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.

Oral History

There is a running chronicle of street talk that goes on, call it the he did, she did tales of sex and conquest; strings of oral histories of sexual bravado that men share among themselves. I imagine this sort of manly discussion to be the first of the world’s oral history projects from back in the day when the Neanderthals where gathering on the corner in the forest. I suspect that this is the first of the great oral traditions of human history, in fact.

Just a thought.

Oral History: Sir Too Short

Going Gutter with It

Last night I did with a guy who seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was. Afterword when he was pulling his pants back on he twisted up his face, and in a tone of purified contempt he said to me, “You’re kind of gutter with it, aren’t you?”

One of the definitions of the word “Slut” in the Urban Dictionary reads:

SLUT

Someone who provides a very needed service for the community and sleeps with everyone, even the guy that has no shot at getting laid and everyone knows it. She will give him a sympathy fuck either because someone asked her to or she just has to fuck everyone she knows. These are great people, and without them sex crimes would definitely increase. Thank you slut, where ever you are.

WTF

Every now and then I'll stumble across some image, meant to be provocative in one way, that is just too arty and strange to pull it off, at least in the way it was intended. This has to be one of them. It is a photo of woman completely cocooned in an electric blue full-body stocking holding a vibrator, her features obscured by the nylon mesh.

I'm not sure exactly what the photographer had in mind here, but he's obviously not even thinking as nasty as I am.

So here's my advice to the hopelessly untalented: lose the vibrator and cut a split in the crotch of that thing, so that the only thing open to the outside world is the woman's pussy, a kind of electric-blue Burka of the nasty, except with the split at the crotch instead of the eyes, sort of a Burka with its priorities straightened-out.

And, by the way, shouldn't she be wearing platform shoes with clear heals?

Some of you guys are just falling down in the nasty department! Get with it!

BoOYAH Bait I

I'm a filthy-minded bitch. Sometimes I might tell some man that I am the just about dirtiest bitch they can imagine, but they usually don't believe me. Trust me on it. I'm nasty, straight up, nasty.

Freaks they may be, but most men find me way too deep for their freaky tastes. Much as I hate it, I'm the one who has to keep her shit undercover until I get with somebody as nasty-minded as me. On the other hand, some men are way TOO freaky for even me. But it's cool. We all just got to bounce to it, I guess. Try each other out, figure where the fit is; what floats our own particular boat, get in where we fit it. At least I get to write on it, can't stop me. My nasty-mind just flows like a damn waterfall.

I'm chronic, a sex compulsive. I figure that if it's the dirty element that gives pleasure to the act of lust, then the dirtier it is the more pleasure it's likely to be. Me? I'm greedy for some dick. Just shrug it, because it's just the way I am. I've got a sort of mental smut loop running in my head all god-dam-day, until it busts out and I act the slut. I just ain't wired right, I guess.

Most of the time I figure I'm corrupting some mans mind when I start freaking with him nasty, probably making him want to run off to some cathedral someplace and do confession, just to get the rah-rah off him.

Then off I go picking through the pack until I find a man who's as filthy-minded as I am, or better, and then, well you know.

Bolt the doors, and hope that nobody knocks the damn walls down tonight, 'cause all hell is about to break loose!

BoOYAH Bait II

"Nuts in the ass, dick in the pussy!

I'm goin' wash your dog!"

-Tony Eveready

When I tell them I'm a filthy-minded bitch they usually don't believe me.

Well here is my idea of a great date. There's this porn star named Tony Eveready, A.K.A the "Gansta of Porn." He's not the biggest man out there, or the best, but there's something supa-nazty about him. He's got that attitude, that special something that says "strait-up-dog!" He is the archetype of "straight-up-dog!" He lights up those nasty videos he acts in. The focus may be on the porn actress, but no matter what, he is the star. He knows how to clown on a bitch. His MySpace Web site says he's in jail right now.

I'm not surprised.

Every man I do it with, here's a little secret I'll let you in on. Deep down, in my own mind, I'm measuring him up in the nasty department against Tony Eveready. If you get in the 80's or 90's on the Tony-Eveready-scale with me, I'm yours!

He's got fans all over the place. He's a standout, Tony Eveready.

Mostly he's known for a famous video he did with a porn actress named Alicia Angel. The video gets around. I've seen it dozens of times. In it he stuffs his balls down in her gaping ass and then flipping his dick down into her pussy, doing a double penetration on her all by himself. They even gave that stunt a name, "dog-washing." It's like washing a dog. Damn near impossible to keep fluffy in the tub.

At the end of the feat, Tony Eveready pulls his balls out of her asshole with a big loud pop, pumps his fist and hollers "Booyah!"

Booyah!

BoOYAH Bait III

I'm filthy-minded, and I can take it too.

I know one man who damn-near crashes through the roof of the Tony-Eveready-nasty-scale. He might take me out on a date, then when he's sure he's got what he thought he had, spread out on the mattress someplace, while he's up inside me doing to me, that's when he might pick up his cell and call up some of his roe dogs. Tell them how it is, that is got it that way. How he's got it in the bed, right now. This is kind of fucking they talk about all the time in the street. They kind they brag on, but can't really prove. This he has to share with them, to let them witness for themselves, so tomorrow they know the bragging was all truth. He doesn't really ask if I think it will be OK, if I agree to outside parties to this event, he knows I'm game, he knows I will, he just invites them to come over, to see. "Yeah, it's all good, c'mon, it's all good!"

Once they see me, stripped down, in person he'll show them how I am. He'll finger-fuck me for the audience. Maybe start off with a grinding, twisting, stretching, two, three, or four, finger-fuck. He tries to touch my cervix, then he pulls his fingers out and holds them up to show everybody how wet they are, because I'm the kind of filthy freak that likes the abuse.

