While most of us worry about what is happening on a national level, the real battles are in the communities and the states. Get active. Do something close to home. Try and make the world a slightly better place than it was yesterday.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Obviously, with thoughts dwelling on mortality, I think of life immortal and the promise of a perfected body for all eternity. As I see it, you have a limited number of choices – become a Christian or a vampire or learn to multiply bigger numbers by 2 and hope for advances in medical science or a peaceful instantaneous exit, say, a car wreck or nuclear holocaust or something.
The first vampire had been a day walker. He had walked in the day and asked for voluntary members to join in a new religion of irony and blood feasting. The potential for eternal power wooed them and they left their jobs and followed him. His power became enormous and he soon proved that he had power over the grave. Many doubted him, but his exploits drew their attention.
Friday, October 19, 2007
I spent last weekend at the Ex-Mormon Conference and came away from the experience feeling depleted and lessened -- as you might after having a gall bladder removed. Sex and eroticism are about union and joining, so ultimately the Ex-Mo Conference with its ideas of separation and transition was decidedly unerotic.
The litany of betrayal and disillusionment was discouraging, rather than uplifting. The sacrament was of bitterness, not doubt. The wine flowed, but it was not the wine of Christ's wedding, rather a wine of whine on why me, why believe and why was I deceived.
NEWS FLASH: Life is a deceptive fucker, who is in leauge with Death. The Tree of Eternal Life has its roots all interwoven with the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil to the point of mystical union. We are in paradise, but not of it. We are outcasts, but in the bosom of God (very maternal image by the way). Enough mystical bullshit, but my point is that the cure to Mormonism (if one is needed) isn't surgical removal, but integration. Don't denigrate Mormonism -- fuck it.
Get naked in the bathtub with Mormonism and turn out the lights. Grab her by the hair and take her from behind and let the lukewarm water splash her cunt and clit, as you rock back and forth in the embryonic waters of baptism. Plow the flesh of the black hole cunt of Mormonism, until it defies physics and spews out against eternal gravity spiritual fire onto your cock and the hot liquid of religion baptizes you on the outside and the inside. Just make sure that you get all of the flesh under water to really wash away all those sins. By the Power of the Holy Mechezick Priesthood which I hold, I baptize my cock in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Hole-y Cunt of Mormonism. Amen.
And what Millenial Religion is complete without a Second Coming? There must not be only the baptism of water -- There must also be a baptism of blood and fire. And how do you get the Mormon Cunt to bleed? You wait for her monthly savior and then baptize your cock in her blood. The fundamentalist prophet may ban the wearing of red cloth, but he cannot ban the red cock of Christ coming with the sword of his righteousness. Explore every pore of Mormonism as it bleeds. The blood is red. The blood is black. The moon turns red and the sun turns black. The apocalypse is sprayed across the sheets in a crucifixion of taboo, guilt and separateness. You can pound the nails into the crucified soul. You can stick the sword in and out comes water. Your prick is a thorn and you can only hope to atone, atone, atone and atone in a rythmic thumping and humping of the death grind of pelvic collision. I am In. I am Out. I Am God. I Am The Son of the Blood Red Morning of Resurrection preceding my own Second Coming.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
I’ve always been pretty certain what my last words were going to be, whether it be illness, age or accident, I shall go out on the excremental expletive – "Oh Shit!" I haven’t really considered the metaphoric implications of a scatological departure from life, although the thought of my soul being crapped into eternity amuses me. No, my last words are not based on any metaphoric artistic overreaching, "Oh Shit!" is just pretty much what pops out of my mouth when things don’t go my way. Craving immortality, death is right up there on the top of my list of things I don’t want to have happen to me.
If you’ve got this far, you may be asking, "Where the fuck is the erotica?" Well, don’t be so fucking impatient – here it is. The fucking French refer to the orgasm as la petite mort, the little death, which got me thinking about my favorite last words, those spontaneous utterances emerging from the mouths of the recently orgasmed.
I’ve always loved women who deified me, scream praying to "Jesus Christ," "Christ," "God," "Oh God," "Oh My God," even the occasional "My Lord." (I assume I have avoided the utterances of Electra complex suffering women, since no one has ever blurted out "Oh God My Eternal Father," but there is still time. Also, I must need to screw more Asian chicks, because I’ve yet to be called Buddha – either that or I have to stop working out and get more of a belly. )
Yet, with my Mormon upbringing, orgasmic utterances seem directed to my eternal god nature, not some misty eternal being. This god has a tangible body of flesh and bones. Lorenzo Snow meant it literally when he said that "as man now is, god once was, as god now is man may come." I know how the revelation happened – He’d taken one of his wives, probably Phoebe Woodruff, to a screaming orgasm, riding his cock, pulling his beard and screaming "Oh My God, Lorenzo." St. George wasn't the only place Lorenzo could make rain. Damn fine revelation, Lorenzo.
