Friday, October 24, 2008

Seeing Red

Well, I have to succumb and write something political. Everyday I look at the Yahoo! Political Dashboard and run my mouse over the "red" states to discover just how red we are here in Utah. Today: 62.7% red, 26.3% blue. No other state is even close. No one else is even in the 60% range. Utah is completely out of touch with what is going on in the rest of the country.
We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.
Oh those Mormons do love to be subject, serfs to the establishment. Subject me, dominate me, make me see red.
I do revel in the ancient rebel Mormon past of telling the federal government to stick it, but most importantly we are clannish. We stick together even when it doesn't make any sense. Take Harry Reid. I can almost guarantee you that the Mormons in Nevada voting for McCain, also voted for Harry Reid. It makes no sense (other than Reid is a political genius for being Mormon and Democrat in Nevada). It would also explain Utah's love affair with Mitt Romney, the former governor of the gay state of Massachusetts.
That said, what follows below is a slightly modified version of a letter I sent to my McCain voting family members (some of whom reside in Nevada).
The Nature of Political Discourse
The nature of political discourse discourages me greatly. Vague end results (with no discussion of the means) and ideological preferences trump thoughtful analysis. Fundamental and foundational questions are not addressed and are primarily avoided. I'm sounding like a professor.
Here is an example:
Issue: Health Care
What is the foundational question on health care? Obama and the Democrats are accused of wanting to socialize health care. McCain and the Republicans argue that the free market should control. This is an age old conflict of free market vs. government involvment that is as old as the Republic. Unless you address the underlying question, however, you are stuck in the "spin" cycle, spinning aimlessly.
The underlying question isn't should we socialize health care, but rather how do we do a better job of it? Once you get past the fact that our health care system is heavily socialized and subsidized already (Medicare, medicaid, even insurance is a free market form of socialized coverage) then the discussion becomes much more productive.
Both McCain and Obama's health care plans offer government solutions to the problem. Neither one does much to address the most critical problem in health care -- the massive health insurance middleman that has to take their share of the medical profits. (I break my arm. I go to the hospital. The hospital charges me. My insurance company pays the bill. Both the hospital and insurance are trying to make money, but only the hospital fixes my arm.) The most logical conclusion to solve this problem is to put the squeeze on the insurance companies. Anyone who has attempted to buy insurance for themselves knows that a group policy is the only way to go, since it makes for smaller premiums. Right now just my insurance premium is close to $10,000 a year. McCain's plan is frankly a pander to the insurance companies by offering tax credits for the purchase of individual insurance plans and doesn't address the underlying problem and as I said before, the insurance company doesn't fix my broken arm or my pocket book. Obama's solution is to create a "national exchange" that essentially allows any one to buy the same insurance as the federal government. At least it attempts to put the squeeze on the insurance companies. Even Utah has actually looked at a similar system for the state and it solves a host of institutional ills (pre-existing conditions, uninsured individuals, bankruptcy, etc.)
I find Obama's argument more compelling obviously, although he probably doesn't go far enough.
As I have been working on this email, I thought a lot about what I believe as far as America is concerned. I think this goes back to the fundamentals and foundational questions that need to be asked. More of our discussions should start from premises that we can all agree on, say "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men and women are created equal." A nice sentiment and an ideal honored more in its breach than its observance, but I think it is one that we should all strive towards.
Take a typical Mormon housewife statement, "the thought of my husband and I sacrificing through years of school and hard times, to see my husband bust his butt and work like crazy, always trying to do better and be punished by having our taxes raised." I frankly agree with everything in quotes. I think this goes back to the idea of all of us being created equal. Despite the genuine attempts to create a society where each person is rewarded according to their efforts, we are in a constant struggle to avoid a collapse back into feudalism. Feudalism, aristocracy or its modern version, corproatocracy, is the disease that needs to be feared -- not socialism. Socialism is about equality and fairness.
Frankly Obama needs to get a little better speech writer, because this isn't about spreading the wealth, but preventing the wealth from coagulating at the top. The lazy butts and those that don't have to work are the extreme wealthy, not the poor. This is the historical stuff of revolution. The American ideal is to promote equality by having the reward equate to the effort. This is not the ideal of the extreme wealthy. The ideal of the extreme wealthy is to not work and to have property available to their progeny for inheritance and to be able to live off the proceeds of their property, never dipping into principal and never doing anything but owning. Personally, I prefer the American ideal and am willing to pass laws and maintain taxation policies that prevent the formation of corporate fuedal estate of which most of us are serfs. Now, we may disagree on the best way to accomplish this goal, but that is a completely different discussion and one that is less hopefully less heated, since we both want to accomplish the same thing.
Priorities in how tax money should be spent are certainly open for discussion. $700 billion is approximately one quarter of the federal budget and both candidates just endorsed a proposal to allocate that amount for the government to buy commercial paper that the "free market" doesn't deem worthy of its dollar, yet they are willing to spend your tax dollars on it. I'm skeptical that this is a welfare package for the most wealthy and powerful. I looked at our federal budget and apparently in 2006 (the latest year with actual data) , we spent 1,100 billion on the military and 32 billion on foreign aid, helping people in other countries. Call me silly, but that seems like a misallocation of funds. Dropping bombs on foreign countries is much more likely to upset them, than say, helping them eat. To our credit and in case you didn't believe my footnote that we are a socialist country over half the US Budget or 1,688 billion dollars was spent on social programs in 2006. Shouldn't the argument be about how this should best be allocated, reduced when possible and increased where necessary?

