Two Fingers of Romance

Somehow to me the best way to arrive into Los Angeles is by rail. Back in the old days everybody did. Los Angeles Union Station was the gateway to the city, to Hollywood, and to the sun-soaked delights of southern California beyond the city.

Back in those days it was still an exotic location to the folks back east. Your importance in the social pecking order of California's brave new world, if you made the way west, depended on the train you rode in on. In those days they had Pullman Porters and Harvey girls to help move you along the way toward the city of angels. The wealthy and famous rode the all-bedroom Super Chief, the middle-income sort came aboard the El Capitan. The poor came in on all-coach trains designated with numbers, not names.

LA's Union Station is still a grand location for an entrance. It's a curious mix of Spanish revival and Art Deco, built around an eclectic mix of tunnels, grand corridors and archways. The massive angular wood chairs still fill the waiting room with comfortable gold padded seats. In the old days the station was abuzz with cameras and writing pads of breathless society reporters who gathered daily for the featured press-covered arrivals of Myrna Loy and William Powell, Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart.

When Union Station opened in 1939 it was the front door to the City. In some ways it still is. Today the station has become the regions' ground transportation hub. Across the street, beyond a long colonnade of palm trees is El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, the original town plaza and it's Mexican Market, Olvera Street, and beyond that the imposing edifice of Los Angeles City Hall, an Art Deco masterpiece in its own right. To the south is "Little Tokyo" and to the north "Chinatown," and beyond that Chavez Ravine and Dodger Stadium.

I arrived, or should I say came, in truly proper fashion aboard Amtrak's Chief this week with a rusty Chicano seat mate, named Javier, sneaking himself a last minute finger fuck in our shared pair of lounge-car chair seats, gliding past Fullerton, California doing the nasty under glass, probably visible for any California commuter with the wherewithal to look up at the train windows.

Such a good nasty finger fuck too, all stick and twist, two of his fingers up and in, three knuckles deep. I managed to sneak Javier into my sleeper accommodation the night before, but you can never have enough early morning sex, after all, and the sleeper attendant had already tucked away the bed. Besides, it made for a bit of compensation for the fact that the train was running out of breakfast items in the dining car. 5:30 am is too early for breakfast, anyway.

Javier and I met at the long station stop at Albuquerque. They refuel the trains there, midway between Chicago and L.A. The walk down the platform toward the still grand mission-style Alverado Hotel is a long-standing tradition on that line. On the platform, the Native American peddlers still set out tables full of crafts and junk jewelry for the tourists to buy during the long wait at the station.

They have photos of Valentino with his dog outside the train at the Alverado from back in 1924. The Alvarado Hotel burned down in 1993, but the city rebuilt the place to the same exterior appearance, more or less, as the hub of an intermodal transportation center. It may not have the glamour of the old days, but it will do.

Once underway again out of Albuquerque, it didn't take long to get with it with Javier for the overnight run to LA. The on-board entertainment for that trip sure beat the standard iPod mp3 mix, at least for me! Our parting moments at Los Angeles Union Station was a little abbreviated, though, since Javier had the world's biggest extended family meeting him at the station he left me without even a misty moment of goodbye. Old Aunt Maria, clutching her rosary, would never have understood.

Two Fingers of Romance, Part II

Beyond the station I made my way to the Pueblo and Olvera Street to look around. A small crowd was gathered for the Chicano band playing at the square. Pausing to listen to the band, with my luggage in tow, I caught the attention of a hustler out in the crowd, the sort who lurk around these places. You know the type, one of those slick-talking, unscrupulous scoundrels with a nose for a naive aspiring starlet or a runaway from Oklahoma or some other backwater State who hopes to lose herself in the brave new world of Southern California.

It didn't take but a minute for daddy's worst nightmare to spot me in the crowd arriving from the east, lock his slick smile on me, and aim strait toward me. Sidling up alongside me he said, "Hey baby! Need help with your bag? " His name was Ronnie and he "knew producers in the movies, and shit," or so he said, and he had an empty gold tooth grin about a mile and a half wide. He was just too, too slick, so I knew this was the guy for me.

Now don't get me wrong, I rarely fall for a hustler's rap, but then again there's something charming about a truly sleazy man, and Ronnie seemed to have a lot of promise. So I picked him up for my tour director to the city of the stars, and he took me straight to a little place he knows that rents rooms for $22.00, no questions asked. Twenty-two bucks you get a single room, a double bed and a shared bath, if you've got the stomach to use it.

The place isn't exactly the Biltmore; they don't even carpet the lobby floor, strictly well-worn gray-black linoleum. It's strictly walk-in, and I doubt you could get a reservation if you wanted one, but the place has a history, at least according to the old man who takes the money at the front desk. When I commented on the 1920's Italianate baluster rails, suggesting the place might have had a brighter past, the old man at the front desk smiled and with a sweep of his hand he said Valentino used to stay there. Valentino! Could I ask for more?

The history lesson stopped short, when I heard a little shriek somewhere above us. "Is somebody screaming upstairs?" I asked.

The old man at the desk glanced toward the stairway a moment. He shrugged, and then said, "Somebody's always screaming in this place." He flipped a room key down on and it slid over the edge of the counter, dropping toward the floor, where Ronnie caught it in his right hand. "Better take the stairs," the old man said, "the elevator gets stuck between floors."

The climb up the creaking steps to the third floor dumps you out into a long I-shaped corridor of peeling paint and exposed light bulbs dangling from the high ceilings. Back in Valentino's day this place might have been a little nicer destination, but I'd tend to doubt it. The halls smelled of bad beer and piss, and probably did back then.

The corridor was empty except for a drifter in one of the doorways. If I hadn't been with Ronnie he'd have said something lewd, but my escort didn't keep him from giving me a filthy look, all up and down, with the requisite grin, the sort of grin one man gives another, when he figures he's about to get a good fuck, and you could figure that was what it was about. Further down the halls the doors were closed but you could hear the fucking going on behind them.

Ronnie hunted down the door that matched our key number, though he just as easily picked the door out by the lack of the sound of fucking going on inside. He invited me to precede him inside, just in case I had ideas about backing out of this arrangement, I guess, then followed me inside the dark cubicle and with a firm hand on my shoulder, sat me on the bed.

In the interest of time, Ronnie unzipped his fly and demanded head while he undressed. He wasn't the sort of guy who wasted energy disrobing when he could be getting the thing he came to a place like this for in the first place. Men like Ronnie are nothing, if not efficient when it comes to sex. By the time he was undressed he was done with the preliminaries, his dick was hard, and he was ready to fuck.

If he was a little short on foreplay, he more than made up for it when it came to main event. A man like Ronnie needs a main event, and the fuck was definitely his forte. He stuck it to me deep and hard, like he wanted to let me know I was getting fucked, then drew back, all the way out and stuck it to me again. His repeated impaling, this vile penetration, only served to drive home the tyranny of nature, the truth of the sex act, the fuck, that the female body is a slot, a gateway to the pleasures of men, and Ronnie was a man who made the most of it.

But, I don't sweat it. After all I like it this way as much as that, or any other man, does. It's just a fact of life and something about the way my head is wired. So I just kicked back and let the man stick it to me, stick it to me and get that feeling he liked.

For a moment he settled down into a driving, grinding fuck, as though he's trying to knock down the walls, or thoroughly wreck the pussy hole or something, then just when I'm getting into the rhythm of the hump, he grabbed my arm and dragged me over onto my stomach, roughly, like I was just so much baggage.

Ronnie was determined by now just to fuck me in my ass. It's a kind of punishment, I guess. Something a bad girl should expect for throwing her legs back as I did, throwing them back like I just don't care.

"Fuckin' slut!" he snorts, and drills it in. Drills it in my asshole, quick and nasty, in just one thrust, one sudden thrust and his matt of wiry dick hairs are giving my ass cheeks a rug burn. His dick head is all the way in, deep. I can feel it in my guts.

Ronnie the hustler, Ronnie the sleazy fuck! Here's a man I like, I think. He's got a gift for understanding what a bitch like me gets used for. Yeah, it's true, I ain't nothin' nice, and a low down dog of a man like Ronnie is just my cup of tea for a first day out in Los Angeles.

