, a published author, will be harangued, harassed and hammer-locked into giving them The Secret to seeing their slop published - ie: shoved between the covers of some cock-eyed Print On Demand piece of dreck.

As he drives away from Cognoscenti's with his coffee and settles back into the soothing fantasy of a willowy young thing who will show up for his class and grasp his genius, he takes a sip and almost vomits onto the steering wheel. He very specifically asked for a Neo-Grande Double Naught Despresso Famagusta and they gave him fucking coffee!

In a rage, he tries to reverse but a giant SUV is already at the window and to get back in line he must exit the parking lot, drive three miles to get around the concrete divider then wait ten minutes to make a left turn back into the official drive-thru entrance and once again join the parade of waiting cars.
 
hey, Teach...











Monday, October 13, 2014

"LOVE BUT MOSTLY SEX"

Check this out. I stumbled across some Magick Guy's blog. He seems nice enough, trying to do some holistic type crap with magick. Its sad but whatever, harmless enough hobby.
So he writes some spiel about a very funny demon called Sitri, who has the ability, if properly conjured, to make women drip with heat.
A super hot, snooty nose-in-the-air girl goes by, wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but then she's suddenly compelled to be yours. Great magick trick, right? So some whiner writes in to Magick Guy bitching he's famous but it hasn't gotten him any extra pussy. A few meek homely women shyly rub against his leg a couple times a year but no cock crazed knock-outs begging for stinkin' hot pervin'.




magus93 wrote...
So...even if you are correct about sitri shinig forth his light from your soul, who gives a fuck. As long as you get laid, so what. I haven't been getting much more than once or twice a year and I've grown to become a public figure from all my non goetic efforts and hard work so far. Still haven't got much sex. I say it is about damn time for me to get sex and love but mostly sex on a regular basis and who gives a fuck even if you are right. I'd be getting what I want thus I will use goetia...I am almost ready to start once I finish jsut a bit more studying.

Yeah. This guy is for real. Either that or he's a very sublime satirist. It'd be great if he was but I wouldn't bet money on it.
"love but mostly sex"

Sunday, June 22, 2014

RECENT REVIEW OF...
MOUNT ROYAL: There's Nothing Harder Than Love

AMAZON REVIEW
Mount Royal: A Novel
Mount Royal: There's Nothing Harder Than Love - a novel
by Basil Papademos
Edition: Paperback
Price: $16.34
25 used & new from $7.19


5.0 out of 5 stars
A book for readers savage and smart.May 20, 2014
Reviewed by Margaret Wagner
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Mount Royal: A Novel (Paperback)
Mount Royal shakes you up like a freight train, hitting you with the brash sounds and hell-bent forward motion of an underground culture fueled by high octane drugs, sex, disobedience, and a singular lack of remorse. The writer manages to capture a very specific place and time, evoking the images of old haunts and projecting the voices of irascible ghosts while avoiding the taint of nostalgia. The dialogue sounds true; you can hear it ringing though the alleyways and crash pads of Montreal. The sex is unsparing and incredibly lush.

It is a love story, in the sense that being honest in the portrayal of human passions and complexity without passing judgment is the essence of love.

“We won by not winning, by debauching and sleeping late, by filling the bars and sexing all over the mountain, our victories constant and gentle and irresistible.”