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.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

A Story for Sideon's Birthday -- The T. Wanker Version of the New Testament

In honor of Sideon’s 40th Birthday, I decided to actually post. Few events in midlife cause such consternation as turning forty, possibly because despite not having a math class in twenty years and even with the mental deterioration that comes with advancing age, you can still multiply 40 by 2 (much easier than 39 x2) and 80 sounds incredibly old, so you’ve reached the crest of the hill and down you go – and we all know that the downhill side always goes a hell of a lot faster. So thoughts of mortality stream into your head, as the wind of the years blows your hair back. Hell, you are already two years past your 20th high school class reunion – even if you didn’t go. There isn’t anything worse, with the possible exception of 45, which is also easy to multiply by 2, and 90 . . .

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.

Now, this blog does have its erotic themes and in case anyone didn’t know Sideon has a predilection for the masculine gender, so in honor of his birthday, I’m posting the one homoerotic story I’ve written. I think this idea started germinating during a Priesthood Session of general conference as I mused on Jesus and his twelve guy disciples and wondered what the New Testament would be like rewritten as a homoerotic vampire novel. One of those grand projects I started and never finished, I mean the subplots – 3 Nephites living forever hooking up with John who are all sticking around until Christ comes yet again, but I digress –

Happy Birthday Sid. I give you the T. Wanker inspired version of Jesus raising Lazarus (Lance is the modern version of Lazaraus) – from the dead.


Mary laughed. It was the type of laugh that would have sent a caustic chill through the back bone of a mere mortal. She laughed more heartily and hauntingly. The night air embraced her chortle. "This is the place," she thought as she gazed across the straight rows of lights, all organized in their conservative wide rows, an electric patchwork quilt of Mormondom pioneer organization. Temple spires bit into the black night, attempting to suck out the darkness with the gleaming white. Salt Lake City was now her place. The irony, after all these years, made her laugh. (Mary Magdalene was my lead character, but it never went anywhere.)
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.

Lance had grown ill and his family was certain it was terminal. Each day he grew paler and paler. None knew of the nightly visits of the First. The blood ritual Lance was undergoing, unbeknown to his family and friends, occurred nightly. The First had approached Lance to be his first disciple of eternal life and power. Lance looked into the warm blue eyes of the First, his long hair flowing over his shoulders and his dark beard hiding the gleaming white teeth and he knew he had no choice. His blood belonged to the First. The irony, the contradiction was that with the blood letting he would not die, but would live forever. Between the eyes, the teeth, the voice and the hair, Lance could not say no.

The first session, Lance was undressed by the First. The sun had set long ago when the First entered with a wash basin. He had Lance sit on the bed. The First knelt at Lance's feet and removed his shoes. He placed Lance's feet in the wash basin. The cool water tingled the nerve endings, as did the touch of the hands. After washing the feet, the First had Lance stand as he unbuttoned Lance's shirt exposing his chest to the night air. He moved behind Lance and slid the shirt down the arms and off. The shirt was then folded and laid meticulously on the bed. by the strong carpenter hands of the First. "Look forward." The gentle command struck Lance's inner core and he fixated his eyes on the wall opposite him, not daring to move. He felt the Hand on his neck, but it was not a grab, but the gentle caress with the back of fingers.