But getting a fuck like me could never be enough for a man like Ronnie. He's an artist in a way, he needs to let the world know how he likes to fuck a bitch, so he paused to pull open the door "for air." But that isn't what he wanted, of course. He wanted an audience, he wanted to let the world see how he did it to me.

And he got his adoring public, he did, in the person of that little drifter down the hall, peering through the doorway at Ronnie on top me, pounding me with dick. "Can I get some?" the man panted in the hallway, "Can I fuck that bitch?"

"Wait your turn," Ronnie told him, "I'll be done in a minute, and you can have her."And so the day went.

Welcome to L.A!

Rudolph Valentino - I put a spell on you!

Little Tragedies

The world is full of little tragedies. Take for instance the case of Darius, my "two-stroke" man. He never quite gets past the second stroke and he's done. You know skeet, skeet, skeet… and he's asleep.

It's tragedy, I tell you! Tragedy!

Skeet, skeet

Twenty second men

This is just SO Tragic!

Freak O'Nature

There are dicks, big dicks and then there are freaks of nature, the sort that make the list of largest structures in the city. These massive monuments provide such labrynthine and interesting questions of care and handling. I mean it's not like you can swallow the thing.

Then there is the issue of what happens when they actually get going and you find yourself on the lower end of a pile-driving re-engineering project! I tell you, my friends, when it comes down to it, just don't worry about it! Just kick back, take it like a big girl should, never cry, and never ever 'worry bout that mule!'

Don't Worry 'Bout that Mule

Under Wormwood

"Let me be mad ...mad with madness of Absinthe, the wildest most luxurious madness in the world."

Stagger Lee

Po-lice officer, how can it be?
You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stagolee
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

-Traditional American blues song

He was the sort of man who let you know straight up he wasn't nothing nice, a thug, roughneck, if you like, or in his word, "scan-o-lous."

Once he had me in the motel room, he didn't even give me the time to undress. He just pushed me back on the mattress and reached under my blouse to pull out my tits. He took a moment to twist my nipples, then went straight for the object of his intentions, wrenching apart my thighs to spread my legs, tugged my panties in one snap down to my ankles, slammed back my knees and plunged two fingers sharply up the cylinder of my pussy. He obviously liked what he felt inside. "Oh, yeah," he said, "you're fuckin' wet! Fuckin' wet already, you nasty Bitch!"

Feigning protest, I struggled to get up, to escape my prone position on the mattress. Well, not really, of course, but just enough "struggle" to make that big pipe inside his trousers rise to attention. With one sweep of his big right hand he ripped down his zipper, reached inside and fumbled to pull himself out. "You want it? You want it, Bitch?" He didn't even wait for a reply, answering for me, "Yeah, I know you do? I know you been wanting some of this big dick!"

He seized the back of my skull and wrapped my hair into a knot around his fist, then dragged me up to his crotch, and jammed my head down on his dick. I gagged, much to his delight. "Choke on it! Choke on it, bitch!" he raved, taking special delight at the tears that began to reflexively roll down my cheeks.

Yeah, I'm Stagger Lee
and you better get down on your knees
and suck my dick, because if you don't
you're gonna be dead, said Stagolee,
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

He tossed me back onto the mattress and mounted, then with one cruel thrust, he stuck it in me. It made me squeal, "Oh, gawd!" I shrieked, "It's too big, too big for me like that!"

"Shut-up Bitch!" he snapped back, "nothin's too big for you, nothin's too big, you fuckin' Bitch!" He drilled down deep, "Now take it! Take this Mutha-fuckin' dick, Bitch!"

"Goddamn! Godamn!" I protested without effect. "Shut-up, Bitch!" he said, "You love it, Bitch, you know you do! You love this big long dick!"

"Come off that shit "he growled, "Bitch you know you want it! Maybe I should get on my cell and call my ro-dogs, so you can give everybody a play of that pussy. Would you like that?" he asked. "I might" I responded. "Yeah, I figured" he said with a smirk, "You seem like that type."

He pulled it all the way out and wagged it's big glistening head in the direction of my face and then drove it deep, deep and hard, all the way to the hilt. Stuck it fast, too, with a rib-shaking thud, all the way to the bottom of me, then just for good measure he pulled it back out and stuck it back in again, harder than the first time.

"Oh yeah, yeah, there it go, there it go," he barked, "Your poppin' now, Bitch, poppin wet!"

Truth be told, the big long pipe was gliding easy, gliding in and out without resistance, with me gone foaming wet. He crushed down on top of me, rolling it in and out, running up and back against the walls, finding that feeling he liked, then finally settling in on a steady driving power hump.

Oh yeah, I thought. This is fuckin! This is how I want it, this is how I need it, but I couldn't form the words to tell him. Instead I pulled at his shoulders and threw out my legs, threw them out wide. He had me now, the way I love to let a man use me for his pleasure, and the size of him, that big monster dick, made it seem so total.

Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!
Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!

Then I must have hollered, though I can't remember, but I felt my eyes roll back and my toes curl up and then I got it. Got it like a bomb going off inside. That cum, that filthy cum, I crave. He let loose a chuckle, I think, and then as if on cue, I felt his muscles tighten, his whole body stiffen, and with a loud satisfied grunt that made my bones vibrate, I could feel his thick cum spurt deep up inside me. Spurt all the way to parts unknown.

He rolled off me and rested quietly for a moment, beads of sweat formed on his forehead while he rested. I touched his shoulder gently, but he brushed me aside. Rising from the bed be gathered up my clothes and wadded them in is big hands. He hurled the ball of cloth at my head, "Get dressed, Bitch! Get out! We're Done!"

That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

All that, and Dr. Freud too

The other day I was with a guy, a quiet, average sort of fellow. After I did for him what he liked, he said, "I never had another woman let me watch her masturbate, are you BPD?"

"BPD," I asked? "What is BPD?"

"Borderline Personality Disorder" he answered, "You know, a sex disorder, needing to do filthy things for men."

"Is that some sort of clinical term," I asked?

"Yes it is," he replied.

"Are you asking me if I'm a slut?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Yes," I responded, "Does it bother you?"

"No," he said.

Pump and Dump

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Now don't get me wrong, I like everything about sex, I like all the trappings. But when it's time to get down to business, the main event for me is the fuck. I want it bad that way. I need a man to drill me, stick it to me. Don't give me that finesse stuff, just go ahead a fuck me; make me feel it. Matter of fact, as much as I enjoy all the fancy stuff, and I do, that stuff is all icing on the cake. When I get down to it my favorite position is with the man on top.

Like I always tell them, I prefer a man on top, where he belongs! It's kind of funny, isn't it, that they call that position missionary-style?

The missionary-style, like it's some sort of religious experience. I guess it might be, depending how you look at it. Call it pre-ordination or something, the natural use of a female by a male, always to be penetrated, always to be used for the pleasures of men.

Oh, I know I must be treading on some bloody, forbidden ground here, but it's the truth isn't it. Deep down we all suspect it. In some cultures they tell you that when a female accepts it she can finally stop feeling conflicted inside. I haven't got an issue with it. I always liked it anyway. I know what men like and I like that too. That's what makes me so shameless, I guess.

There's something about the season that makes me think like this, and to act out on all my little cravings. Something about the season, the cold wet damp waning days of autumn that makes me like a filthy kettle, boiling over. Something about the weather or just the rhythm of nature, but in these wind chilled darkening days of November I seem to need it all the more, want it bad.

The shorter days becomes a sort of maddened hunt, sometimes in the back of my mind, sometimes front and center; a frenzied search for that certain type of man who seems to be the kind who can appreciate me as I am.

Oh yes, just about any man out there can appreciate the no holds barred pleasures of the slick-wet walls of a willing pussy hole, but I like a man who really loves to let a slut be a slut; to let me indulge my craving to the fullest and let it all go in all my writhing glory. When I get like this I want a man to break me down raw and use me.

Saturdays are for boning.

Today's search didn't take too long, and I didn't need to go too far, just as far as Woodward Avenue, one once grand thoroughfare that bisects our City. Despite the patchy attempts at gentrification on recent years the avenue still pierces plenty of forlorn stretches of Detroit. On a wet, cold, overcast day like today you don't find a lot of people out strolling along the Avenue, even early in the day. So I feel fortunate to have found what I'd been thinking about all morning without having to go too far. "Got a man?" he asked in a voice with just enough sugar on it to catch my interest. "No," I responded. "Want one?" he asked. I smiled.