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

One Day I Will Feel You Tremble In My Arms

Basil Papademos

I’d been living in a garage in a rapidly gentrifying part of Hogtown. One of those garages that’s under the house. Everything in the place was done to the nines – but not over-furished. My ex-wife liked it fairly empty in a stylish way. She and the cat were living in all those big rooms and I rarely went upstairs. We’d stopped talking a few years earlier and it was ghostly. Reminded me of Katherine Hepburn in the movie version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night. The way her son hears her upstairs, walking with her dead all night, up and down the halls and rooms, creaking footsteps. A family shredded by booze and drugs, the great American melodrama.
I was making good coin but had a huge junk habit – I mean like an oil-burnin pig. I couldn’t do enough of the shit. In that dark garage, my bike for company – my old school Japanese screamer. She spoke the only language I could hear.
And I was putting out the junk in a large way. It went with driving escorts all night in my shitbox Mazda. Good girls for the most part. Not stupid enough to slave at McDonald’s or any other toxic waste dump for almost no money. At least sellin pussy is honest. Here’s what you get for your money – straight up. Not telling you this here poisonous slop is actually edible. Suckin on pussy, fuckin pussy, bangin ass, gettin head, that won’t give you a stroke or a heart attack or bad cholesterol or make you a fat slob.
So I was in this dark garage with my Japanese bitch and selling junk and running women and picking up my mute wife at the train station every afternoon when she got home from that fucking career of hers. I’d think ‘Whatever happened to my beautiful bohemian princess?’ She got herself a profession and a mortgage.
She rationed words with an eye-dropper, a few syllables of mumbled sideways talk – the heart of our ‘problem’: My all-consuming habit. A tacit understanding developed – a logistical mythology that things weren’t actually that bad. But it is always that bad, it’s always a fuckin disaster.
My only life raft, the novel I was writing about our earlier life in Montreal, when I used to call my ex-wife ‘Slim.’ A novel called Mount Royal, the street drug whoring club art underground scene in that once open city, under that mountain. Nobody had to have a job. There weren’t any anyway. The city was a basket case. It was lovely. The whole nagging feeling you should wake up early and get ahead, that was blown out of the water. Nobody was getting ahead. Such thinking was very stupid, like making firm plans to win the lottery.

So here we were, a bunch of years later and living in Hogtown, actual property owners, sadly having outgrown our sweet elitist slumming in Montreal. Hogtown was a penal colony of the soul. I was flying around town day and night and trained my customers to leave me alone for a couple hours each morning when I worked on that novel. I began writing for a local mag, stories about running escorts and selling junk – my daily life, the only thing I know how to write about. They published a couple stories.
Within moments my life turned four dimensional. The improbable became physical law. Some woman, literally on the other side of the planet, ended up with one of my stories in her email. How To Murder Your Children For Fun And Profit. She deleted it and it came back, five times. She finally read it in the middle of a beer drunk, then wrote the magazine and demanded to know if this shit was real. They ignored her. She wrote them again and heaped scorn on the editors for not having the manners to respond.
They wrote me and asked wtf is up with this woman – why is she abusing us? Do you know her? I said no, not a clue. Forward me the email.
I wrote her back. She was in my face right away, wanting to know if my stories were bullshit or what. “No, it’s what I do. My job.”
And that kicked off countless long emails back and forth for some months before she finally sent a photo. And of course she was a rare sight – long slinky bod, classic celtic beauty, confident, sublime, complex as hell, a free flowing larger-than-life presence.
We got close over the phone, she drunk, me high. One time after dealing with a customer, I forgot to turn my phone off and climbed on my Japanese screamer and raced across town to the methadone clinic in 4pm Friday afternoon gridlocked traffic. She heard it all, came along for the howling ride.
She heard me and my sleeper beauty Suzuki, both of us swearing at the traffic, white line fever. Stop lights, rights of way – feh. That shit’s for tax payers in tin box cages.
Glory. Glorious is when you wrap your legs around her high-compression head and twist her ear and hang the fuck on cuz she will do her best to toss your ass onto the hard road then go skittering off to smash into a bunch of shit, cars and people, while you are run over several times by halfwits in the vehicles coming up behind you. They will aim for your bouncing, crumpled body. It will be passive-aggressive vengeance – for the million slights and insults of sportbikes that have gone zooming past while car driving idiots sit entombed in traffic.
It’s very hot two-wheeled fucking. She launches you into the stratosphere and it’s nothing but time warp. Sound becomes past tense, too fast to be in the present – just future and past. You’ve gone past before it’s happened. You’re already beyond that horizon up ahead. You gulp and feel like you’re gonna shit yourself cuz it is a luscious, drawn out terror, absolute and irrevocable. That ticket gets punched only once. The guarantee is written on the back. You feel a tiny front end tingle – maybe the beginning of a bad wobble that will become a tank slapper, break your thumbs and hurl you into a swimmer’s cliffside deadly dive, arcing far down the road. But you show faith, put the chin of your full-face helmet on her tank and say: “There’s nothin but us, baby…” You coo and cajole, finally sob and wail inside your helmet, blink away the tears. You close your eyes for long moments and dream of how you’ll be together forever if it all stops right now. It’s far beyond romantic. It’s epic. This is the purest glory.
The road becomes a dark gray triangular blur ahead of her nose. On either side, the passing world is a dark flashing history of then. You’re past it before it’s happened – you negate experience. Together you erase time. It’s history before future. There is only you and her empire of the stratosphere. Risk a glance at the gauges – tach and speedo needles buried, everything illuminated a fiery orange red. Right now right here - everything but precisely what you are doing together will kill you both.