The next sensation Lance felt was the bare skin of the First's chest pressed against his back. Strong arms wrapped around his body and those massive blue collar hands engulfed his upper thighs, as he felt his ass pulled back against the hard groin of the First. This was unlike any ritual he had ever imagined, but the First did often talk of Love and Sacrifice as being the necessary precursors to an existence in which death had no power. The hands slid up his thighs to his waist and deftly undid his belt and the clasp. The only power holding his pants against gravity was that of the First's fingers. A whisper of a voice echoed in both ears, making Lance unsure of the location of the lips that had uttered the words, "Do you love me?" All Lance could do was give a slight and silent nod of assent. With the nod, the press of groin and ass released and Lance felt his pants and undergarments sliding with supernatural slowness down his legs. A tongue flicked at his neck and began moving down his back with the same speed that his pants were falling. The moisture from the tongue left a cool remnant down his spine in the summer heat of his room. Before the tongue left the mid part of his shoulder blades his cock had sprung free of his pants, jutting out into the room. The descent continued until his pants were at his ankles and the tongue flicked at the top crevice of his ass.

A sharp pain surged through Lance's lower back as the teeth of the First sunk into the flesh at the end of Lance's spine. The teeth entered hard and deep as the mouth began to suck on the end of Lance's spine. The tongue emerged from the sucking mouth. With electric fervor, the tongue shocked Lance's nervous system, flicking and licking all the muscles of Lance's body into convulsive spasms of pleasure and pain. The sheer power of the connection of teeth, mouth, tongue and spine held Lance upright and lifted him off the ground at least three feet. Then as suddenly as he had been invaded, Lance was naked and free on the other side of the room with wobbly legs and the occasional shudder of a muscular aftershock. The only thing that kept him standing was a desk next to him against which he steadied himself.

A humid breeze blew through the room at the same moment the lights extinguished. Lance stood naked in the cold dark of his room. No light filtered through the window and the blackness re-dressed him in its oppressiveness. With the press of the black night, he began to regain sensations -- a dull ache at the tailbone and a sticky, trickle of blood flowing down between his ass cheeks, filling the crevice with red moisture. His mind was numb and his cock was still hard. "You poor, meek mortal." The voice intertwined with the darkness. "I shall give you the world."
The voice in the dark continued, "I have drank your blood and eaten your flesh. My tongue has entered your electric soul. I still have one more gift for you before this evening is done." Lance's eyes strained against the darkness, but the voice seemed to surround him and he did not know in which direction to look. The next sensation to course through Lance's system was his head crashing against the desk upon which he had steadied himself. The crunch echoed in the room and in his head. His naked, bleeding ass jutted out over the edge of the desk and in the flash of pain, Lance saw for an instant the bright, shining cock of the First. The head of the cock slid into the stream of Lance's blood and began to bite into the tight brown entrance, tearing flesh with its sharp push, adding more blood for lubrication. The pain made Lance tighten his ass, but the cock bit through bathed in Lance's blood. The cock forged in and then pulled out, making Lance feel that his insides were attached to the undulating movement. The loss of blood made him faint. As his body fell limp, the powerful hands of the First grabbed Lance's ass and pulled it hard against his pelvis. He then pulled the limp body off his cock, which stood like a sword dripping Lance's blood. He laughed and sprayed his sperm all over Lance's blood soaked ass -- little white droplets, mixing with the red, turning pink and being engulfed by the red sea of blood.
Lance awoke the next morning sore and a little pale. The ritual had repeated itself every night. One morning, Lance did not awake. The family had come to know the First and wanted him to perform on his promise of eternal life. The First was called and he came. He entered the house and commanded everyone to leave. Lance lay lifeless on the bed. The First knelt at his side. He ran his finger down Lance's cold grey cheek. Leaning over, the First began to kiss Lance, first softly and then with more passion. The tongue leapt inside the dead man's mouth, running first along the inside of Lance's teeth, then on the edge. He pressed his tongue hard against Lance's teeth until blood began to trickle from his tongue. The blood exploded inside Lance's mouth and his system shocked back to life. "You are the first of my chosen, " were the first words the new, never to die Lance heard. Triumphantly they exited the home and the First had become a God to his followers.
I say this in the name of the First, Amen.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Thoughts on The Ex-Mo Conference

The object becomes aesthetically significant when it becomes metaphysically significant.