You know the rest.

We spent the late hours of the morning in just the perfect sort of relationship. The kind that lasts about an hour and a quarter or so, just long enough to satisfy both our cravings for the day, most of it in a clinch of power penetration, with he mounted on top, of course. With thinly veiled contempt he mocked, "Do you love me? Do you love me, bitch?" his jack-knife thrusts going deeper with each impalement.

"Fuck me!" I responded, "FUCK ME!"

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Blue Tenderloin

It rained all day Sunday. By early evening it was one of those piercing autumn rains, the kind that cuts right though your skin, too cold to wait for a bus on a street corner.

Seeking shelter, the only choice for cover that was open past six was a seedy little cocktail bar at the end of the block. I rarely just duck into these sorts of dives. The scene is always the same, a row of old tables on one side and a row of Naugahyde upholstered stools lined up along bar on the other. The usual patronage for these sorts of places is the local neighborhood drunks, the type that have been sitting at those same stools since 1947.

This place wasn't any different, except maybe a little more dingy. The joint stunk of cheap booze and a thick patina of decades of cigarette smoke. The denizens of this particular hole in the wall consisted of a few old men hunched over the bar at the back near the Men's Room, a rumpled bartender with a few days stubble on his chin and a third patron stood at the front of the bar, sipping a beer. In the back corner of the place a grainy old TV was lit up with the dying moments of some football game playing in the background, fourth quarter white noise, only the bartender seemed to notice the game was on. He seemed annoyed when I took up a place on a stool halfway up the bar, squarely in front of him. "What kind of beer do you have?" I asked.

The bartender wrinkled his brow, as though I'd asked him for directions to Paris. "Bud," he said, "You want beer, I got Bud."

Budweiser! Only a wrecking ball and a back hoe could land a beach head in a place like this for the micro-brew revolution. For a moment out of the rain, and a little warmth, I accepted my fate and I motioned my order for the great American swill. It was cheap enough I suppose, a buck fifty a bottle, and a clean glass on the side.

While I sipped my beer, the bartender's attention turned to the football game running endlessly on the TV. My attention turned toward the man at the front of the bar. He seemed interesting enough, not entirely unattractive. I'd guess he was in his mid-forties. He was tall, slim and of a non-descript ethnicity, Latino maybe. He had a thin clipped mustache and his tawny gaunt cheeks were pock marked. His thinning hair was jet black and slicked back. He wore a matching worn set of navy blue work cloths, his shirt partly unbuttoned at the top, revealing an incongruously white undershirt.

He had noticed me too. Though I am used to such things, his searing leer was, in this case, causing me a bit of discomfort. Even so, I found him repulsive and compelling, all the same. I immediately got the feeling from him that he was, in fact, the sort of man who was quite understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.

Moments later he proved me right. Leaning against the bar, he grasped at himself with just enough subtlety that I could receive the message. Underneath the greasy dark blue cloth, an ample meat roll danced to the keystrokes of his finger tips, ample enough for me to notice it, anyway. After an awkward few minutes of letting me watch him "adjust" himself, he slid down the bar and settled onto the stool next to mine. "Hi beautiful," he said. I smiled. This was hardly the most offensive pickup line. I'd expected something more vile. I began to doubt he was the sort of man I'd figured him to be, but that thought was quickly swept away when he wrapped his long skinny fingers around the inside of my thigh.

Receiving no objection from me, his hand quickly slipped under my skirt until it met his target. "Why don't you let me heat that up?" he offered. This was a little more along the line of what I was itching to hear. "Got a place to go?" I asked. "Well," he hesitated a moment, then added "I work at a shop up the street, we can go there. Nobody's there now, and I got the key."

I nodded my approval, and leaving my half consumed beer behind, followed my new acquaintance back out into the rain.

Fortunately, it wasn't too long a walk, just a few doors down to a little Auto workshop, some little hole in the block that purports to specialize in "imported cars," just a greasy hole off the alleyway. In a place like this one doesn't find too many candles, satin sheets and soft lighting, but then, I've never been the romantic sort. I simply headed for the back, jumped aboard a long workbench along the back of the wall, kicked off my heels and got ready for what we came here for.

He reached up under my skirt and tried to yank down my panties from the crotch, when his first attempt failed he tore them off. Approvingly, I spread out my legs.

He stepped back a moment, to pause, or to look over my exposed split, then spat, ""You cunt! You fuckin' cunt! You fuckin' little cunt"

Cunt? Cunt is such a filthy, degrading word, a nasty word. Cunt, it's so blunt, so raw, it titillates me.

I threw my thighs back and out, so he could get the idea that I was ready to get used for his pleasure.

"Aw!" he snorted, "you're a nasty little fuck toy, aint you, aint you?" He didn't wait for a reply, before adding, "I figured it! I figured you was like this!"

"I hope I'm about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine." I said.

"Yeah, the dirtiest?" he asked. "Show me! Show me how dirty you are."

Just to prove the point, I reached between my legs, slipped my forefingers up and in and stretched it open; pulled it wide open and showed him the hole. "You mean, like this?" I asked.

His eyes got wide as I've ever seen a man's eyes get wide. Then, dipping his fingers inside, he pulled down on the bottom of my pussy wall, to get a better look inside, or just to see how wide he might get it to gape open.

Just a hunch, but I'm guessing I made the grade; the dirtiest bitch he could imagine, the bottom of a man's world.

It was a short lived high point of our "relationship." You can guess the rest. He didn't last too long, only a few long pokes of the dick, but sometimes that's all a man needs for this sort of thing. No matter, it was a filthy enough fuck, just the same, the sort I'd hoped for.

After one last thrust he climbed aboard the workbench, crouched over my face and with a grunt, spewed a thick jet of creamy satisfaction across my face.

Fornication

Fornication, to pick a word, is my philosophy, my world view, my raison d’etre.

I for one don’t go in for romance and relationships. I stopped looking for love in all the right places around the time I gave up on Santa Claus. I have a sex addiction, for sure, but beyond that I suppose I’m a little off, a little twisted. But, you know, I’m not guilty about it. Maybe nature just hard wires some people a little different. Maybe serving the needs of men in that way is my function, my little niche on the planet. Maybe it’s the pheromones. Whatever it is, I crave it.

No, I don’t believe in love. I just believe in the fuck. The fuck, and the craving for the fuck; and the only relationship I need is an introduction to a good hard dick. Besides, the way I see it, the only thing a man needs to love about me, when its all said and done, is that feeling he gets when he runs it deep up against the walls of this pussy-hole to get that feeling he likes!

The Dark at the Top of the Stairs

There is a place I know. It's like so many other places like it. There is nothing special about it except for the privacy it affords. My place is a stairway that leads to an overgrown railroad property. I'm not sure why it's there, or what it may have accessed originally. These days it's just an old concrete stairway with rusted disused railings. For some reason it has never been closed or removed. It's located in the heart of the city but when you reach the top of the stairs you might as well be in some forgotten wilderness. The only people that visit the place are up to no good. Occasionally a freight train may pass by, but mostly it's an empty thicket of underbrush strewn with discard bottles and other bits of debris.

My place at the top of the stairs is very quiet and private, and you can hear any would be fellow trespasser long before they reach the summit. This place at the top of the stairs is quiet, private, overgrown, remote, and above all, just treacherous enough for a smuggled encounter, a dark dreamscape for working off a craving for filthy sex. My place at the top of the stairs is a perfect destination for two to writhe away the moment, give or take twenty minutes.

When I get in that mood I might visit my special place at the top of the stairs with anyone who might, for a moment, spark my interest. Maybe I'll take up with a man who made me a lewd offer, or maybe some guy nervously spinning his wedding ring, deciding whether to let his inner demon out. In the privacy of the thick brush I can make a kind of nasty picnic of it. Nobody need for romance, or even names.

In makes no difference what sort of man he is, most of them are really quite nice, regular gentlemen most of the time, no doubt. But me I want to get a man to let his inner dog out, and the place at the top of the stairs is the perfect place to get down to basics. After all, in a place like that, any man is understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.

