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!