I phone her from the darkness. She’s twelve hours in the future. I call from all kinds of roadside shitholes. Gas stations, bars, donut shops, abandoned mom and pop restaurants, shut down and overgrown before they were opened. I jerk off to her voice while standing next to my bike at the edge of the highway. She gets me to cum on the tank, on the seat, on her voice as night traffic thunders past, the endless herd of single-minded horses. I get very hard for her over the phone. I listen to her play with her pussy, hear her knock shit over while frantically reaching from her bed for anything to stick in there, anything vaguely cock shaped, plastic deodorant tube, bottle of face cream, whatever the fuck, dying to tell me those words: “I’m coming, baby. I am coming for you.”
It’s insanely romantic, unheard of, patently implausible. Nobody believes me. She calls long distance from an exploding new universe as it forms on the end of her clit. I cry to her, tell her I am old and dying and I am fevered. She sweet talks me while she jerks off and weeps, pleads with me. But practical also – one more good wank just in case I kill myself on that stupid bike and she never gets to dig her claws into my back. Just in case. Six months of a thousand Victorian novels mixed with a million desperate doomed wartime affairs, missed chances you can rewind and replay to make them real and whole and I promise her: One day I will feel you tremble in my arms.

In an airport hotel room, out in the generic wasteland of Hogtown. I show up with bags full of booze at 8:43 in the morning. She’s a veteran boozer but it’s done her brain and her looks more good than harm, long and tall and perfect breasts and a tight ass and she’s older than anybody but me.
Our first words are only breathing, exhales of relief. It’s beyond cinematic. Even The Night Porter pales next to this. Routine will be hunted down and killed. Reasonable expectations will face cursory show trials then be summarily executed. Rationale is tortured and beheaded before a cheering crowd. It’s a global revolution of filthy whispers. Her mind is a scalpel and easy slices off thin layers of me. She reminds me of being in the grip of elated terror on my bike, middle of a desert night. I feel her tremble in my arms. Her mouth tastes like the future, a larger planet than this one.
 “Do you want a drink?” she mumbles, her lips raised to my cheekbone.
“No.”
I push her ass onto the bed, yank off her black tights. She rolls with it, unsurprised. She clasps her hands behind her head and looks down, an objective observer. She’s been through an army of guys and has much to compare with. I have ideas of a slow, slithering, very graceful progression from her high arches and lithe ankles, wend my way up those endless legs. But the fire in my head grinds out the words: “Fuck this…” as she catches the look in my eye and slides her thighs apart. The waft of her dripping wet pussy makes my eyes roll back, a pussyhound zombie Frankenstein golem. I’m shaking. My cock leaks and throbs, brain hammers in my skull. I run my lips along that incredibly soft, smooth inside of her thighs. Her surface reaches for my mouth. Her pussy is dark but demure, lovely and modest, nice little quaffed hair-do. The first hint of her taste gets me instantly, lyrically high, like the mythical and impossibly rare opium everyone’s heard of but has never done. She tastes ocean salty, hard pearl clit on my tongue.    