Sometimes I see myself outside myself, flushed with humiliation and craving, and kicking out my legs wide to get more. More! More please! I see myself just like they see me.

They see me. His buddies, I mean. His buddies are a Greek Chorus, like Bobbleheads, nodding in agreement.

(The Chorus):

"Dang, dog! She so nasty!"

"Look it! Look it! Her nippo's hard! Nippo's all hard and shit! Nippo's all hard!"

"Yup, she nasty! She so nasty!"

"Nasty ho. OOOO, she nasty!"

"Yup!"

See me now? A perfectly degraded bitch, do you feel me?

(The Chorus):

"She like it!"

"She like it!"

"Don't you, bitch?"

Yes I do.

(The Chorus):

"Yeah, she do!"

"Yeah, she do!"

"Go! Tell on yourself!"

"Tell on yourself!"

"Tell on yourself, bitch!"

"She like it!"

"She like it!"

"Nasty bitch!"

"Yeah, she do!"

"Yeah, she do!"

Then when he finally busts that big sticky-thick nut on me, and then passes me off to that chorus to take their turn, that's BoOYAH!

Am I filthy-minded? Can I take it? (Say "Yup!")

Do you feel me now?

Holler "BoOYAH!"

Two Tickets to Filthyland

I seem to travel constantly between the psychic villages of lust, craving and guilt, and then back again, hopelessly traveling in circuits along the rutted tracks of the road of a dirty mind to the place I might call Filthyland.

I think one of the reasons I have such a proclivity for the pack is that I am just enough of an exhibitionist that I want the exposition of my slut-mind, my little slut-rants to be stored someplace. The fella’z have their little oral histories of street talk, but what about me? All I have is just this journaling, blogging, these little word pictures of my travels in Filthyland. Telling on my self, telling about things a bad girl gets used for on the streets of Filthyland, telling on myself about these little forbidden subjects "good" girls never (as we all know), think about.

We chronics have to feed our addiction. Either we masturbate constantly to let the steam out, or we live it out vicariously in the porn, or else take our compulsions out to the street and share it physically with other beings, such as ourselves, or we do something of all three from time to time.

On the one hand, I think to myself, nobody should be seeing behind my eyes shades like this, and I think about ripping it all down.

No matter, I know that out in our virtual community of souls, there are other passengers on this Greyhound Bus ride though Filthyland. They read me, I read them, and then we smile and nod at each other for a moment, in that quaint virtual community way we have, even if it's from behind the computer monitor.

Every time I write, I feel some sort of contentment in knowing there are at least two tickets, mine and another, for the ride to Filthyland.

Peace!

Bad Girl

Tonight I feel like that bad girl self again!

Crank up the YouTube, you "Go Go Boy"

Tonight I feel like I'm back on the right station.

Pornswageled

Pull the shades! I'm feeling another forbidden philosophy bubbling up.

Pornography is truth.

Now, I know something about men (I hope). Oh, yes, men are complex and multi-faceted creatures, full of storms and tenderness, creativity, power, art, fragility and light. Blah, Blah, Blah… Blah, Blah. I know all that. Zoop, Zoop!

Let's skip ahead to the point. Men are such dogs! Oh, and I just love that about them!

A lot has been made about the dichotomies of men's consciousness, the whole "Madonna/Whore Complex." That is to say that men compartmentalize women, on the one hand is the wife, mother, nurturer; object of love and passion. On the other the object of his sex, the "bad" or "dirty" female, for which he feels nothing but an urge to use and degrade. This dichotomy is always expressed in terms of men, but women also possess this dichotomy; we are rarely ever all the one, or all the other. I always know when I have accidently revealed too much Madonna. A man either goes soft and tender on me, or loses his interest altogether. In porn he can be free of any guilt, in porn he can have his females as all the one without the other. In porn he can be fully satisfied. Pornography is a moment framed perfectly, without distraction as the dick slides in and out the open pussy hole, wet and easy, without a moment of resistance. Pornography is nothing but the fuck caught on video. Pure.

Pornography is wisdom.

I like pornography because it is my teacher. It teaches me to be become the true object of a man's pleasure, complete pleasure, total pleasure. To serve him.

To serve him completely, so he can be truly satisfied. No guilt, no regrets. Secure that I was the bad girl who wanted it.

Pornography is that feeling the man is getting when he's inside of me. Pornography is the pelvic thrust, the fuck, nature's battering impalement, natures dance of defilement, captured and displayed for all to see, to witness.

Pornography is the external cum shot, usually to the face, blasted straight in the face. The instant when the man has proclaimed his total, pleasure, to himself unshared.

Pornography is the slut, face dripping and knowing.

Pornography is thrusting, impaling, stabbing, blasting, shooting.

Pornography is the fuck.

Pornography is truth.

Pornography is that feeling I crave and enjoy as much as he does.

Pornography is me.

Spanglish

I know it goes without saying here, but I am the rainbow-fucking-type. Black, brown, yellow, red, white, I gnaw through ethnic and linguistic identities like a beaver (so to speak).

Living on the borderlands, both psychically and physically, as I do, has its glories and its perils. I know from experience that I rub a lot of sensibilities the wrong way, when it comes to this topic; a lot of people don't see things my way. But, then again, I do live in Detroit, after all, and let's not forget Detroit is the only place in America that looks south into Canada.

I suppose it is both a blessing and a curse of North American life that the easiest way to cross borders is sex. Sad, and sort of upside down, that it should be so much easier to share bodies, before we can share minds. On the other hand, it is sort of wonderful that in North America people named Achmed and Megan can sneak off to the local Starbuck's every now and then to share a latte (and make a latte, later on).

