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.

Famous Last Words

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Quick-alingus

"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.

I'm BACK

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.

6. I stripped for a room full of homosexual men.

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.

Happy Mother's Day: Confessions of a Mother Fucker

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Where Has All The Horniness Gone?

From my earliest years growing up, I've heard the myth/rumor/urban legend that anti-Mormons claimed that Mormons had horns. Now, Mormons aren't exactly the first religion to have a claim on horny appendages to the forehead. Jews have long been accused of having horns, given their close proximity to Lucifer and his horned-headed hosts of demons. Satanists, too, have been accused of sprouting bovine brows. Michelangelo even sculpted Moses (pre-Charlton Heston) with horns. The reasons vary as to why Moses would have horns. The apologists say Michelangelo misinterpreted Exodus 34:29-35 in which "rays of light" were translated into "horns". The Jews claim that Michelangelo was just catering to the whims of the day in portraying Moses, the uber-Jew, as horned. Or maybe it was an ironic commentary on the Ten Commandments.

Mormons in their bid to copy everything from other religions, especially the Jews, probably adopted the horned Jew myth as part of their new and improved persecution/Exodus mythology. Brigham was our Moses -- the American Moses, I recall reading in some history book in 4th Grade. We don't have locust, we have crickets. Pharoah is replaced by Governor Boggs and the Extermination Order. The Red Sea doesn't part, the Mississippi freezes over. It seemed very important that we copy everything, right down to Moses' horns. I'm surprised that Utah lake wasn't named Galilee and the Great Salt Lake as the Really Dead Sea. The river got named Jordan though.

Or I could be just completely wrong and the whole Mormon/Horns thing came out of the early days of polygamy when the Mormon's neighbors were saying how horny those Mormons were.

Now, Jews, Moses and Mormons aren't the only creatures to be bestowed with horns. The succubus, the female devil that takes human form, fucks human males to the point of exhaustion or death -- i.e. every guys fantasy. Being a demon, she is usually portrayed with horns sprouting out of her head. Now most guys won't admit this, but real women (sans horns) are pretty fucking scary when it comes to fucking. Women have this demonic power to keep coming and coming. They can go until we are limp and still be wanting action. Viagra sells, not because men don't think they can't get it up, but because they know when faced with female sexuality in all its force, they can't keep up.

I found this one picture below of a succubus at work. Not only does she appear to be fucking this guy until he shrivels, she's doing it while in the splits. (I have no idea about the creepy kid in the upper right corner.)

So what is the point of all this horniness? Well, first an apology because I let real life get in the way of my blogging -- damn bills, damn job. Second, I was thinking of my own appendage and what pleasure it brings when it is in its horned state. This cultural Mormon wants his mercurial horn to be in excellent working order. Third, I was thinking of all the potential double entendre with "horn." Feel free to add to them in the comments if you can think of more:

On the horns of a dilemma is how I feel when my horn is deciding whether to enter or not.
Moroni has that horn in his mouth, a clarion call to the other horn-suckers of Mormon-dom?
Horn-icopia of pleasure.
Toot my horn. Blow my horn. Toot my own horn (need to do more yoga, it looks like).
Take the bull by its horns.
Green horns (new missionaries, shortened to "greenies" in most Mormon vernacular.)
You can get to first base, second base, third base and home -- even when you strike out by taking the ball around the horn.
Oh, and why do cuckold's get horns? Indication that someone else has horned in on his territory, possibly? As a result of the cuckold/horn connection, the verb "to horn" means to get it on with someone else's spouse.
And then when those rams ram their horns together --
And finally --
I suppose we all know the reason all girls like unicorns -- the mythical, ever erect, solitary horn.

On the Pleasures of Adultery

I've been reading and posting on polygamy posts all week and in the process was reading in Religion and Sexuality by Lawrence Foster with a couple of excellent chapters on Mormon polygamy. He cited some evidence of Joseph Smith expressing anxiety that in his quest for spiritual (and I suppose, sexual) enlightenment, that he had committed adultery. It was this candid admission and the obvious concern that I find most intriguing about old Joe, because it sounds so human.

I am cynical, but I still don't believe the vast majority of people want to cause pain to their spouse because they want to get laid (or laid in a different way). Now, I don't want everyone to get in an uproar and start shouting and screaming that Elder Wanker has gone off his rocker and is espousing rampant adultery. I'm just really not in a place where I think that all proper modes of behavior have been dictated by the finger of God on stone. Our lives are much more rich, diverse and exciting than to be prescribed on Sinai stone tablets ostensibly etched over 2500 years ago.

And if the New Testament is right -- if all I have to do is lust after a woman to be as guilty of adultery as if I had actually stripped off her clothes and did her on the spot, then at judgment day I am so incredibly fucked it isn't even funny. Good thing Mormons only believe in degrees of glory.

But if there is anything as irritating as religious morality now-it-alls, I think it is the evolutionary "Darwinian" biologists. (In case any one reads my blog that isn't already reading Main Street Plaza, you should probably go check it out.) On Little Miss Raving's Main Street Post, Johnathan Blake posted a comment citing six "new" findings by evolutionary biologists/psychologists based on a Psychology Today article:

o A woman's capacity for orgasm depends not on her partner's sexual skill but on her subconscious evaluation of his genetic merits.
o Women's orgasm has little to do with love. Or experience.
o Good men are indeed hard to find.
o The men with the best genes make the worst mates.
o Women are no more built for monogamy than men are. They are designed to keep their options open.
o Women fake orgasm to divert a partner's attention from their infidelities.