In the end I always get what I came for, a bone-rattling deep thrusting fuck, and if I served the man right, he'll leave me with a thick creamy reward to remember him by.

Every now and then some guy will try to reform me. To them I say, don't try to redeem me brother, this is how I want it, this is who I am. I'm the dark at the top of the stairs. Just let nature be.

Fallen Angel

Hello dear friends,

For those who were wondering, and those who e-mailed or posted comments and inquired.

I’ve been away.

Sorry for the silence for the past few months.

Since May I’ve been on an extended vacation, slash, work-study tour of Los Angeles, the city of the fallen angels.

All is well with me, and with you too, I hope. Thanks for asking!

I have plenty to share, of course. Where to begin?

Los Angeles is the imitation of a city, a trash pile of the used and discarded. LA is in the business of fantasy and pleasure, not solid values. They built a mighty industry on the basis of it. It is a city completely without charm or subtlety, at its best a Babylon of the gutter. LA is the sort of place you can go to lose yourself in the urging of the moment and to serve yourself up willingly as a sacrifice to the demon-gods of carnal cravings.

They’ll tell you that in Southern California anyone can remake themselves; any one can make it. Maybe so, maybe no, maybe make you, maybe break you. One thing is for sure, and make no mistake about it; Angelinos like to fuck, not with amore, but with headboard banging thrusts.

In LA, fucking is everything it should be, not hidden away in the filthy alleys of the mind, but rather in its proper place, out in the open for the whole planet to fondle and see.

In short, LA is the perfect place for a bitch like me to spend her summer vacation, and so dear friends, if you missed me, rest assured I’m back and better off for all the nasty wear and tear.

Hugs and kisses to you all!

Earl Grey

I must confess, I love to explore the men I meet along the way with my tongue. They rarely seem to object, of course. They're downright helpful with the directions, "A little further to the left, and around that corner."

One of my favorite explorations is find out what's at the bottom of a good old salty nut sack. Call it tea-bagging if you like, it's just a fine afternoon delight, complete with snacks. A dip in my mouth and I guarantee the balls go home clean. I do the thing pretty well, I think. I've never had a complaint.

Ragland

Hannibal, Missouri is like many other places in America. It is a withering old city whose height of prosperity left town about a century back. Today the center of life in Hannibal, like so many other small old cities like it, is the local Wal-Mart, a big-box abomination at the edge of the community. Though, even in decline, Hannibal has fared better than most places like it. The place is blessed with the great Mississippi River, which flows past its front door, and the was the hometown of perhaps the greatest American writer, Samuel Clemons. After all, what better place to go to find a writer's inspiration than to pay a visit to the wellspring of creativity, and boyhood home, of one Mark Twain.

Hannibal, Missouri. Home to Tom Sawyer, Becky Thatcher and Huckleberry Finn; the river and the memory of Mr. Twain have kept the city alive as a pilgrimage for tourists. The city calls itself "America's Hometown," and the tourists like to think it is, though it's a hometown of their imaginations, since they mostly now live alongside non-descript strip malls filled with Applebee's and Olive Garden's. Green lawn hells of MacHouses and ever-so slightly curving streets off the Interstate crammed with SUV's.

For its great tourist attraction, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the city has thankfully been spared the Disneyesque treatment. You can still imagine a young Samuel Clemons in its streets, and pick out the actual locations he described in his novels. Beyond the tourist strip, it's a bleak place, this Hannibal. It has the smell of decay. Even its grand-river view is walled off by a massive levee and sea walls, barriers to the annual floods. It's an economic necessity, and the levee keeps places like Hannibal safe, though the grassy wall seems to darken the whole town.

The great river itself is still a wild thing, no matter how hard the Army Corp of Engineers has tried to tame it. The high April water has swept just over its banks, just enough flooding for the river to let you know that it flows by its own rules. South of town are Tom Sawyer's caves and wooded wild islands like dark sunken steamboats with names like Gilbert Island and Denmark Island. I wonder which of them might be Jackson Island. Does anyone read anymore?

Mark Twain's America was a nation on the rise, ours seems to be a nation in a spiral of decline. Funny how from his point to ours we haven't solved the issues of the day. The same damn issues of the day, his or ours!

At the edge of downtown looms a derelict Minor League baseball park surrounded by a huge limestone wall. It's a massive ballpark. It must be 500 feet to straightway center field. According to the sandstone markers at the gates, the place was once called Clemons Field, though its current owner, the City of Hannibal, has inexplicably renamed it Ragland Field. Behind home plate rises its great canopied grandstand of concrete and steel. The park once sat thousands. Once, when the place was the heart of the community. Now it is a rutted ruin with pits along the foul lines where light stands once stood.

This April, at least, I managed to bring Ragland back to life, if even for a few moments, though it was a slightly different bat and ball game. You see, I found my man, lurking on the river bank not far away, passing the time along the Mississippi, and lured him back to Ragland for a little late-night roll in the weeds in Center Field. I always wanted to get fucked in Center Field in some baseball park, and Ragland's vast outfield surrounded by stone walls proved more than perfect for such an occasion. Totally private, yet I out in the open enough to let me imagine a thousand fans looking on from the ghostly grandstand over the shoulder of my newfound friend's humping hulk on top of me.

Ragland Field. You must stop by some day. A fine old ballpark if ever there was.

Writer’s Block Happens

Sometimes I have the worst time of it.

I can stare at the blank page for hours, days, weeks. Other times the thoughts flow out into my fingers like water and I can't write fast enough. I haven't written a thing in weeks. Not even a grocery shopping list. These are the times I find it best to simply recharge, and hopefully reflect and, cash willing, explore. Today someone wrote me he thought I had an "old soul." I think perhaps this is true. I find myself forever hearing the faintest whispers of the past. The whispers seem louder in certain places for me, at rivers and crossroads.

They speak to me.

Opening Day

As much as we like to think we wander through a world that is fresh and new for us, we are forever walking through the streets of the cities of the dead.

This idea seems fairly easy to grasp in a city like Detroit, where I live. You can see the layers of earlier people, earlier lives, and the present they built for us, today, without having to look too very far.

In a larger sense, we all follow the old traditions, the old celebrations, and possess the old fears and failings of those before us, here, where we live, in the cities of the dead. I often feel a presence of those that walked these streets before me, as though they were still among us. Sometimes they seem to me to have aura of undying spirits.

Today I suppose I am revealing a little of my complexity and indulging myself by diverging from my favorite subject, sex, to pay respect to one of those great spirits.

Old timers often tell me they consider him second only to Dr. King in their pantheon. He wasn't a great seer, a philosopher, or an activist. He was never trained to change the world, but he did. He was a baseball player, just a baseball player, but not, of course, just a baseball player. The poet Sean Pamphilon reminds us that, "Pioneers pass before their time. Sometimes they wear a boys' uniform in a cowards world, a world that reluctantly looked in him in they eye on April 15, 1947."

Opening day, April 15, 1947.

Long before my time. Still I think, like the old-timers I talk to, that somehow our world is, in fact divided into "Before Jackie" and "After Jackie." He had the courage to take the field alone, and we now know how great a burden that was for this baseball player. He carried the world on his shoulders, and living the life of Jackie Robinson, being Jackie Robinson, it brought his life to an early close, but I think not his spirit. Not the fire.

I see this photograph of Jackie Robinson, at the age of 28, just about my age, on Opening Day in 1947 and I see the powerful spirit.

I see.

Quiet as it’s kept…

I'm pretty upfront about my sexual philosophies.

Sometime guys say I'm too deep and nasty for their tastes; that I'm way too raw by half. They don't like a female to be so blunt with her sex so much. I don't worry about it. I guess those guys and I will never get along with it anyway. I prefer the guys who like a low bitch.

In fact, I guess I might be about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine. I think I must have been born this way. Where I'm from, some of the more hard core fella's talk about how they can "break a bitch," make something go "pop" someplace in her mind, and turn an innocent female into a dick craving slut.

Maybe they can "break a bitch," but I think those females were about 90% there already. As for me, I'm more like 110%. Sometimes I'm the one that has to drag the nasty side out of the guys I'm with. On the freaky sex thing, I want to punch the gas pedal and go!