This world is changing fast, and frankly, if you're a separatist, don't even start with me. If you start up with your bile, all I am going to do is show you my ass! Separatism is old, and tired, really tired. We are living in a rainbow world. You might as well get used to it, because that was the last train of the night, and that train left the station hours ago.

In the building where I live, there is an African American man who is married to a white woman. He and his son are constantly going at it. I can hear them hollering at each other, three floors up. The son says that he's not black, that he's post-racial! You know what, dad? You can hang it up, argument is over (and out), because your son is going to be post-racial. You are living in a post-racial world. You started making it, back in the day, when you made out with that dame.

And, me? I'm off to southwest Detroit tonight, Latino-land, to brush up on my Spanglish. First off, I am going to listen to some "Mamacita, puta, chika, chika..." música, and then I am going to drop my drawz, and fuck me a rainbow!

And if you don't like it, well, you can kiss my ass!

Southwest Detroit

Fever

Never know how much I love you,
Never know how much I care.
When you put your arms around me,
I get a fever that's so hard to bear.

You give me fever,
When you kiss me,
Fever when you hold me tight.
Fever! In the morning,
Fever all through the night.

Sun lights up the daytime
And moon lights up the night..
I light up when you call my name
And you know I'm gonna treat you right

You give me fever
When you kiss me,
Fever when you hold me tight.
Fever! In the morning,
And fever all through the night

Everybody's got the fever
That is something you all know
Fever isn't such a new thing
Fever started long ago

Romeo loved Juliette
Juliette she felt the same
When he put his arms around her he said,
"Julie, Baby, you're my flame

"Thou giveth fever
"When we kisseth
"Fever with thy flaming youth
"Fever! I'm afire,
"Fever, yeah, I burn, forsooth."

Cap'in Smith and Pocahontas had a very mad affair
When her daddy tried to kill him
She said,
"Daddy, oh, don't you dare!

"He gives me fever
"With his kisses
"Fever when he holds me tight
"Fever! I'm his missus, So
"Daddy, Won't you treat him right?"

Now you've listened to my story,
Here's the point that I have made:
Chicks were born to give you fever,
Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade

They give you fever
When you kiss them
Fever if you live and learn
Fever! 'till you sizzle
what a lovely way to burn
what a lovely way to burn
what a lovely way to burn
what a lovely way to burn

-Peggy Lee, Fever

Fever II

This Just In....

"HATE is kicking LOVE ass. Check the record."

-James Campion

Just Accept It

In Japan they have a saying. The nail that sticks up gets hammered down. No disrespect to the Japanese, but I'm not Japanese.

I just can't countenance these people who want to who want to force their so-called values on me and everyone else. You can't micromanage life. Just accept it. America is filled with people who want to micromanage life, or at least everyone else's lives. They spew their crap all day long. They even have a radio idol so they can listen to each other blather all day. Rush Limbaugh, the Oxycontin king. Listening to Rush Limbaugh is like being trapped in the back seat of my daddy's car for three hours. I'll pass.

You can hammer the nail down, but sooner or later that nail is going to pop up again. Even in Japan. Just accept it.

I have a neighbor who is in my space. Today (on Sunday, no less) I had a fella over who was sitting in his underwear, watching some porn DVD, hollerin' at the parts he liked the best, and generally having fun with the TV. I really don't see anything wrong with that. So this neighbor was in my face about it. "Do you think that's right to have some man in your place, watching filth like that? Watching filth like that right in front of you, in your own home, do think that's right, girl?"

I don't see anything wrong with it.

"Don't you want a nice man, a good man? What's wrong with you girl?"

He is a nice man, He is a good man.

"I'm going to pray for you!"

Whoop! There it is, "I'm going to pray for you!" The holy-roller speak for "fuck you."

The world is full of these folks, demanding that I, and everyone else, bend to their so-called values. They are such unhappy people, and when the world doesn't bend to their demands, they just turn into angry, bitter people. They cry the blues about how they have been persecuted, how they have been forced to be silent, forced to hold their tongues in a wicked world, when all they ever wanted to do was to do right, to make the world a better place, a place where everybody is righteous and good.

Such bitter folk!

That neighbor I was talking about, if she only knew. That preacher of hers, down at the Big Little Rock Church of Faith and God, that man she thinks is such a model of goody-goodness, that man of Gawd. Yes, that preacher, that one! In the dark, he's about the nastiest freak of the week. I wish she knew what I know. See, I've met that preacher out on the sneak. I met that preacher; that preacher who likes to watch nasty porn DVD's in the dark, and screw ladies in the butt hole.

So, pass the Oxycontin and just accept it!

All together now, "Let us pray."

Coney Island High

Detroit's signature junk food is the Coney Dog, a hot dog topped with all-meat chili, chopped onions and mustard with greasy french fries on the side. The best place is LaFayette Coney downtown. It's been in business since Cadillac came ashore. It may be nasty stuff, but it tastes like home.

Call it comfort food.

Turn up the radio, hum a little tune.

Comerica Park

It's good to be home.

Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, DeeCee, I love you all, but home iz where the big cats iz at. Tigertown!

I love baseball. Springtime is coming and that sound that I hear might be the sound of the grass growing under the frozen outfield crust of Comerica Park, Detroit. Like every Tiger fan I'm hoping that this is the big one, the year they finally do it. All the way, this time. I can't wait to take up my spot in the Center Field bleachers and root the Tigers home to the pennant.

I'm smellin' glory in the air!

Springtime brings baseball and Comerica Park is where I'll be.

The fun never stops out in the cheap seats, Center Field bleachers, my summertime home. Plus I can't really afford the snooty box seats. It's alright though, the view is great from Center Field.