No coincidence that "Jesus Christ" and "God" are on the lips of both the dying and the orgasmic.
On a more temporal, but dangerous note, last words are often proper names. The danger of course is that the name you scream won’t be the real life person giving it to you. Understanding and pride that comes from being called God disappears with the utterance of "Oh Harold" and your name is "Wanker."
If I were a non-monogamous Social Darwinist, the exquisite danger of uttering the wrong name explains several things: 1) the high reproductive capacity of the religious who mask their infidelities in prayers to God; 2) the reproductive capacity of the profane (those who simply yell "Fuck" a lot while they are coming; 3) the prevalence of both children and men named "Jesus" in Latin culture; and 4) the otherwise inexplicable reproductive capabilities of stupid people, who survive due to the non-evolution past the brain stem, leaving only the sex drive and the non-verbal death rattle of orgasmic gurglings of pleasure, not the names of others.
To prove my Social Darwinist theory, I give you a news flash from my inside source at Utah’s Office of Recovery Services: A rash of male members of the Mormon species, situated primarily in Utah County , are claiming they could not be the sires of screaming little newborns, because they were virgins. They’ve never had intercourse. The most they’ve ever done sexually is soaking.
For those who did not attend Salt Lake Acting Company’s Saturday’s Voyeur this year, "soaking" is apparently a BYU phenomenon of Clinton-ian line drawing on the definition of sex and chastity. For those unaware of the religious ability to justify sinful action, the legal/theological argument is as follows:
Given: A fundamental aspect of fornication and adultery is sex, defined specifically and narrowly as the "old in-and-out".
Given: Blow jobs, anal sex, gay sex, frottage, and mutual masturbation do not involve the old penis-vagina, in-and-out, these activities are therfore not defined as "sex" for purposes of determining whether virginity is lost.
Given: Orgasm is irrelevant to a determination of whether or not sex has occurred. (Wet dreams aren’t sex are they?)
Therefore, although it requires going in once and coming out once, if you just go in, soak for awhile before you come out, that isn’t sex as long as you don’t move while you are in the tub.
Of course these definitions allow for a fairly active sex life, while maintaining virginal and religious purity, so the logical and philosophical weakness isn’t really all that important. What is important is that you can soak.
Now, while I appreciate a good rationalization like any other sinner, there are a couple of practical concerns that arise out of the "soaking" phenomenon.
First, obviously, given the natural inclination, it appears that there is more jetted tub action going on, as opposed to simple soaking.
Second, what about the girls in all this? Can you massage the clit while you are soaking? Is birth control forbidden in soaking to avoid the appearance of evil? Isn’t the term "soaking" a patriarchal term, concerned only about what is happening to the male? Our feminist sisters would probably demand calling it, "drawing a bath to allow some soaking" or some other politically correct phrase. Being a neanderthal male, I’ll defer to you to give me the proper, non-sexist phrase for soaking.
Third, from a practical standpoint, soaking appears to be a compliment to the young fertile co-eds ability to conjure up a warm bath for their priesthood members.
Fourth, are the restrictions for male homosexuals more rigid than than their hetro counterparts? Does soaking apply to gay blow jobs and anal sex, but not hetro-butt fucking and cock sucking? These are questions that keep me up at night.
Fifth, and what about the poor lesbians? Can they only soak in their dildos, while their hetro-sisters can rubber fuck themselves silly?
With all these questions, I’d ask for some guidance from the Bretheren, but rigid (wrong word) pronouncements aren’t conducive to allowing wiggle (yet another wrong word) room. So as a nod to the Utah County Soakers, I thought I’d give you some ideas for naming your new offspring:
Tubby or Tubs (self explanatory)
Jack (Short for Jacuzzi)
Pruney (A girls name, indicative of what happens if you spend too much time soaking.)
Bathsheba (Biblical, ironic and a bath reference, too)
John (Short for John the Baptist, another guy who soaked people, including Jesus no less.)
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The perfection virus even stems over into my writing. Every word I pour out should have significance, right down to the last "the" and "a". Unfortunately for me, my language, like my life, is messy, unpredictable, unwieldy and far from perfect. I don’t even have the time right now to pour over what I write to give it the smallest semblance of having been edited, so I suppose part of my absence has been in a quest for perfection that leads, as it usually does, into total paralytic inaction.