I've got a whole philosophy about sex shocks a lot of men if I say it. Though deep down, if you put the question to them, most men agree with me. Fundamentally, the female's place in sex is to serve a man for his total physical pleasure. If that sounds like sex is inherently degrading for the female, then you heard me right!

Isn't it?

Isn't kneeling between a mans legs and sucking his dick sort of degrading? Isn't spreading your legs and having a man repeatedly stick to you with a dick inherently degrading? Of course it is. And we're just talking some plain vanilla sex here.

I like the full power, the full degrading power of the sex act. I like a man who'll kick the god-damn walls down and treat me like the slut I am.

As rough as this truth may sound, I believe we're talking about natural order here. I know of no society, past or present that really believes any differently, though they may pretend they do in "polite" company.

Thousand Island?

Here's another one of those freaky fetishes I've got. I like to do the "tossed salad" thing, you know, lick a guys asshole. Nothing tells a man he's got a nasty freak like tossing his salad. You know, any truly nasty bitch will tell you thats something she likes to do for a guy. After all it's all about serving the man for the totally physical.

I might do the long deep ice-cream lick, or the swirly clockwise on the thing, but I like to work my tongue down there for a man, show him my rim shot. I read someplace about a guy who thought it was about the most ultimately nasty thing he could make a bitch do for him. "When she's sucking a dick, her mind can be thinking she's doing something else, when she's slurping ass, she knows she's down there sucking a guys' ass!"

Sweet!

Diaspora

Some days I can stop anywhere that’s quiet enough and hear them speak to me, just faintly, like the first breath of spring. Or I might turn a corner and catch a glimpse of them from the corner of my eye, or hear the faint percussion of the mizik roll like distant thunder.

In mirrors I see ancient memories, thrice forgotten. In the twilight of my half sleep their voices grow clear, and I know they are here with me, these spirits that I serve.

Faster, Stronger, Harder, Longer

When I'm doing it with a man, if he ain't trying to break his dick off in me, I figure I must have done something wrong.

Sometimes women who call themselves feminists ask me why I would let men do me like they do, and (well) encourage them to do so.

Well, first of all who says I have to fit their mold of how a woman should act? Secondly, I'm not so sure that I'm not the one who is actually "liberated." After all, I don't believe in marriage, I support myself, I enjoy myself when I want, how I want, and I can pretty much keep up with any testosterone-driven fiend out there, wherever he may be. So all I have to say to those women is - oh, stuff it!

'nuff said!

How to Slob' on a Knob

Even the homeless guys don’t usually bother to sleep in some of the buildings in our town, and in our town we have a lot of places just like it. You can pick out what the spaces were previously used for from the archaeological levels of debris piled up on the floor, if you've got the courage to walk into the open doorways to begin with.

This particular building might have been a choice business location fifty year ago, now it’s just another abandoned ruin.

The doorway to this corner building seems to have once had a nice set of double glass doors. The doors were stripped out long ago and in their place somebody put studs to hold up the door frame, and then nailed a sheet of plywood across the front to keep out the tramps and the elements. There isn't much left of the plywood. There’s an incongruous sign in red and white advertising a nearby “party store” nailed to the right side of the door. A "party store" is the local euphemism for a place that sells cheap Malt Liquor to alcoholics.

It’s an oddly inviting doorway just the same for anyone who’s willing enough to navigate the tangle of dry rot to go inside.

So today I did just that. Somebody dropped the idea into my head to pick up some guy for one of those little illicit afternoon quickies that I like to do from time to time, just to get the taste of a good dick in my throat.

Once I identified my “Mr. Right” (or more accurately Mr. Wrong) and elicited from him the properly rude street-seduction and invitation to “get on the dick,” I let him pick out the location, since Mr. Wrong is not the sort of guy I like to take home with me. Not if I plan on having a T.V. and other valuables in the morning, anyway. But I’m the kind of bitch who can hold her own, so I followed him through this peculiar passageway.

Besides, with the veins in his neck bulging, it was pretty obvious that his brain was too preoccupied with the actual possibility of sex to think about thieving or any other skull-duggery.

As for me, it was all a matter of honor, since the man said he doubted I could handle all of his dick. “Are you going to break me down and bone me like you own me,” I asked? He smirked, and answered gleefully, “I’ll nail your ass to the cross!”

OK, come on, what hard core slut can resist such a nasty and sacrilegious proposition?

So I followed him to paradise, knelt down, unzipped his pants and prayed to the dick god. He rewarded my supplication with the appropriate throat-gagging head fuck, which after 15 or 20 minutes ended happily enough for both of us. He with his hard grunting load spurt straight down my throat, and me with the thick creamy mouthful he left me to remember him by.

While I never quite got the bone-work and crucifixion he had previously advertised, the location was hardly appropriate for that sort of thing. Besides, its 43 degrees out today. Too cold to drop my drawers, but a good day for a full throat slob' on his knob.

Just another pleasant afternoon in the city!

The Dick

I'm a dick fiend!

Shape, size, length, all those things that ought to trigger something in me, well, I don't know that it really matters. There's just something about watching the dick get hard, any dick, and knowing what it's about to do to me, and (hopefully) do to me hard and nasty, that makes me go crazy, and foggy and wild in the head.

I'm a dick fiend! I crave it!

Show me a hard dick, and I'm guaranteed to kneel down and bow in the presence of greatness!

Street Smarts

My friend Andre says, "Even the most high-class female looks like a nasty street bitch when you get her on her back with her legs spread and her split wet!"

Andre

His name is Andre, though sometimes he calls himself Dr. Dre, sometimes just Dre, or sometimes he calls himself D-Dog. He's got a body covered with thug tattoos. He's pretty much the image of the man my momma warned me about, in and out of bed. Andre isn't ever going to be anyone's idea of a gentleman. He's an ex-convict and proud of it.

I've been dating Andre, off and on for about a year now. It's just a chemical attraction. He's the kind of man I like to feel grinding on me. Sometimes, I see him fairly often, sometimes he's pretty scarce. During those long stretches I don't see him, I figure he's in jail or in trouble, or he might be dead. He ain't nothing nice.

Andre never had too many chances in life. Just one institution to the next, he came up on the street. His mother was a whore, the rest of the women that raised him were either whores or worse. The only family he knew was the pack from the street. His philosophy of sex comes from the street, from using whores, from contraband porn in jails, from the lyrics of gangsta rap, and from the tales told by other men just like him. He's been around long enough to have the violence burned out of him, but not the world view.

Don't get me wrong, he's a thug with a thug soul, but he's not un-charming. Far from it, he's very charming. Andre is smart, cunning and physically powerful. He prides himself on his manhood. In another world, if he'd had the chance, he might have been a captain of industry.

Sexually Andre is about as desensitized as any man I've ever met. He occupies the most extreme edge of male sexuality, male sexuality without any experience to temper it. Just pure nasty, the only place a female holds in his world is the feeling he gets when he uses her. "When I fuck a bitch, I never show her no mercy" he says.

Like I said, Andre is a chemical attraction for me. He's the archetype of the most extreme levels of male sexuality. He doesn't hide it, or cover up for it, he hardly keeps his ways a secret. For other men, porn is a video fantasy, a hidden pleasure in life. Andre sees it as a regular depiction of life. It's all just natural to him. For Andre the depiction of sex in porn is just the regular order of things.

Andre considers me a bit of a trophy in his life, and he likes to show me off. A date with Andre, if you can call it that, might end up in the pool room of some back alley tavern, where he'll have me spread my legs for the entertainment of the men in the place and let them all know I am a filthy bitch. Like I said, he ain't nothin' nice.

I think every man has a secret Andre hiding inside them, lurking someplace around the dark street corners of their sexual brain. At least I hope so!

And, I guess you could say, I ain't nothing nice, either.

The Gaping Maw

It's an acquired taste, like a Stilton or one of those runny French cheeses. The first time I got my asshole stretched, it was awful! I used to let men do it to me because they enjoyed it, now I beg men to do it to me because I enjoy it. Not that many ask. They usually just get that vibe off me and roll me over face down and run it up in my guts. Anal sex is sort of the measure of being nasty, I think. It sure feels nasty.