Center Field is home to our beloved outfielder, Curtis Granderson. Now I could go for Curtis Granderson. You know in the Annie Savoy kind of way, that is to say the Susan Sarandan character in Bull Durham. I bet Curtis Granderson is probably the cuddly teddy bear type. No matter, he's cuteness.

Lawdy, Lawdy! You know you're chronic when you start writing about baseball and end up talking about sex!

Poor Curtis Granderson. He's probably complaining in the dugout all season, "How the hell am I supposed to shag flies with that dang snow bunny out there clocking my booty all night?"

"I believe in the Church of Baseball. I've tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I've worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn't work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there's no guilt in baseball, and it's never boring... which makes it like sex. There's never been a ballplayer slept with me who didn't have the best year of his career. Making love is like hitting a baseball: you just gotta relax and concentrate. Besides, I'd never sleep with a player hitting under .250... not unless he had a lot of RBIs and was a great glove man up the middle. You see, there's a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys. I can expand their minds. Sometimes when I've got a ballplayer alone, I'll just read Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman to him, and the guys are so sweet, they always stay and listen. 'Course, a guy'll listen to anything if he thinks it's foreplay. I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe, and pretty. 'Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games. Sometimes it seems like a bad trade. But bad trades are part of baseball - now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God's sake? It's a long season and you gotta trust. I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball."

-Annie Savoy, Bull Durham

The View from Center Field is Great!

Big Bird from BWI

Oh Gawd! Is that snot?

Here's a word to the wise: Never use the blankets on the late night flights out of BWI!

Talk amongst yourselves....

Education

I've become a big fan of learning for the sake of learning. I dragged myself into school and worked to earn an education just to get an education and not necessarily because I wanted a better vocation. People sometimes say "You have an education, you like to write, you're artistic, you could be making something of yourself!"

I am making of myself. I did make something of myself. I got my education, and I like being just the way I am.

Kobe Redux

I act the slut, because I am the slut. I know what time it is. I often wonder about these odd females out here who head out to adventure on the wild side then go all 'victim' on a man when they act like men. Look, girl, if you run with the pack, you serve the pack.

If you talk the smack, dress the smack, act the smack, set yourself out for all that, ain't no cryin' somebody went all-mike-tyson on you when you wake up out of your dream the morning after!

Windwalker

Washington Union Station is a dreamscape. It is a great Beaux Arts temple to transportation, of course. Within its great barrel vaulted confines flow the endless tides of travelling feet. Some are going someplace, or coming from some place, some are shopping, some just milling about to spend some time, just moving in place. Today I watch the brief surge of passengers just in from a ride aboard the Acela from New York, a business-class breaker of white hitting the beach. Through the mist of them walks a homeless man, at cross purposes from the tide. He has such a magnificent swagger. It's not an air, not pretense. That's just the way he walks. What a stride! I love that swagger.

Manhood is mystic.

Most people think I am truly off, or crazy, to describe men as mystical; to believe they are spirit-beings, possessing different realms, and being possessed by them, passengers in various planes of existence from one moment to the next.

Yes, I do believe manhood, and men, are mystical; shamanic shards of glass and wind.

Sometimes I build little altars to them, men, that is. Spirit boxes filled with bits of things left behind. I spend days sometimes making these little altars. Little spirit boxes filled with an old well worn, sweat-stained baseball cap or some other centerpiece to focus my worship. It's like trying to catch fire in a bottle.

But mostly at night I watch them sleeping, their chests rising and falling with spirit-breath's, being reborn again and again through the night. I watch silently in the darkness and the warmth of their presence.

The windwalkers.

Mistah Mike

It wasn't the marriage my daddy dreamed about. The family didn't exactly give the bride away. It was more like they like they wadded up the memory of me, and threw me away. They stuffed the memory of me at the bottom of some dumpster where no one could ever find the evidence of me again. Not in that family.

It wasn't much of a marriage, really. It didn't last long, just long enough to change my name, and for the past to make its final break with me. Just time enough for my past life to turn me into a whisper, "Oh she was the one that ran off with that black man, right?" Tsk, Tsk! Such a scandal!

Oh, his family didn't exactly greet me with hearts and flowers, either, but by the time I met him they were pretty much through with him, anyway. Mistah Mike has a thug soul, a menace to society. I suspect that they might have said something like, "That white girl can go 'head and keep that one. Just so she keep his ass from my door!"

It only lasted a few months, but for those few months he was everything I wanted in a man; tall, slim and chocolate to the bone, and he was my lily-white suburban daddy's worst possible nightmare.

Mistah Mike and I burned up the sky for a few months, and then he was gone, and on and on, on to the next episode. Eleven months after nuptials, the marriage ended in sacred divorced-bliss. I keep trouble in mind, but I draw the line at jail trouble, so it just had to come to an end. Just as well, eleven months was just long enough, we never got down to that festering, hateful, angst-filled "my baby's daddy" stage of post-marital life.

I don't really believe in married life, really. I think it's some kind of Hollywood delusion, and like every Hollywood delusion, the movie ends after a few hours and everybody just goes home.

Mistah Mike and I didn't have a perfect marriage, by any measure, but we have a perfect divorce. Everything I lost in a husband, I gained in a special fuck buddy. Some stuff is everlasting.

February Morning

Makaveli His Self: "Toss It Up"

(Toss it up!)