Joseph Campbell

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

Famous Last Words

One of my all time favorite dying quote is Oscar Wilde’s, "Either this wallpaper goes, or I do." The hideous wallpaper stuck around for a few years longer than Oscar, although both are now long gone. If your passion for dying quotes gets the better of you, here are a couple of website links with last word compilations.

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: You must commit fornication or adultery to lose your virginity and sin.
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?

Sixth, I couldn't be a proper degenerate without a nod to the bestial. I think the picture speaks for itself, but will an elephant agree to just soak?

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.)

Now, I love soaking. Don’t get me wrong, I think it is a great concept. We’ld all be happier if we spent more time drawing baths and soaking. I’m not even opposed to KY or AstroGlide soaking. Soaking is prolonging. Soaking is luxuriating in the experience. Soaking is best without a wet suit, but not as safe. Soak me silly, but when the water starts splashing around and my balls are taking a shower and I’m about to shoot my own contribution to the watery grave of orgasm, I say what I’m sure I’ll always say when I die, when great things are about to come to the end — "Oh Shit!"

And in the immortal last words of Hamlet: "The rest is silence."

Wednesday, August 29, 2007


"Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect" is one of those scriptures of my youth that completely fucked me up. I still have this incredible desire to be perfect – even in my sinning. The perfect fuck, the perfect lick – perfection is the consummation, the goal of all endeavors.

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


I’m back – I think.

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.
In the afternoon session, you bring in two additional female recruits, so that the men can try out different types of women – of course the leader of the class, Celeste is the more classic beauty and you use her in all of your ads – but now that you’ve roped the men in with the talk of how they need to be more sensitive and attune to the woman’s needs, you find that the hands on training is going to consist of three women types: 1) the objectively attractive, more traditional sex object - Celeste; 2) The natural, granola girl, replete with arm pit hair, a vaginal forest and the distinct scent of the hippie; and 3) The vastly over weight woman. Looking back, I’m still amused at how the teacher manipulated a group of men into allowing the teacher to make a political and social comment on the objectification of women. Even though we were allowed to touch each woman (rubber gloves for the intimate parts, lest you think safe sex was not a primary concern), the instruction was taught in a classroom equivalent of musical pussy and when the music stopped I ended up with the large woman for my turn to dip my fingers. (Woman on her back, well lubed index and middle finger stroking the top of the vagina in a cum hither motion while the thumb rests on the clit in case you have someone to experiment on and want to save the social lesson and $250.00.) Of course, there is always the squirting seminar . . .

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

Happy Mother's Day: Confessions of a Mother Fucker

By all objective standards, I'm a mother fucker. Not my own mother of course, Freud and Sophocles can keep their Oedipus in his mommy's pussy, that isn't my thing. I'm talking about the distinctive and indisputable fact is that after you reach a certain age (which in Utah isn't very old) most desirable sex partners are mothers. I can't remember the last time -- which was over 19 years ago -- when I actually fucked a woman who wasn't a mother. Hell, I've even fucked a grandma, which I suppose makes me a grand mother fucker.

Now, I don't mean to be completely crass. I've just had it up to my eyeballs today in motherly sweetness and sap. If no one got a little nasty, there wouldn't be any Mother's Day to celebrate. I guess I just have to admire a holiday whose initial premise begins with people fucking, so I can begin to revel in the beauty and eroticism that is "mothers". It is no mistake that "MILF" has worked its way from euphemistic acronym to a stand alone word for any woman over twenty that has procreated and is still hot. Sex and the procreative power are etched into are little Darwinian limbic brain stems, so that the essence of motherhood is also the essence of sexy -- big tits, nice ass and hips and overall genetic attractiveness. The fuck-able quotient is a close correlation to the breed-able quotient.

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.


The blog is devoted to exploring sexual issues arising out of American and Mormon culture. While the prurient may occasionally surface and while the tone may be sarcastic or sacreligious, the discussion is serious. I want to get deep.