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.