Lord have mercy, father help us all
Since you supllied yo' phone number, I can't help but call
Time for action, conversatin, we relaxin, kickin back
Got you curious for Thug Passion, now picture that
Tongue kissin, hand full of hair, look in my eyes
Time to make the bed rock, baby look how it rise
Me and you movin in the nude, do it in the living room
Sweatin up the sheets, it's the Thug in me
I mean no disrespectin when I tongue kiss your neck
I go a long way to get you wet, what you expect
Late night, hit the highway, drop the top
I pull over, gettin busy in the parking lot
And don't you love it how I lick your, hips and glide
Kiss you soft on your stomach, push my love inside
Got ya lost in a love zone, stuck in the lust
I got the bedroom shakin back-breakin when we're tossin it up.

-Tupac Shakur

Terrible Swift Sword

On the ceiling above my bed I have a full size poster of Tupac Shakur, framed and matted in glorious black and white.

It is the well known photo of the late great rap artist giving up the finger.

Mystic Tupac.

Tupac, the thug-spirit; Tupac, the dream; Tupac, the immortal; Tupac, the ethereal; Tupac, the thug angel; Tupac and the finger, that finger, the holy god-smack finger; gesture of gestures, the finger, that finger.

Oh, Word! The finger!

Every night the last thing, and every morning the first thing I see is the finger.

Mystic Tupac.

Finger like a sword. That finger like a sword.

Boogeyman of Wilmington

On my journey to Baltimore yesterday, a funny thing happened in the first 25 minutes riding south of Philly.

Seems I was absconded with, so to speak, straight under Amtrak’s watchful gaze at the Delaware station by El Cujo de Wilmington, the Boogeyman of Wilmington.

El Cujo caught me looking hungry, you know, down there where good girls don’t gaze. Boogeymen catch those little glances. Boogeymen are quite perceptive that way.

He was Dominican. Muy Grande! Si, es un monstruo! A monster!

“Si Mami, Chupame!” he said. [Translation: Yes mommy, this here is suckable!]

Promise? I asked.

“Chupa mi pinga, bay-bee!” he said. [Tr: Suck my dick, bay-bee!]

“Well, maybe…”

“You can get the next train, bay-bee!” he said.

Well, I suppose… I could hang with you a while.

“Ah,” he said, “Puto! Mujerzuela!” Then he suggested, “Ven satisfacer mis amigos. Puede satisfacer mis socios. Le gustaría que sí? Le gustaría Dominicana fuck hombres, sí? You can have a real good time, bay-bee.” [Tr: I see you’re a bitch, a slut. You can do my friends. You can do my partners too! You like that, yes? You like to fuck Dominican men? You can have a real good time, bay-bee!]

“Chinga, si!” I said. “Me gustaría que!” I said. “Y sus amigos también!” I said. “Yes,” I said, “and you want me to do all your friends, too?” [Tr. Fuck yes, I’d like that! And their friends too… and you want me to do all your friend, too?]

“Si!” he said gripping himself, “You will enjoy it. Usted sabe que se. You know you will. Usted sabe que se.” [Tr: You know you like it!]

“OK, I guess so.” I said.

He smiled, took my hand, led me off the train and introduced me to the great city of Wilmington, Delaware, adding, “Usted debe ser una puta caliente.”[Tr. You must be a hot bitch!]

Dominicano monstruo! So perceptive, these Dominican men!

And when he was done with me, he fed what was left to me to his friends, and I did them too.

El cujo! Such a monster!

Dominican Freestyle

Victor Says...

Tonight my friend Victor says, "Bitch, what's this blog shit about. Some kind of philosophy, or somethin'? Bitch' what up with that? Don't you know, a bitch ain't no deeper than her pussy hole. Now get off that fuckin' computer and get busy!"

Over and out then! What can I say? G'night for now.

Street Seduction

I’m a stone-freak sucker for a good street seduction! You know, those lewd propz from men on the street. Those propositions sound just like muzik to my ears:

“Does it tickle when you walk?”

“Baby, Baby git’ dis’ bone!”

“Come here and let me pump up some of that act-right juice!”

“Hey Baby, come ‘ere and lick my dick. Lick it up like corn on ‘da cob. Tastes just like buttah off corn on ‘da cob.”

“Come here and let me spank you’ ass! You so fine, I think I need to spank you’ ass!”

“Can I take a picture? Can I take a picture wiff my dick in you’ mowf?”

“Dat’ thing look nice girl. Bet ‘dat thing feel good girl”

“Lemme paint that face all thick and creamy, baby!”

“Let’s make a movie girl, let me take you to my movie world!”

“Come over here and let me make you scream, girl!”

“How ‘bout a little knock down."

"I bet you like to feel my dick up by your liver!”

“Ooo! Baby! I can hear that thing poppin’ way over here!”

"Gimme some of that cat, girl!"

“I got somthin’ for you BAY_BEE!”

“I think you need somethin! Yup! You need it girl, you definitely need something!”

Yup! I definitely do!

I’m a stone-freak sucker for a good street seduction!

You may talk raw, but I like it. (and you know I like it).
Can I get a dick ride, baby? Oh, baby? Oh baby, please!

(K, I told you be-4... I ain't nothin' nice! 'Sup witch U? Baby? Huh, baby? Where U goin' baby?)

Hint: Never talk if you ain't got the axe-shun!

'nuff said?

Don't Fight the Feelin'

Gardens of Groins

Every city I visit starts with a trip to the public library. They are the most democratic of spaces. I love these great temples to free inquiry for more than the obvious reasons.

Like the shelved books, one can withdraw the men inside and find in them, the spirit guides to the deep underbelly of any city, those people and places that never appear in print in the Chamber of Commerce brochures. Of course, I am often grateful to my tour guides; especially the ones filed under sexual compulsion.

I love public libraries, my magical gardens of groins.

Philadelphia Noir

Philadelphia City Hall has been described as the greatest American example of Second Empire architecture in the United States, even the greatest masonry structure of the 19^th Century. More accurately it is the greatest pile of Victorian bat shit in the Western Hemisphere. It dominates that city's center in the way that the Brandenburg Gate dominates Berlin. It's the greatest example of design by committee on the Eastern seaboard.