So what does this have to do with erotica? A lot. Wanting to avoid the pedestrian fuck, I can go completely celibate for weeks, days – even months (It has been years, since I went for years.). Only recently did I relax my perfection bid just enough to surrender to the joys of imperfection and spontaneity. Now men certainly have the advantage in the spontaneous receiving end of oral sex. The temple spire of manhood springs out from the clothing inhibitions and is instantly accessible to the awaiting saliva and warmth. Women, on the other hand, have been short changed in the spontaneous oral sex realm. So to hell with the perfect cunnilingus. Give her a quick-alingus.
First, make sure your lady friend has gotten all dolled up for the evening. The process of allowing her to get ready for the night out will insure that this remains in the realm of the imperfect. You can’t give perfect head if you are a) in a hurry and b) worried about looking like the morning after at the party you are headed to. Now, the pants and panties need to be yanked down, but only so far as necessary to allow the tongue to wrap around the fabric and hit the clit. Ignore any protestations and forge on. There will be no insertion, because there isn’t room. No fingers, just the tongue – and that faint aroma of her on your lips all evening.
The flush on her face will replace make-up blush. Imperfectly perfect.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
So it has been a long hiatus. I actually have so much that I want to write about, discuss and delve into and do not know where to begin, so I plunge back into the warm, moist world of blogs with the hard task of responding to a tag to name ten things about myself. Given my blog theme, which at times I have found limiting, but then I think – "What the hell – I like sex and writing and where else can I combine the two.
Also, thank you all for your kind words of encouragement to lure me back inside the pink, digital walls of cyberspace.
Ten Things About Me:
10. I have a scar on the ridge of the head of my penis. Given the Mormon affinity to Judaism I was duly circumsized as one of God’s chosen people, leaving the head of my cock unprotected by a sheath of skin. This predestined stripping of my male member congealed with my own pyrotechnic leanings, my youthful inexperience and the familial use of matches as an air freshner in the the bathroom to a rather horrific experience. Seated on the porcelain throne, I felt the need to ignite some sulfur. Having done so, I blew out the flame and watched the smoke curl up from the glowing tip of the match. Underestimating the size of my cock, I dropped the match stick between my legs were it lit, not lit but still searing hot on the ridge. I immediately grasped the match stick to find out with horror that the skin of the penis head is not like normal flesh – it melts. My cock ridge had adhered itself to the match head and my dick became a perverse and painful marionette, as my cock bobbed up and down as I moved the match stick with my hand, before I peeled it off in searing pain. The scar has faded some 30 years later, but it is still there and a reminder to keep my little god’s head away from the hellfire and brimstone.
9. I had my first experience having someone tell me they were turned on by my blog writing. Actually, I think the words were "You are so fucking hot. I’m going to go home and masturbate to you." Or something to that effect. ( I took this to mean my writing, not any particular physical attributes of myself) Now granted, it was a collective "you" since it referred to myself and another blogger and the utterance was most undoubtedly alcohol induced, but it was relatively spontaneous and did show a passing knowledge of some of the things I had written, so I’m counting it. The experience was humbling and exhilarating. I liked how the digital words had turned into the flesh of the world.
8. I attended a class on how to be an "Extraordinary Lover." Is there such a thing as educational prostitution? If you answered that yes, you know that San Francisco is a lovely town, replete with sex educator/whores. They take prostitution to a new level -- economically, politically and socially. Advertise a hands (but not cock) on educational class to instruct the obviously deficient males of the species on how to properly handle a woman and you have a class of teachers and tricks. The tricks all fork over $250 (apparently the price has risen since my class to $495) or so for an instructional class and you get to gather them all in a room and spend the morning session with the women making each man divulge why he wants to become "an extraordinary lover", with the obvious implication that at this point, you are not. Twelve men at $250.00 is $3000.00 for a six hour session, not a bad day’s work and there is no touching in the morning session and no actual intercourse.
7. I’ve been on a couple of nude cruises and to a couple of clothing optional resorts where I was able to witness the piercing phenomenon which I have dubbed "Wind Chimes." Now, nudist resorts are educational in regards to the enlargement of the male scrotum with age, since the over sixty crowd of guys appeared to be packing small to large purses between their legs as they traversed the staircase, but as disheartening as that may have been, the one lasting image from all the flesh I saw came from a nudist yoga class. Nude yoga is obviously superior to nude jogging and somewhere between an up dog, down dog and extended side angle pose in the sun salutation, my eyes were greeted by twelve inches of dangling jewelry, clinking gently together in the ocean breeze. The disturbing part came from the fact that it was all hanging from the labial lips of the woman in front of me.
5. In the realm of young, foolish and adolescent, I used the vacuum hose on my cock. Three words: Quick, Intense, Painful. I couldn’t find the off button fast enough, but cleanup was no problem.