There's this man named Derrick who works at the grocery store, I see him maybe twice a week, sometimes more. He's long and he's long natured. Long meaning he packs a foot long pipe when it's hard, and long natured, he takes an hour sometimes to get off. There's nothing like the feeling of a man running up against the lining of my ass hole for an hour. By the time he's done I'm big and sloppy.

I think Derrick is on a mission. He wants to see how long it's going to take to take out my anus and wreck my rectum.

He's well on the way.

Fire in the Hole

There are some motel rooms that you rent by the hour. I know one where someone comes to change the bed sheet and throw out a few towels between guests; just a bed, some towels and a clean sheet, all the basic necessities for an hour or two.

They’ll give you a blanket if you ask for one. I don’t imagine many do.

The last time a man took me there he asked me if I’d like to meet some of his buddies too. “Sure” I said. He paused from the sex just long enough to fish a cell phone out of his pocket and make a call. “It’s all good! She says it’s all good! Yeah, how far away are you?”

Less than two minutes later I had a room full of new boyfriends. I can’t remember their names exactly. I think they were something like Snake, Dawg, T-Bone, and Little Dawg.

One thing about Little Dawg, he wasn’t really little, at least not in that department, and he took three turns.

Good thing they let you rent an extra hour if you want to.

Run a Train

Poison Blonde

"It's an old building by local standards. John Brown might have ridden past it in a four-in-hand on the northern spur of the Underground Railroad.

In any other city it would be an archaeological treasure, and a slot for it on the National Register would be someone's cause of the month, but in our town it's just another empty lot in waiting. The corporation that owns it budgets just enough to prevent that, paying an old Russian Jew to bang on the radiators and a crew to sweep out the butts and unclog the waterspouts shaped like griffins. I like it because they let you smoke in the offices.

You can probably sacrifice a goat if you want to badly enough."

-Loren D. Estelman, Poison Blonde (2003)

My city has a lovely reputation. When I travel out of the city and people ask me where I live, I respond by telling them "Detroit." Oh, where near Detroit, they ask? "I live in Detroit," I tell them. There's usually a moment of awkward silence, then they ask, "In the city?" "Yes, in the city," I respond. "Oh" they say, as though I just told them I live in the back room of a circus wagon. Apparently blonde girls don't choose Detroit!

Detroit, its name comes from the French L'Detroit, or the straits, the city of the dire straits. At mid-20^th Century Detroit had a population of two million and its industrial might stood unchallenged in the world. Detroiters believed they stood at the crossroads of greatness. They stood at the crossroads alright, but the turn they took was straight down a rutted one-horse-road. The old Coupe de Ville got stuck in a ditch and rusted away in the place it stalled out.

Firestorms of racial tension, insurrectionary riot and labor strife came and went. The once vaunted automobile industry fell victim to globalization and modernization elsewhere and went the way of the Packard, Nash and Hudson. Detroit bled population totals, the fastest shrinking city in history. Over half its people fled in less than fifty years. White flight was followed by black flight. The city's glorious art deco skyscrapers were emptied. A European documentary about the city proved so heartbreaking to French housewives that they sent charity back to L'Detroit as partial repayment for the Marshall Plan. By the time dawn broke, it was over land-based casinos and giveaways to high-tech corporations, last ditch efforts to get the de Ville out of the ditch.

Detroit's current agony involves a sex-texting Mayor, illicit vacationing, and a City credit card account run out of control. Show me a man with a candy red Lincoln Navigator, and I'll show you a dick-less loser every time. The less said about the man, the better. Back in the day, Detroit had a real Mayor. The white folks didn't care much for him much, of course. He let them know that HE was THE MAYOR. Mayor Young was tough, but honest and honorable, more or less. On his desk he had a brass nameplate that read, "Coleman A. Young, MFIC." MFIC, meaning Mutha-Fucker in Charge. They don't make them like Mayor Young anymore.

We've had our share troubles, and more than our share of bad press and forgettable books to go with them. We always turn up in the national papers dubbed as "Murder City. Academics write about Afterculture: Detroit and the Humiliation of History. Funny thing is that even the negative books like Devils Night and Other True Tales of Detroit, and more recently, Made in Detroit, by Paul Clemens,
the anguished memoir of a Detroit ex-pat who isn't quite sure if he's racist or not. Eminem's Crossing Eight Mile, a hit movie, is more a cartoon than genuinely enlightening. Even these negative portrayals of the city admit the power of place the city has on its people, past and present.

Perhaps it is the shared experience of adversity that binds Detroit's remaining 900,000 residents together. Almost all will admit a defensive anger toward the slings and arrows of outsiders that we all must bear. I am not going to lie, as urban problems go, Detroit has more than its fair share. Still, I am and I will remain a "booster!" As America, and the nations beyond America, grow more alike, more homogenized through the forces of fast transportation, communication and economic globalization, many of us will find refuge in our sense of place, no matter where it is. Many will find this sense of home to be strongest in the unique character of older cities like Detroit.

Detroit is still a crossroads. Maybe this is because of the proximity of the deep-water river at the city's front door that runs between Lakes Erie and Huron that brought the French here in the first place. Maybe it is the fact that the city stands on an international border. Maybe it is the mix of black and white that gives the city this character. Even its rusting industrial ruins seem to me a spiritual landscape, frozen between past and future.

In Detroit you can probably sacrifice a goat if you want to badly enough, or do the nasty in the back of an old building. Detroiters have seen too many bad times to be intolerant. Or you might find yourself walking through an ancient arcade toward the open door of a spiritual crossroads you never expected, like a poison blonde on a mission.

The Crossroads

"They say if you go down to the crossroads alone, and wait for that brief moment when night turns to dawn, you might see the old man sitting there. Even if you don't see him, you might smell the faint aroma of his pipe tobacco, or see the shadow of his crutch, or hear his deep merry chuckle. Sometimes he gives you things; sometimes he takes things from you. Only one thing is certain: once you've gone to see him, you'll never be the same again.

Some say the old man is the devil himself. Others say he's an angel sent from heaven, and still others call him the lurker at the threshold. If you ask him about this, he'll tell you "yes." And then he'll chuckle to himself, his eyes brighter than the waning stars as he puffs on his pipe and dawn becomes daybreak."

–Kenaz Filan (Houngan Coquille du Mer), 2007

The Crossroads II

Papa Legba open the way for me, when I return I'll pay honor to the Lwa

She Real Gone, Jack!

I doubt that I’m the kind of female you like to take home to meet your mother, but then again, you probably don’t let your mother know you’ve got that nasty streak, do you? I don’t have that dilemma. I’m hyphy about it; gone stupid with it. I just let it flow.

Sexuality is just there, it’s neither good nor evil, it just is. Folks were doing it long before me, and they’ll be doing it long after I’m gone. People ask me why I act out so nasty, why I let men treat me nasty, use me like they do, and why I don’t seem to mind it one bit that I’ve been used.

While I enjoy being scandalous, a slut, a skank, I usually see myself as more of an aficionado of sexuality and a catalyst for the experience. I also think that if I’m going to do the thing with a man, he should get off a good one, or frankly, why even bother? If it’s the dirty element of sex that’s so enjoyable, then the dirtier it is the more enjoyable it’s bound to be. Don't you think so, too?

I don’t particularly feel “used” in any way, actually. When it comes to sex, I can bang the boards with the best of them. Maybe I’m not the kind of female you like to take home to mother, but chances are I might be a lot more interesting.

When it comes down to it, it’s all so simple, really: I like a cool whiskey and a stiff dick!

Keak Da Sneak: All Hyphy...

Detroit Noir

"Detroit is an old and wounded city, broken into wildly diverse splinters, but it is not dead, for it is possessed of a unique vitality rooted in its complex history and its hardy people. Detroit is noir, shadowed and striving, grim and powerful. It is impossible not to know the city and not respect it."

-E.J. Olsen and John C. Hocking, Detroit Noir

Where I grew up, Detroit was the place your people ran away from. Most of the people I was raised with likely couldn't find downtown Detroit, unless perhaps they came for a baseball game in a church group bus. After dark, they couldn't imagine being caught on Detroit's streets, not beyond the white-trash-paradise of the Casinos anyway. I, on the other hand, ran to Detroit. I took refuge in it. I found an unknowable beauty in it, and a whole new realm of possibilities. From the beginning, I picked up the scent of the place on my finger tips, threw my hand up in the air and declared, "This is the place for me." Having dug my roots into Detroit soil, I have declared the city as my home, and here I will stay until they throw the dirt over my head.