Construction began in 1871, while Philadelphia could still claim to be the first city of the realm, and ended in 1900 by which time Pennsylvania's coal and steel robber barons had abandoned the "City of Brotherly Love" for the upscale avenues of New York. Despite its monumental proportions, Philadelphia's City Hall never made it to the pages of great architecture sourcebooks. When the last stone was laid, the public taste had already declared it old and frivolous.

The gilded age Brahmins of Philadelphia didn't give up the city's place in the urban pantheon without a fight, of course. Across from City Hall stands the great Masonic lodge of Philadelphia as testament to the keepers Philadelphia's last stand. The great gray temple of freemasonry is still a going concern, a secret society where generations of middle aged white men have gathered to secretly snap towels, share ancient unknowable handshakes and ritually shave each other's crotches. Rather than retreat gracefully into the status of "Queen City of the East," Philly fought her fate for decades, scratching and clawing all the way. But it was all in vain, the fight turned Philly into a madwoman; though sometimes she seems just a gritty old hag with blood on her teeth.

These days on the one side of Broad Street facing City Hall is a larger than life statue of Frank Rizzo, a thug and a lout if ever there was one, and a monument to the City's total decline; while on the other, the Masonic Temple still conducts its secret rituals. Though, the mysterious recessed oak doors of the Mason's hall mostly just makes the perfect place for homeless men to take a piss.

I often fear America in its entirety might be well on the way to becoming Philadelphia writ large, with George W. Bush playing the fool, Rizzo.

Get Spayed

My friend Hector says "A female has two functions in life; gettin' fucked and makin' babies." Then he says, "All females should be spayed!"

The Other White Meat

The Toss Back

I like any position that a man might enjoy, of course, but my favorite position is with a man on top where he belongs.

I've gotten pretty flexible at the great toss-back. That is, spreading my legs wide and tossing my knees all the way back. To lift a standard line from hip-hop, I toss 'em back "like I just don't care." Well, I care, actually. I care that a man has full access to that wet split he enjoys. I show a man I'm ready to be used. My friend Terrence says even the most proper woman looks like the lowest street bitch when she's in that position.

I believe it, but there's nothing proper about it for me. I want the fuck, the pure fuck!

On my back with the man on top, a man is in complete control of the fuck. No need for him to struggle to get the right hold. With a man on top the pussy is his, all his; his pleasure ride, his stroke, his to use as he pleases. With a man on top a bitch like me can't run, can't escape, can't avoid the dick. With legs tossed back and the man on top, I've got no choice but to take the knock down.

So I toss back and take that dick!

Old School Oaktown, Say it Again!

Old school Oaktown still says it the best. Too $hort, I love it when you call me that: "BEEaaahTch!"

Too $hort:

Cheese Pole

Another blogger wrote that he thought that a woman going down on a man and giving him head was "inherently degrading" for the woman.

This may be true in any case, but I think it is doubly true if a man is uncircumcised. Uncircumcised dick tastes like cheese whiz on a Philly Cheese Steak.

If he's left it all alone long enough, say three or four days shy of some soap, it turns downright horrifying. Worse still, the built up cheesy rank flavor of stored smegma might be a slick sticky coat mixed with yesterday's cum, fluids from the last skank he boned, a little piss and god-knows-what else. All that mixed into that hideous coating of slime that has collected under his foreskin. To make matters worse she's actually going to have to work at it just to do a proper job of it. Pulling back the foreskin and keeping it pleasurable for a man is a task in itself! Then, just when you think you've got the hang of it (so to speak) you let go for an instant and your throat might suddenly be full of a slick tube of foreskin.

Giving a man some head might be "inherently degrading," but it's not necessarily a chore. My mind might actually drift off to other things while I down there giving service to a man. But not is he hasn't been clipped! If a man is uncircumcised, I know I'm down there sucking a dick from beginning to end!

Now, don't get me wrong, I am not an advocate of circumcision. Hardly that! There is something compelling and primal looking about a man au naturalle. A bit like an assailant with a ski mask on! The only point I'm making here that uncircumcised dick is probably not a taste treat one hopes to find in ones jelly bean mix.

Sperm Count

Gargoyles

As (admittedly) obsessed with sex and sexuality as I am, it often surprises people that I have an interest in reading and the arts. I often visit museums and libraries. I love them. I often suspect that the arts, literature and other creative impulses are simply streams of channeled sexuality.

I love cities, of course, and I love the layers of life and history in them, from fanciful birth to age dereliction and decay. My favorite performance art is architecture. I marvel at it. Among my favorite forms is the muscular Romanesque of H.H. Richardson and the wild and massive forms of Frank Furness, struggling to escape from its Victorian formalism and fancy.

Like Frank Lloyd Wright, I am, deep down, Nieztschean in my philosophy. I believe in leaving the creative urges alone, without restriction or of the meddling of social norms.

When, I look up at the sturdy walls of the older buildings I always delight in the gargoyles, those carnal delights perched in their cornices.

Fuck Motel

I have been on this journey ever since my daddy threw me out of his house.

Before that actually, since it was after the sixth or seventh time he caught me in bed with some guy, or heard about be suckin' some guys dick, that he ran me out his house and out into the street. Even then I was the type that had her prom dates with three members of the basketball team in the back end of somebody's Minivan.

So I've always been this way—physical, carnal, oh hell, say it like it is. Just a pure-ass slut! Just a natural-born freak! I just like it. Treat me like the nasty bitch I am, fuck me all night, I'm going to like it. Some bitches are just born nasty.