4 and 3. Neck Fetish and Exhibitionism. If vampires died, I’d say I was a vampire in a previous life, because I love the nape of the neck, especially on women who can orgasm from having their neck nibbled on. At one point in my life, I liked to practice kissing the neck of strippers back when South Salt Lake had totally nude strip clubs and backwards rules that allowed the patron to touch all but the breasts and private areas of the stripper and didn’t allow the stripper to touch the patron. (What odd laws the predominant culture spawned.) I enjoyed the sense of power that came when I felt the stripper’s flesh goose pimple and I could feel her whole body shudder just by me nibbling on her neck -- you can’t fake goose flesh. In my life, I’ve had the good fortune to meet four women who I was able to make come from my Dracula impersonation.
I’ve also always enjoyed the thought of being watched. I’ve even blogged about the exhibitionistic aspects of blogging. My exhibitionistic trait becomes overwhelming when I have a woman who capable of a neck nape/rape orgasm. Smith’s. Hollywood Video. Combine my neck fetish, exhibitionism, nape quivering lover and alcohol (6 tequila shots, 1 Yager and Red Bull, 3 shots of some drink known as a Pink Pussy and some indeterminate swigging on a bottle of Cuervo) and I performed neck-alingus on the quivering woman in my grasp in front of numerous other inebriates, until she had a rather crashing orgasm. From the alcohol smog of my mind I flashed a thumbs up to the crowd, as we retired to the bedroom, where alas there was no audience, but I was able to lick more than the neck.
2. I have an essay on masturbation I really ought to publish in pamphlet form, "For (Brigham) Young Men Only." I’m going to give you an excerpt here about the masturbatory experiences from the mission field:
I stopped masturbating to go on my mission. It is hard to jack off on a mission when you have a do-do companion following you everywhere you go, so I actually lasted for several months, living vicariously through those few wet dreams I could coax out of my system. I succumbed in a small town in a foreign country that had pornography vending machines a couple of blocks from the house. On top of that, we each had our own rooms and didn't have our companion in there bugging us or watching to see if we jacked off. No one ever said anything, but I think we were all glad for the privacy. One night, those little guys inside me that had built large, strong muscles from years in the basement bathroom overcame me and I donned my BYU sweats and pulled the hood over my head and darted out into the dark rainy streets with a few coins for a vending machine. I imagine I looked like a large, blue smurf haunting the shadows. I bought the magazine, only to find out to my chagrin that the pictures all had blue dots over the fun part of the genitals. It didn't stop me from getting my rocks off numerous times, but I was saved by one dot that seemed translucent and reminded me of Cheryl Tiegs in Time with the pubic hair peeking through. I always had the unfortunate propensity to confess my masturbatory sins, which I dutifully did to my mission president at the next zone conference, which confined me to my fate as companion to the unwanted. I guess the mission president figured if I had a pain in the ass companion that I would forget the longing in my cock. I guess that is what this discourse has become, a long, drawn out request for forgiveness from the reader for letting that little factory enslave me. Boy, Boyd, I don't know. I'm not a young man anymore, granted I am younger than you, but still not that young. I suppose I have you to thank that I can still pump away at my little factory and it has only gotten better, albeit less productive, with age.
I found this little gem of a movie and thought it fit in nicely with Japanese masturbation stories. One cool thing about missions is you can still remember enough Japanese to really make this video have some meaning.
1. Finally, I actually have had this written for a week and couldn’t come up with the last item when I had someone come up to me and say, "You have the voice of a funeral director." I relayed this pronouncement on my aural aura to a friend, who said without thinking too hard, "you don’t sound like a funeral director, your voice is soothing." So I can use my voice to calm, but what good is that in an erotic setting? I always craved one of those deep bass voices that tickle a woman’s clit as the vocal chords vibrate, instead I get "soothing funeral director." I guess I’m doomed to use my tongue to make more than just sound waves on the clit, but there are worse fates.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Now, you may be asking at this juncture, what the hell has got into Wanker? He leaves for a month and comes back a raving chauvinist. Not true. I'm just using a wee bit of hyperbole to make a point about mothers and that is, to become mothers, some guy, somewhere at some time, really wanted some from Mom -- and that is how you came to be reading my blog in the more cosmic causality sense.
Enough of the Hallmark rhymes of devotion.
Enough of the two minute talks on Motherly emotion.
Enough of the flowers and candy commotion.
I raise my cock to all those Mothers on this Mother's Day,
Who made sure we all got here by fucking.
P.S. Due to some intrusions of the real world into my more creative space, I have been unable to post for the last little while, but I should be back on a more regular basis. I think things are a little more under control. I also have a lot of catching up to do on all your blogs. Thank you for all your kind words and it is good to be back.