Blue Tenderloin

It rained all day Sunday. By early evening it was one of those piercing autumn rains, the kind that cuts right though your skin, too cold to wait for a bus on a street corner.

Seeking shelter, the only choice for cover that was open past six was a seedy little cocktail bar at the end of the block. I rarely just duck into these sorts of dives. The scene is always the same, a row of old tables on one side and a row of Naugahyde upholstered stools lined up along bar on the other. The usual patronage for these sorts of places is the local neighborhood drunks, the type that have been sitting at those same stools since 1947.

This place wasn't any different, except maybe a little more dingy. The joint stunk of cheap booze and a thick patina of decades of cigarette smoke. The denizens of this particular hole in the wall consisted of a few old men hunched over the bar at the back near the Men's Room, a rumpled bartender with a few days stubble on his chin and a third patron stood at the front of the bar, sipping a beer. In the back corner of the place a grainy old TV was lit up with the dying moments of some football game playing in the background, fourth quarter white noise, only the bartender seemed to notice the game was on. He seemed annoyed when I took up a place on a stool halfway up the bar, squarely in front of him. "What kind of beer do you have?" I asked.

The bartender wrinkled his brow, as though I'd asked him for directions to Paris. "Bud," he said, "You want beer, I got Bud."

Budweiser! Only a wrecking ball and a back hoe could land a beach head in a place like this for the micro-brew revolution. For a moment out of the rain, and a little warmth, I accepted my fate and I motioned my order for the great American swill. It was cheap enough I suppose, a buck fifty a bottle, and a clean glass on the side.

While I sipped my beer, the bartender's attention turned to the football game running endlessly on the TV. My attention turned toward the man at the front of the bar. He seemed interesting enough, not entirely unattractive. I'd guess he was in his mid-forties. He was tall, slim and of a non-descript ethnicity, Latino maybe. He had a thin clipped mustache and his tawny gaunt cheeks were pock marked. His thinning hair was jet black and slicked back. He wore a matching worn set of navy blue work cloths, his shirt partly unbuttoned at the top, revealing an incongruously white undershirt.

He had noticed me too. Though I am used to such things, his searing leer was, in this case, causing me a bit of discomfort. Even so, I found him repulsive and compelling, all the same. I immediately got the feeling from him that he was, in fact, the sort of man who was quite understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.

Moments later he proved me right. Leaning against the bar, he grasped at himself with just enough subtlety that I could receive the message. Underneath the greasy dark blue cloth, an ample meat roll danced to the keystrokes of his finger tips, ample enough for me to notice it, anyway. After an awkward few minutes of letting me watch him "adjust" himself, he slid down the bar and settled onto the stool next to mine. "Hi beautiful," he said. I smiled. This was hardly the most offensive pickup line. I'd expected something more vile. I began to doubt he was the sort of man I'd figured him to be, but that thought was quickly swept away when he wrapped his long skinny fingers around the inside of my thigh.

Receiving no objection from me, his hand quickly slipped under my skirt until it met his target. "Why don't you let me heat that up?" he offered. This was a little more along the line of what I was itching to hear. "Got a place to go?" I asked. "Well," he hesitated a moment, then added "I work at a shop up the street, we can go there. Nobody's there now, and I got the key."

I nodded my approval, and leaving my half consumed beer behind, followed my new acquaintance back out into the rain.

Fortunately, it wasn't too long a walk, just a few doors down to a little Auto workshop, some little hole in the block that purports to specialize in "imported cars," just a greasy hole off the alleyway. In a place like this one doesn't find too many candles, satin sheets and soft lighting, but then, I've never been the romantic sort. I simply headed for the back, jumped aboard a long workbench along the back of the wall, kicked off my heels and got ready for what we came here for.

He reached up under my skirt and tried to yank down my panties from the crotch, when his first attempt failed he tore them off. Approvingly, I spread out my legs.

He stepped back a moment, to pause, or to look over my exposed split, then spat, ""You cunt! You fuckin' cunt! You fuckin' little cunt"

Cunt? Cunt is such a filthy, degrading word, a nasty word. Cunt, it's so blunt, so raw, it titillates me.

I threw my thighs back and out, so he could get the idea that I was ready to get used for his pleasure.

"Aw!" he snorted, "you're a nasty little fuck toy, aint you, aint you?" He didn't wait for a reply, before adding, "I figured it! I figured you was like this!"

"I hope I'm about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine." I said.

"Yeah, the dirtiest?" he asked. "Show me! Show me how dirty you are."

Just to prove the point, I reached between my legs, slipped my forefingers up and in and stretched it open; pulled it wide open and showed him the hole. "You mean, like this?" I asked.

His eyes got wide as I've ever seen a man's eyes get wide. Then, dipping his fingers inside, he pulled down on the bottom of my pussy wall, to get a better look inside, or just to see how wide he might get it to gape open.

Just a hunch, but I'm guessing I made the grade; the dirtiest bitch he could imagine, the bottom of a man's world.