Seems like everybody knew what kind of bitch I was long before I figured it out. For a while I just thought I was spreading my legs every night just to stay in a warm bed and keep out of the streets at night. By the time I got to staying in the city, the thugs got hold of me. The thugs know what time it is. Thugs can spot a bitch like me a mile away. Thugs will turn a bitch out, and break a bitch down in a minute. Thugs know what a bitch like me gets used for. My daddy threw me out his house because I was a bad girl. The thugs, on the other like bad girls. Long live the thugs!

I guess I got an understanding about myself one night at some nasty fuck motel. I was flat on my back, staring up at the naked light bulb on the ceiling with some thug boning the shit out of me, sticking the dick to me deep and raw. You know, driving his big hard dick head hard into the pussy, doggin' the pussy, running up the walls of the hole to get that feelin' he liked. I got an understanding about myself right there in that nasty fuck motel. I got the biggest nastiest filthiest cum of my whole mutha-fuckin' life up until then. Right there in that fuck motel.

And I have never looked back.

Mister Pete

Whenever I masturbate, I fantasize about Mister Pete. I have no idea what Mister Pete’s real names might be, so I just call him Mister Pete. He might be an experience that I’ve had in the past, or hope to have in the future.

Mister Pete is white, he’s black, he’s red, he’s Latino, or he’s Asian. Sometimes he’s young and sometimes he’s old. He might be an American or from some place in the Caribbean, or for that matter anyplace else in the world. He may be alone, or perhaps he’s brought along a friend or two.

Mister Pete is a shape-shifter.

Mister Pete is probably not the sort of man most women want to take home to meet their momma. Mister Pete is strictly, totally desensitized. That’s his style. One thing is for sure, though. Mister Pete is very understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for, he’s the kind of man who likes to take advantage of it.

When I masturbate I think of Mister Pete and my fingers dance around my clit. But Mister Pete hasn’t got time for such silliness, and pretty soon my fingers are deep inside me, twisting inside the hole and pulling apart the walls. The way Mister Pete likes it; showing Mister Pete the type of bitch I am. All raw and nasty for Mister Pete.

Fuck me like a street bitch, Mister Pete. I crave it. Total slut treatment. Please, Mister Pete. I need it!

He knows I need it.

I ain’t nothin’ nice!

The Clatter of Running Trains

First Thug: “Day-ng! She just busted wide open, dawg!”
Second Thug, grinning: “Yeah! Yeah? How it feel. How that pussy-hole feel?”
First Thug: “Nice and wide!”
Second Thug: “See how we do, bitch?”
First Thug, thrusting hard: “How my dick feel up by your liver?”
Second Thug: “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
First Thug pulls it all the way out of my pussy and then thrusts, slams his dick back into me as hard as he can.
First Thug: “Knock the bottom out this bitch; knock the MUTHA-fuckin’ bottom out this bitch!”
Second Thug: “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Stick it to her dawg! Stick it to her! Make her take it, make her take dick. All that dick. Take that mutha-fuckin’ dick, BITCH!”

First Thug: “Want some?”
Second Thug: “YEAH!”
First Thug: “You know I’m gonna share wit’ you”

The thugs knock elbows gangsta-style, changing places.

Second Thug, his dick standing straight up, a long pole, poised. He mounts and thrusts in one brutal stab: “BITCH!” He pauses, pulls back and thrusts, “BITCH! You mutha-fuckin’ BITCH!”

First Thug: “Time to work her!”
Second Thug: “Yup, Time to work her!”
First Thug: “Fuck her hard dawg, time to work ‘dis bitch.”
Second Thug: “Yup!”

Koupe Fanm, Boule Kay!

Translation: "Fuck their women, burn their houses!"
-Jean-Jacques Dessalines, 1804

Underneath the false veneer of our societies there is an inevitable fact of life, and of our experience, that intercourse, to put it clinically, is the normal use of a female. A female has a hole between her legs that men must, do enter. Call me shocking, but I simply recognize that the use and abuse of it is, for manhood, an illuminated height of duty. Now let me be truthful and admit that I enjoy, ultimately, being the object of the physical, or carnal, and dare I say, mystic pleasures of men. Make no mistake that by this I do not mean "making love" or any other such euphemistic silliness.

How exactly does one "make love" anyway? Does one mix up a batch of it, like a bowl of mayonnaise? No, I like the fuck! I crave it!

For sexual partners I steadfastly avoid the milquetoast losers hungering for some kind of surrogate mommy. I like a man to act like a man and do it to me like he wants to do it to me, and for that matter, any other bitch that might cross his path; break me down and make me take the dick! The fuck is the true sex act. The fuck is nature. The fuck is deep, dark and dirty. "Making love," or whatever you want to call the waste of time and energy that fits the description of that sort of activity, is something a man shares with a female, or more likely, pretends to share, with a female. The fuck is something a man does to a female (or more bluntly does to a bitch).

The fuck is dark, dirty and degrading, and ultimately, the fuck is entirely for a mans pleasure, since as we all know--pleasure is something that is best reserved to ones self. The fuck is the natural use of a female; and the fuck enforces the status of a female, and the status of a female, is, for lack of a better way to describe this philosophy of nature, is ultimately a hole. Most men understand this by sheer instinct. They know what they enjoy, even if they are forced by our phony societies to keep the truth to themselves in secret, or in smuggled whispers amongst themselves.

Call me shocking, but I like a man to be a man, and to never, ever, be a "gentleman." I like nature as nature planned it.

Hard Times

The Wrath of Khan

I have to admit that I’m entertained by the most appalling porn. I know I shouldn’t be. Yes, I know it’s all prurient and degrading. But then, as I guess you can tell, I’m OK with that sort of thing.

