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