It was a short lived high point of our "relationship." You can guess the rest. He didn't last too long, only a few long pokes of the dick, but sometimes that's all a man needs for this sort of thing. No matter, it was a filthy enough fuck, just the same, the sort I'd hoped for.

After one last thrust he climbed aboard the workbench, crouched over my face and with a grunt, spewed a thick jet of creamy satisfaction across my face.

Fornication

Fornication, to pick a word, is my philosophy, my world view, my raison d’etre.

I for one don’t go in for romance and relationships. I stopped looking for love in all the right places around the time I gave up on Santa Claus. I have a sex addiction, for sure, but beyond that I suppose I’m a little off, a little twisted. But, you know, I’m not guilty about it. Maybe nature just hard wires some people a little different. Maybe serving the needs of men in that way is my function, my little niche on the planet. Maybe it’s the pheromones. Whatever it is, I crave it.

No, I don’t believe in love. I just believe in the fuck. The fuck, and the craving for the fuck; and the only relationship I need is an introduction to a good hard dick. Besides, the way I see it, the only thing a man needs to love about me, when its all said and done, is that feeling he gets when he runs it deep up against the walls of this pussy-hole to get that feeling he likes!

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!

Earl Grey

I must confess, I love to explore the men I meet along the way with my tongue. They rarely seem to object, of course. They're downright helpful with the directions, "A little further to the left, and around that corner."

One of my favorite explorations is find out what's at the bottom of a good old salty nut sack. Call it tea-bagging if you like, it's just a fine afternoon delight, complete with snacks. A dip in my mouth and I guarantee the balls go home clean. I do the thing pretty well, I think. I've never had a complaint.

Ragland

Hannibal, Missouri is like many other places in America. It is a withering old city whose height of prosperity left town about a century back. Today the center of life in Hannibal, like so many other small old cities like it, is the local Wal-Mart, a big-box abomination at the edge of the community. Though, even in decline, Hannibal has fared better than most places like it. The place is blessed with the great Mississippi River, which flows past its front door, and the was the hometown of perhaps the greatest American writer, Samuel Clemons. After all, what better place to go to find a writer's inspiration than to pay a visit to the wellspring of creativity, and boyhood home, of one Mark Twain.

Hannibal, Missouri. Home to Tom Sawyer, Becky Thatcher and Huckleberry Finn; the river and the memory of Mr. Twain have kept the city alive as a pilgrimage for tourists. The city calls itself "America's Hometown," and the tourists like to think it is, though it's a hometown of their imaginations, since they mostly now live alongside non-descript strip malls filled with Applebee's and Olive Garden's. Green lawn hells of MacHouses and ever-so slightly curving streets off the Interstate crammed with SUV's.

For its great tourist attraction, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the city has thankfully been spared the Disneyesque treatment. You can still imagine a young Samuel Clemons in its streets, and pick out the actual locations he described in his novels. Beyond the tourist strip, it's a bleak place, this Hannibal. It has the smell of decay. Even its grand-river view is walled off by a massive levee and sea walls, barriers to the annual floods. It's an economic necessity, and the levee keeps places like Hannibal safe, though the grassy wall seems to darken the whole town.

The great river itself is still a wild thing, no matter how hard the Army Corp of Engineers has tried to tame it. The high April water has swept just over its banks, just enough flooding for the river to let you know that it flows by its own rules. South of town are Tom Sawyer's caves and wooded wild islands like dark sunken steamboats with names like Gilbert Island and Denmark Island. I wonder which of them might be Jackson Island. Does anyone read anymore?

Mark Twain's America was a nation on the rise, ours seems to be a nation in a spiral of decline. Funny how from his point to ours we haven't solved the issues of the day. The same damn issues of the day, his or ours!

At the edge of downtown looms a derelict Minor League baseball park surrounded by a huge limestone wall. It's a massive ballpark. It must be 500 feet to straightway center field. According to the sandstone markers at the gates, the place was once called Clemons Field, though its current owner, the City of Hannibal, has inexplicably renamed it Ragland Field. Behind home plate rises its great canopied grandstand of concrete and steel. The park once sat thousands. Once, when the place was the heart of the community. Now it is a rutted ruin with pits along the foul lines where light stands once stood.

This April, at least, I managed to bring Ragland back to life, if even for a few moments, though it was a slightly different bat and ball game. You see, I found my man, lurking on the river bank not far away, passing the time along the Mississippi, and lured him back to Ragland for a little late-night roll in the weeds in Center Field. I always wanted to get fucked in Center Field in some baseball park, and Ragland's vast outfield surrounded by stone walls proved more than perfect for such an occasion. Totally private, yet I out in the open enough to let me imagine a thousand fans looking on from the ghostly grandstand over the shoulder of my newfound friend's humping hulk on top of me.

Ragland Field. You must stop by some day. A fine old ballpark if ever there was.

Writer’s Block Happens

Sometimes I have the worst time of it.

I can stare at the blank page for hours, days, weeks. Other times the thoughts flow out into my fingers like water and I can't write fast enough. I haven't written a thing in weeks. Not even a grocery shopping list. These are the times I find it best to simply recharge, and hopefully reflect and, cash willing, explore. Today someone wrote me he thought I had an "old soul." I think perhaps this is true. I find myself forever hearing the faintest whispers of the past. The whispers seem louder in certain places for me, at rivers and crossroads.