Detroit's downtown has returned to a semblance of life you might find in any city, with "luxury-condominium-lofts" for the newly arrived yuppie set, complete with Starbuck's, Border's Books, and a Hard Rock Café. The tourists, such as they are, will content themselves to make the circuit on the Detroit People Mover, an elevated railway that makes a never-ending loop of the central city. I, on the other hand, spend all of my time in the working heart of the city between the Fisher Freeway and Eight Mile Road, where the real Detroit can be found.

I rarely ride that Detroit People Mover, or go downtown for that matter. I prefer the rest of the city, the real city. Saturdays will invariably find me at the Eastern Market, a great urban farmers market of the type once found in every Victorian city. Then I may venture off by bus in any direction, along one of the great spoke thoroughfares; Michigan Avenue to the West, Gratiot Avenue to the East, or Woodward Avenue that bisects West and East sides of Detroit. I ride the busses to explore, or to find another great urban adventure, wherever they might arise along the streets that thrust out into the flesh of the city.

Last Saturday I wound up in the back of an old storefront that sold alligator shoes. The proprietor was well dressed enough, though in a style way too bright, and way too tailored that fell out of fashion sometime around the time of the great 1967 riot. I soaked up some of his local history, tales of events gone by, and then I wound up going down on him in the back room of his shop where the shoes are stored.

Afterword, after a few awkward moments of trying to figure out where to dispose of his ejaculated jizz, I did the right thing and just swallowed it.

No longer in throws of physical pleasure, the man seemed torn and troubled between gratitude for having been celebrated in that way by a female more than half his age, and the mortal fear of an older man that he'd just been given some kind of mercy sex. It was the sort of thing men his age are always reflecting on after the sex act. Where a younger man might have just been thinking more along the lines of taking his traditional post orgasmic nap, this one needed to be reassured; reassured that I enjoyed him in that way that I wanted to.

I assured him that he still had that "It" thing going on that turns me on. And I wasn't lying to him, he did. The man still had that "it." Then we parted ways.

Detroit's mean streets are not always so dark, or bruised, or painful as they sometimes seem. In Detroit there is always enough time for everything, even a time to touch, and often with a little smuggled sex included into the mix to pass the day.

A Day at the Library

Last Saturday I stopped by the Detroit Public Library. While casually browsing through the stacks, I spotted a young man dressed in full gangsta' gear. He marched back and forth between the shelves, where he thought no one could see him, holding a book of poetry up in his eyes. Silently, he mouthed the words of the stanzas of the poems as he stepped triumphantly up and down the aisle, pausing only to hike up his sagging pants, or to make a turn when he ran out of space.

Then he spotted me watching him, and he snatched the book down and hid it; snatched it down, with the quickness. He cranked his cap to the side, put on his thug face, and with a big wide swing of his body, a gangsta' lean, he swaggered off to some other hidden spot in the library to read his poetry.

Some people say Detroit is a horror, a ruin. I see a garden, a glorious garden growing.

Can't you see?

Detroit City

Dichotomy

Every now and then my white girl ways get the best of me and I become that Susan, that damn white-girl Susan! Then we have a little struggle and the two twins fight it out inside my head, kicking and scratching, and I come out acting right again.

Dancing with Guédé

Guédé is an awesome spirit, dressed in black. Guédé is the spirit that carries us through the doorway we must all eventually pass, the passageway from life to death. As his incarnation as Baron Samedi he is usually seen wearing a top hat and tails. His colors are black and purple. He holds all the wisdom of death, and he is beyond our ways. He mocks our social proprieties. Guédé walks among us stiff-legged and corpse-like, except when he stops to dance the Banda, a lewd, gyrating dance with exaggerated pelvic thrusts.

Guédé is also the spirit of sexuality. Guédé is not shocked by sexuality, nor is he a moralizer, since sexuality is beyond good and evil, but rather inevitable. Guédé doesn't delight in sexuality or shun it; he is never ashamed of it. Guédé does, however, loudly and obscenely mock those who pretend to be offended by it. He reserves a special contemptuous mockery for those who preach against it. Guédé has no particular use for any kind of authority figure. Sometimes he wears dark glasses with one lens missing, since with his one eye showing, he's a bit of dick-head!

When I am mounted by Guédé it is an overpowering experience. He brings out a total fever in me, a clawing craving of sexual obsession and lust. Nothing can put out the fire-fever of compulsion except to give me that which we might call total slut treatment, since it requires the administration of total slut treatment to satisfy the cravings of a total slut.

Some days I never even see Guédé, hear his lusty song, or smell his musty sweat. Other days the presence of Guédé consumes me, and nothing can satisfy me until I go out dancing with Guédé.

Banda

Uncle Knapsack

There is an old Haitian folktale that talks about Uncle Knapsack, the Tonton Macoute, who stuff bad little children, or in my case, bad little girls in his sack and takes them away. There are real live Uncle Knapsack's out there of course, and I am always in a sort dread of them, and yet drawn to the fantasy, and occasionally the reality of them as well.

Because of my nature and my experience, I am little more advanced in this stuff than most. I am fairly ambivalent to the idea that most victims are actually really victims, ergo in the famous case known as the Kobe Bryant incident, as I've mentioned here before, I stand four-square with the side who supports Mr. Bryant. I supposed that I'm a little jaded that way, a little more understanding of manhood than most, but that's the way I see it.

I'll go so far as to say that I suspect that most so-called sex offenders are not hard core criminals at all, and I'm not speaking about any of the truly hard-core criminals here, but men who just failed to read the stop sign when it was thrown up and wound up paying an unwarranted price.

Most porn seems to follow this theme, even if it's an unspoken one, since, who dares to say it? And, let's face it, most men enjoy porn. They secretly enjoying it in silence, of course, since the poor souls are forced by societal norms to deny it and renounce it to their female friends.

I myself can't imagine doing it with a man who doesn't enjoy his porn! Rather, I hope before we ever get started, that he's quite the connoisseur of it.

Uncle Knapsack is the darker angel of male sexuality, the hidden side, the pornographic side of his sexual mind. Usually in life he's relegated to play out his craving in dark fantasy and vicariously through pornography-stimulated mental passion plays, sometimes just watching it in privacy. Sometimes he comes out to play in real life. Uncle Knapsack is a filthy fellow. He is not necessarily an absconder, though he very well might be.

I've met Uncle Knapsack in hundreds of dreary little hotel rooms. I've experienced his value-added ways at doing sex. Uncle Knapsack is a nasty fellow, too. He understands a bad girl like me. He's a real user, a true-blue degrader of bad girls like me.

I can pick up Uncle Knapsack's vibe from the get go. Maybe he doesn't like anything particularly special about his sex, except that the element of degradation for the female is central to it. Maybe he likes to take it to a level so I know he's done me really nasty. Most often the message comes simply enough. He'll unceremoniously flips me on my stomach, face down and shoves a dick up my asshole. Uncle Knapsack almost never asks permission to do this, he just takes the guts!

Sometimes he'll take it down to some level I was never expecting. Take for example one of my recent encounters. This iteration of Uncle Knapsack turned out to be something of an amateur gynecologist. His technique included a bit of stretching and pulling, so as to be able to see my pussy hole pulled opened and gaping. Then, in went the fingers. Two, then three, then four, finally a thumb as well; he pushed down and with a kind of nasty little snap, his whole fist drilled deep into my pussy hole, all the way to the cervix. It was a full-fledged fisting too, a punch fuck really that he gave me, and he made me thank him for the "free" five finger cunt-hole exam to boot.

Dirty little secret here is that I got that nasty, explosive, slutty cum feeling from the whole event, from the feeling of Uncle Knapsack's wrist-bones grinding away at clit-level, while he worked his nasty fisting. I guess that says plenty about me, right there!

Oh, that Uncle Knapsack!