I take her whole pussy in my big mouth. All of her pussy and me, we kiss slowly, tenderly, those full lips full of dark heat. I neck with her pussy, we French kiss. I stick my tongue down her pussy’s throat. I suck up the sound coming from her, the low moan of our underwater world…

Thursday, May 1, 2014

The Hidden Fruit of Sala Daeng Road

Basil Papademos



When it's rainy and cold like today, here in this generic east coast city, I long for Bangkok’s sublime undercurrent, the heat of well disguised openness. A woman working a sidewalk fruit stand on densely packed Sala Daeng Road, near my place. Empirical evidence indicates certain East Asian women signal interest with a downward sideways scowl then eyes coming up for the quick glance you’ll miss if you’re not watching for it. They have no trouble speaking clearly without words.

It's wildly erotic heat made of anticipation, guesswork and possibilities. Our process takes a few weeks of brief encounters. We negotiate terms as I buy her fruit every morning near my apartment. Her looks become more intrusive, a harder set to her mouth. Then a bitten lip, a finger drawn slowly down her neck and along her collar bone. Finally, she loiters on her stool for a long minute before bothering to serve me, legs crossed, one sandal dangling and lets it fall.

Her eyes hold me as her bare foot wraps around the back of her calf when she stands to chop my fruit. Her tongue flicks out for an instant, then a disdaining look, eye to eye: This is the hot bitch in me - if you can see it, you thick-skulled white clod. I take the clear plastic bag of sliced watermelon and pineapple from her hand and drop my apartment building's business card behind the counter top, #603 written on the back. It disappears under her palm.

As I turn to leave, she gives me a quick, nasty squint and thrown up chin, dismissing the nosy looks of her fellow street peddlers. Her hatred rises like incense and powerful confirmation. It's a learned thing most white guys never pick up on, which results in impatiently paying for a very cheap dissociative blow job, as if the blower is absentmindedly carrying out some chore back at the village homestead, milking the old water buffalo.

A few hours later, after the stands are shut down, rather than go back to her room shared with a sister and another hometown girl, I get a quiet knock on the door, open it just enough to pull her in and kiss her hard against the back of my door. I feel for what kind of body she’s got, feel her quiver and exhale. Small, firm breasts, tight ass flexes in my hands.

I pick her up and toss her on the bed, pull off her sweaty dusty work clothes and pull her into my lovely SE Asian shower, those big bathrooms completely tiled so the whole thing is a shower, lay us on the floor under the cool water, look her over. A stocky peasant build, strong legs and shoulders, smooth reddish brown silk skin, work calloused hands and a crooked smile, an edge of playful evil.

I take a lotta time, wash her dirty feet and oily hair and much to her surprise, shave her well defined little bush of raven's black soft straight pubic hair. She watches with curiosity, examines her virginally naked cunt, shyly spreads herself open for me, taking an intense interest as I suck on her pussy, suck on her tiny powerfully tight asshole that's only ever known shit. I throw her wet on the bed, fuck her and laugh with her, find out she speaks only a little Thai, being a Shan or Kutchin or Red Wa tribal girl without papers, always one unpaid micro bribe from prison or deportation.

Her body is craving and aroused and she mutters in her language then dives onto my cock like a black mambo curling mouth and tongue round, imitating the snatches of bad Japanese porn she’s seen at the video stall next to where she sells fruit. The first blow job she's ever given but everyone says East Asians are good mimics. I show her how to squeeze my balls as hard as I like. It fascinates her. She watches my face while squeezing harder and harder.

Her belly lines are proof there’s a child mom looks after back in the hamlet. She’s never been pussy sucked and never swallowed cock. I roll her sideways and she takes the first open handed smack on her ass in stoic silence. I’m tempted to use my belt. She goes onto her stomach and raises her strong ass, spreads her legs. The whipping is mid-grade, nothing drastic. I force her hand down to her pussy. She pulls her cunt tight and doesn’t make a sound, closing her eyes with a swoon of relief.

She gets dressed slowly, looking over my place, calculates if I’d be worth something bigger, how well her clan could live here. But my apartments are always bare, an open bag on the floor, this laptop on a desk covered in scrawled notebooks, full ashtrays and motorcycle magazines, as if it’s inhabited by an aging adolescent escapee.

She’d never ask so I hold out a one thousand baht note, more than a week’s fruit stand wages. She takes the money, puts her hands together at her chin and bows her head, thanks me in Thai.