I’ve even identified a few favorites. Tops on my list are the trash-talking ‘outta the street’ porn films of Wesley Pipes, and the much less vocal but just as vivid personages of Richard Mann, Rocco Siffredi, and Nacho Vidal, just to name a few. I love the satisfied grunt from porn actor Tony Eveready as he pulls it out and sticks it right back in deep and hard a few times. The whole act says volumes about the status of the bitches in these films.

A special ranking on my list has to go to the likes of Khan Tusion and Max Hardcore, the misogynist giants. Their formula for entertainment is the dumb but amiable cum, spit and piss splattered actresses that mack for the camera in their little “dramas.” Khan Tusion’s starlets are alternately slapped, shoved and humiliated for the home audience. Dicks are shoved down throats with the intention to make them gag, pussies and assholes gaped. He takes DP to a high, or maybe I should say low art form. His various rough sex series include stellar scenes of his starlets engaged in ass-licking and then there's his ever-delightful series called “Meatholes.”

If you don’t like Khan Tusion, you’ll really hate Max Hardcore. Max delights in speculums as props and manipulating gaping pussies. His blankly smiling little starlets, usually made up like Barbie dolls smile and beg for all the degradation Max can give them.

I was introduced to these video treasures by a porn addict named Danny I occasionally dated. For Danny they were training films. He was into the whole onscreen world that porn had opened up for him, and eager to be Khan Tusion with any female that would accept him that way.

I like porn. I think there’s a whole philosophy to it that I admit that I buy into. There's a forbidden truth to it all. Even if a man isn’t into the extremes of Khan Tusion or Max Hardcore they love to watch the action, with all the society-bending roles that typically unfold on screen. There’s nothing about soft music and romance that’s going to stir up a man’s interest.

Let’s make it plain, ain’t no love! A bitch is the hole at the bottom of a man’s world. Or in the parlance of the great Max Hardcore, "just a fucktoy."

Ain’t that romantic!

BDSM and other Halloween Tricks

I can't say I'm particularly impressed with the silly trappings of the so-called BDSM "lifestyle." I gave up Halloween trick or treet when I was 14.

All the silly paraphernalia is stupid at best, European crap at worst. You don't see latinos or Africans shopping at the leather gear shop, do you? Frankly you can do the same thing with a cheap roll of duct tape from the hardware store as anything you bought from the BDSM "boutique."

No, really! The Torqemada look really doesn't turn me on!

Camden, New Jersey

"If you lived here, you'd be shot in the leg by now."

Talk amongst yourselves....

Roid Rage

Why is this crank on CNN? Contemplating suicide over a hemorroid operation? Somebody refer this loser to the veterinarian and have him put to sleep!

Show me a conservative, and I'll show you a weenie!

Head

I like to give head.

Give head, suck a dick, go down on a man; call it what you like, it’s all about serving a man for his pleasure.

When I give a man head I play on him with my tongue until the inside of his stomach twists up with the craving, and he gets musty-hot with sweat trying to keep hold of himself until you can’t TAKE any more and the crazy-hot-lust demon seizes control of him and he jams my head down on his dick and MAKEs me serve the dick… more like SERVE THE DICK!

Or sometimes I just like it when a man folds his hands behind his head, kicks back and gets served.

Either way, it’s about serving a man for HIS pleasure. If a bitch, such as myself, likes the taste of dick, it ain’t nothing he needs to be concerned with, just so long a she serves the dick. It’s natures’ way.

When I do it, I get down between the legs of a man and take the dick in my mouth, and work my tongue around the head until it gets hard. Then run my mouth up and down on it and push the head up against the roof of my mouth with my tongue against the back to the dick. While I am running the dick head up and back into my throat I flick the flat of my tongue against the back of the dick. I run my head up and down on the dick pushing the head of it deep up in my throat until he lets me know I’m satisfied I’m doing him right.

I like it when a man enjoys the feelings, and when he thinks I did him proper. I like it when he slips his fingers in my hair and pulls my head down hard on the dick, all the way down.

And then gives me that thick creamy reward.

See! I told you I was a bad girl. I think you might need to punish me!

Room 403

Grindhouse

Back in the day, the Paradise Theater was a neighborhood theater where folks went to see the latest Hollywood musical or Cary Grant comedy. Grown folks came out to see the latest Gangster flick or Film Noir make the second rounds after they played downtown. Kids lined up on Saturday afternoons in the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s for quarter matinees.

By the 70’s the neighborhood had changed and folks began to move away; away to shopping malls and the suburbs. The old neighborhood was abandoned, the stores got boarded up and closed. The Paradise tried to keep going with exploitation films and Grindhouse flicks. By the 80’s the theater switched to porn, but VHS put an end to that business, too.

J.D. remembers how the place changed. J.D. came up in the neighborhood about the time the white folks moved away. He got shot up in Vietnam and he’s never been the same. J.D. lives in a wheelchair now, at the Paradise Theater. He rolls inside every night through a door in the alley and stays there, out of the weather.

J.D. likes to talk about how as a kid they used to sneak in that back door. After Vietnam he came to see the Grindhouse and the porn too. He experienced this stuff the sights and smells of the Paradise first hand. J.D. is a never ending rerun of information about the days of the matinees and the heyday of the Grindhouse and porn movies that used to play at the Paradise.

These days the Paradise is his shelter from the rain, and the crack-fiends outside the door, back in that alley.

Sometimes I like to come by the Paradise and hear J.D.’s stories, the ones about the matinees and the Grindhouse and the porn. Sometimes I like to roll his wheelchair up on the stage and give J.D. some head, until he busts off on my face.

We put on an old fashioned porn show for the audience of ghosts at the Paradise Theater.

Grindhouse II