They speak to me.

Opening Day

As much as we like to think we wander through a world that is fresh and new for us, we are forever walking through the streets of the cities of the dead.

This idea seems fairly easy to grasp in a city like Detroit, where I live. You can see the layers of earlier people, earlier lives, and the present they built for us, today, without having to look too very far.

In a larger sense, we all follow the old traditions, the old celebrations, and possess the old fears and failings of those before us, here, where we live, in the cities of the dead. I often feel a presence of those that walked these streets before me, as though they were still among us. Sometimes they seem to me to have aura of undying spirits.

Today I suppose I am revealing a little of my complexity and indulging myself by diverging from my favorite subject, sex, to pay respect to one of those great spirits.

Old timers often tell me they consider him second only to Dr. King in their pantheon. He wasn't a great seer, a philosopher, or an activist. He was never trained to change the world, but he did. He was a baseball player, just a baseball player, but not, of course, just a baseball player. The poet Sean Pamphilon reminds us that, "Pioneers pass before their time. Sometimes they wear a boys' uniform in a cowards world, a world that reluctantly looked in him in they eye on April 15, 1947."

Opening day, April 15, 1947.

Long before my time. Still I think, like the old-timers I talk to, that somehow our world is, in fact divided into "Before Jackie" and "After Jackie." He had the courage to take the field alone, and we now know how great a burden that was for this baseball player. He carried the world on his shoulders, and living the life of Jackie Robinson, being Jackie Robinson, it brought his life to an early close, but I think not his spirit. Not the fire.

I see this photograph of Jackie Robinson, at the age of 28, just about my age, on Opening Day in 1947 and I see the powerful spirit.

I see.

Quiet as it’s kept…

I'm pretty upfront about my sexual philosophies.

Sometime guys say I'm too deep and nasty for their tastes; that I'm way too raw by half. They don't like a female to be so blunt with her sex so much. I don't worry about it. I guess those guys and I will never get along with it anyway. I prefer the guys who like a low bitch.

In fact, I guess I might be about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine. I think I must have been born this way. Where I'm from, some of the more hard core fella's talk about how they can "break a bitch," make something go "pop" someplace in her mind, and turn an innocent female into a dick craving slut.

Maybe they can "break a bitch," but I think those females were about 90% there already. As for me, I'm more like 110%. Sometimes I'm the one that has to drag the nasty side out of the guys I'm with. On the freaky sex thing, I want to punch the gas pedal and go!

I've got a whole philosophy about sex shocks a lot of men if I say it. Though deep down, if you put the question to them, most men agree with me. Fundamentally, the female's place in sex is to serve a man for his total physical pleasure. If that sounds like sex is inherently degrading for the female, then you heard me right!

Isn't it?

Isn't kneeling between a mans legs and sucking his dick sort of degrading? Isn't spreading your legs and having a man repeatedly stick to you with a dick inherently degrading? Of course it is. And we're just talking some plain vanilla sex here.

I like the full power, the full degrading power of the sex act. I like a man who'll kick the god-damn walls down and treat me like the slut I am.

As rough as this truth may sound, I believe we're talking about natural order here. I know of no society, past or present that really believes any differently, though they may pretend they do in "polite" company.

Thousand Island?

Here's another one of those freaky fetishes I've got. I like to do the "tossed salad" thing, you know, lick a guys asshole. Nothing tells a man he's got a nasty freak like tossing his salad. You know, any truly nasty bitch will tell you thats something she likes to do for a guy. After all it's all about serving the man for the totally physical.

I might do the long deep ice-cream lick, or the swirly clockwise on the thing, but I like to work my tongue down there for a man, show him my rim shot. I read someplace about a guy who thought it was about the most ultimately nasty thing he could make a bitch do for him. "When she's sucking a dick, her mind can be thinking she's doing something else, when she's slurping ass, she knows she's down there sucking a guys' ass!"

Sweet!

Diaspora

Some days I can stop anywhere that’s quiet enough and hear them speak to me, just faintly, like the first breath of spring. Or I might turn a corner and catch a glimpse of them from the corner of my eye, or hear the faint percussion of the mizik roll like distant thunder.

In mirrors I see ancient memories, thrice forgotten. In the twilight of my half sleep their voices grow clear, and I know they are here with me, these spirits that I serve.

Faster, Stronger, Harder, Longer

When I'm doing it with a man, if he ain't trying to break his dick off in me, I figure I must have done something wrong.

Sometimes women who call themselves feminists ask me why I would let men do me like they do, and (well) encourage them to do so.

Well, first of all who says I have to fit their mold of how a woman should act? Secondly, I'm not so sure that I'm not the one who is actually "liberated." After all, I don't believe in marriage, I support myself, I enjoy myself when I want, how I want, and I can pretty much keep up with any testosterone-driven fiend out there, wherever he may be. So all I have to say to those women is - oh, stuff it!

'nuff said!