Paint My Face

I can't go on,
she asks me why?
I let the answer shoot
straight in her eye

Often, it has been my experience, doing the things I do, the way I do them; men seem to like to paint my face at the end of the sex act. That is to say they like to bust off a thick one, all over my face. It is a kind of coup de grace. Visual proof that I am nasty enough to earn a load of cum externally, and all over my face, at that!

Melvin

I have acquired an odd fetish for male cum, preferably a thick creamy seminal discharge of massive proportions. Now, there’s this freak I like to play with named Melvin. When that man skeets off a load, he busts off a jet of cum that rivals Old Faithful! The sort of mega-ejaculation that I’m sure might one day blow the bottom out of me, a regular 30 megaton C-bomb. I can't imagine where it all comes from!

It must be good for Melvin as once he’s busted his nut, he’s usually asleep before he can even roll off me. And me? I’m left with his glorious mess, usually running down my thigh like a river of mayonnaise.

Yup, me too!

I Walk on Gilded Splinters

Some people think they jive me,
But I know they must be crazy
Don't see their misfortune,
I guess they're just too lazy
Je suie le grand zombie
My yellow belt of choisen
Ain't afraid of no tomcat,
Fill my brains with poison

Walk through the fire,
Fly through the smoke
See my enemy,
At the end of their rope
Walk on pins and needles
See what they can do
Walk on guilded splinters
With the King of the Zulu

Walk to me, get it, come, come
Walk on guilded splinters
Walk to me, get it, come, come
Walk on guilded splinters
Till I burn up.
Till I burn up.

I roll out my coffin
Drink poison in my chalice
Pride begins to fade
And you all feel my malice
Put gris-gris on your doorstep
And soon you be in the gutter
Melt your heart like butter,
An-an-and I can make you stutter

Walk to me, get it, come, come
Walk on guilded splinters
Walk to me, get it, come, come
Walk on guilded splinters
Till I burn up.
Till I burn up.

-Mac Rebenack

Gris Gris Gumbo Ya-ya: The Night Tripper

Zonbi

Some people laugh and say to me, "There are no Zombies, people can't be turned into Zombies!" Then I take them out at night and show them the Zombies.

Oh yes, they are Zombies, sure enough. Sometimes we just call them by more familiar names, like "crack fiend."

Louise Brooks: Forever Lulu

Among the greatest of them all, the incomperable Louise Brooks. The film segments are from her masterwork, G.W. Pabst's Pandora's Box (1928).

Kites

There was flurry of posts to another blog a few months back that toyed with the idea of possible events that might happen were a female to be deposited unattended into a Maximum Security Prison for Men. I'll leave the details to others to speculate on or write about. I'll just say that it makes for a certain amount of good fantasy matter, the thought of being the designated fuck toy for a men's prison population.

The closest I've ever gotten is to be the first female a former prisoner has had sex with on the evening after his release from the penitentiary. There is nothing quite as awesome as a man who is grunting six or seven years of incarceration-enforced celibacy out of his system! That, to put it bluntly, is some pure fucking!

Every time I see one of those Department of Correction busses bringing home a load of ex-convicts, I want to follow the thing so I can meet the disembarking passengers at the re-entry station.

I also have a few special pen-pals in my life. I have a regular correspondence going with a couple of prisoners. There is one prisoner in particular I am fond of writing to. He actually came to me by a circuitous route. I had been writing to another prisoner, though the correspondence wasn't, well, quite what either of us were looking for at the time. No problem, he passed my letters down the cell block to another prisoner who was more than enthusiastic for some nasty letter exchanges. He sent me off a little letter introducing himself and our torrid correspondence began.

Since then, he's put me on his visitor list and we spend the occasional afternoon in sexual-tension filled visiting rooms. Regrettably these meetings are under the watchful eyes of the chaperoning prison guards du jour.

<Sigh> If only we could do the conjugal thing. What a weekend that would be!

Dinner on 8

Dinner and a show. Perhaps a single sitting of sweat sausage, salty balls and tossed salad. Maybe something thick and creamy for desert.

I am a very oral sort of person. I mean I like oral sex. I like the taste of a man, yes all around there, all of it; the dick, sweaty nut sack, and right on down lower. One time I was doing it and I started to do the tossed salad thing on a man. He said something to me like, "Your sure making a whole meal of it, aren't you?"

I read some comment someplace by a guy who liked to make women do that, lick guy's ass holes, that is. He said, "When a bitch is sucking a dick she can think about something else, when she's sucking an asshole, she knows she's sucking an asshole!" I say that when a female is sucking a dick, a man might still think he's doing it with it with a nice girl, but when she's sticks her tongue in his asshole, he knows he has a nasty bitch to work with.

Enough said!

Tastes Nuttier

Maya's Presence

John the Conquerer

Papa Legba, open the way for me, when I get back I'll pay honor to the Lwa.

Sometimes people say they worry about my little obsessions, my behaviours, my proclivities, if you will. They ask if I have any heros, someone more positive, someone I would like to emulate.

I think maybe one. Maya Deren.

Use Me

Little Nasties

There is a man I see out on the street a few blocks down from where I live, every now and then, who is always quick with the lewd proposals whenever I walk by. He can talk it too, his eyes flashing, leering grin and all. He's a real "charmer."

He's also a grabber. By that I mean he makes that indecent groin-grabbing gesture, except to describe this particular gesture it is more like, grab, slide and squeeze, a bit of a head-diddle, and then a whole finger-dance thing, so that I can see that he's packing some pipe in his pants.

(Not that I look for things like that, or anything).

By the time I'm past him, he'll be muttering something to his partners about "makin' that bitch take" his dick or something else that involves drilling the dick into me someplace.

These little indecent street propositions are something that usually infuriate women, and that they suffer in stoic silence as they pass by. They think of these encounters as something along the line of little nasties that they must endure on a daily basis.

For me, on the other hand, these little nasties often turn into fodder for my (admittedly rich) masturbatory life. Whatever the social and sociological reasons that some men do that, is not important to me. Most of it is just a lot of empty talk anyway. However, I see these men as some kind of social-sexual traffic cop, reminding us all that to move ahead as a species, ultimately a female has to take that dick, or so the rumor would have it.

Late at night, when my fingers start doing the no-no thing, and I start to fantasize, guess who gets who gets the call-up from my nasty little brain. Other times when I'm having sex for real with a man, and the feeling isn't quite right, I just close my eyes and make that same call to Mr. Street Corner man. All of a sudden the one I'm with thinks he's Mr. Super Stud incarnate, but of course it's really you-know-who that's doing it for me.

As a person, my internal wiring is way off, I realize. There is that discordant note that I hear and enjoy in my "night music," that is to say that I am titillated to be objectified merely as that bitch. Once I'm there with that, all that good dirty shit starts bubbling up in my furtive little brain, and the local sex-plumbing system starts pumping up that wet-wet.

Above all there is the entire "take the dick" thing, to be "made to" take the dick, in fact. This is that whole the fuck thing I often think about. That the fuck is the natural use of a female in the sex act, no love thing involved in doing it. The fuck is something a man does to (and not with) a female, and the female, well, she takes it. She takes the dick!

As for my favorite fella' out there on the corner, I always imagine the fuck with him to be about the dirtiest fuck I can imagine. Maybe it's one of those stick it deep up and in and all the way to the bottom impalings, pole batterings to the cervix, knock the walls of the hole down kinds of fucks, made all the more nasty because I'm wet enough to take him right away that deep. Maybe he might stick me, pull it back out, stick me again over and over all the while watching himself enter and exit this willing pussy hole, talking trash to me every times he sticks it too me. Then again, maybe he'll drill me dry and make me wet in the process, betraying my filthy ways as his dick gets gradually wetter with each long well-run stab of the dick.

My street corner man is always on top of course, so he can control action; the man runs the fuck in my little dark cravings.

When I'm actually doing the deed, I like to hold a man at the hips when he's doing it to me, to feel the fuck when he's on top of me, and just to feel that gate-swing of his body, the hammer that drives the nail down and in. I like to feel the full weight and power of the man when he does it to me.

As for my little friend out there hangin' on that street corner, for now he's just a mind fuck, but you never know. Someday he might run me so crazy with the "need it like that bad's" that he might get lucky and I'll take him up on one of his offers.

Never say never.