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!

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.

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.