I read this article and was incredulous. This is worse than religion, this is religion masquerading as bad science. If anyone thought and didn't turn off their brain, simply because a "scientist" said it was so, it would be hilarious. Instead, from out of the burning laboratory, the Scientist appeared to Moses and etched in ink six results on the pages of Psychology Today.

To summarize the article, women's orgasms are a problem for evolutionary biologists, because no one can agree why women have them. (Apparently the need to feel some pleasure before undergoing nine months of vomiting hell isn't enough of a biological imperative to make sex feel good for the female.) Two chauvinistic camps of thought have arisen: the old school version finds that the female orgasm has the same function as male nipples -- none. The new version is contained in those six statements above, but can be summarized as evolution requires us all to be sluts and studs. (If some religious guy said "Good men are hard to find, so women you need to share me." Everybody would be in an uproar. The FBI would chase him down and the poor guy's stab at making a heaven here on earth for himself would instead turn into a living hell.) All the important questions are answered with the new "God", Biology.

What makes illicit sex drive a woman to orgiastic delights? Biology. What makes women want to fuck good lucking men? Biology. And men are so vain and self-centered that if she can pull a Meg Ryan orgasm off in bed, he'll be clueless that she is fucking someone else, because of -- Biology.

Darwin Guru 1:
Lab Fact: If a woman has an orgasm during sex, she retains more sperm.
Evolutionary (pulled out of the scientist's ass) Fact: By controlling who she orgasm's with, the female gets to pick and choose whose sperm she accepts.

Of course from this follows that women only get off then if she subconsciously feels that the guy is sperm worthy. If that were the case, then evolution would have resulted in most males with a terminal vibrating stutter -- throughout their whole body. We would be a race of Hitachi Magic Wands and Shower Massages. Not to mention, the conclusion flys in the face of a huge number of women who get very pregnant without having had the privilege of a decent orgasm. If they were right, why doesn't Planned Parenthood preach the "don't let the girl come" method of birth control.

Darwin Guru 2:
Lab Facts: Women find symmetrical men more attractive and more symmetrical people tend to be more healthy.
Evolutionary Conclusion: Women come more with hot partners because it is evolutionarily beneficial and they are more likely to retain the sperm if they come (see Lab Fact 1).

Maybe the come more, simply because they find their partner more aesthetically pleasing.

Darwin Guru 3:
Lab Facts: Women have better orgasms when they are cheating, than when they are staying put and they fake orgasms with their regular lover, when cheating.
Evolutionary Conclusion: The better illicit sex and the faked (yet faithful) orgasms are more biological evidence that women only want genetically superior sperm.

Ok, I just have to say that this is better than anything that Joseph Smith came up with (and at least he had some moral qualms about it.) I'm just doing the wrong fucking job. Imagine this geeky scientist's fantasy:

Scientist: I'm an evolutionary biologist genius.
Woman (married): Oh really? But you are so symmetrical.
Scientist: This means that I'm the prime of the evolutionary crop. My seed will spawn nations without number and save the slowly de-evolving human race. Would you like my contribution?
Woman: My, isn't that a little bit forward?
Scientist: Yes, but our research has also shown that you'll come until your eyes pop out of your head, you'll subconsciously want my sperm so bad.

Sorry, buddy -- all the research in the world in the world won't get you laid.

I present my own evidence: Why do women come more in illicit relationships? Because tension and adrenaline add to the sexual experience. I mean its obvious.

Elder Wanker -- The Blog Guru

Story Fiction: Fiction is so much better at getting at facts than science sometimes. Read the story and you tell me who is right -- me or the evolutionary biologists.

Literary Facts: What do we learn about evolutionary sexuality? She gets no sperm, yet she comes like never before, because sexual arousal is not just about reproduction despite the Darwin Gurus (Oh, and a little bit of evil can go along way to making better orgasms).

ON THE PLEASURES (AND PAINS) OF ADULTERY

The couple meets. She's married, he's not. She hasn't had sex with her husband in who knows how long, because of the kids, because they are on the outs and she is just wanting some. (It's been awhile.) The kissing, necking and petting bring out all those youthful emotions of emerging sexuality that she hasn't felt in so long. Her panties get wet. He says, "Let's get a room."

Now, as hot and wet as her panties are, her cerebral cortex is in fine working order. "Do you have a condom?" she says. "Oh, shit" is his reply, " I wasn't planning on hooking up with anyone tonight." What follows are several abortive attempts to locate condoms in Utah after 10:00 p.m. at night, as gas stations suffer premature closings, and Smith's becomes the last bastion of condom sales. Not wanting to be seen in her neighborhood Smiths, she remains hidden in the car as he ventures forth after rearranging his erection so it isn't so obvious and waltzing into Smith's to buy a twelve pack of Lifestyle condoms, gum and an energy drink. The somewhat befuddled cashier stammers out her routinized "Have a Good Night!" a little too cheerily.

Back in the car, it is dashing off towards a hotel -- any hotel. The fondling continues only abated by the gear shifting until a Vacancy sign appears on the horizon. Again, she stays secreted in the car, avoiding being seen. He rents the room and they sneak in the back way.

Safely in the room, the stripping of the clothing is the rapid perfunctory stripping of the ravenous. He chews at her neck, her nipples, her ears. His hand slides down between her legs. He slides his mouth down her body and kisses her inner thighs. This isn't her husband's mouth and tongue breathing hot air on that little indentation between thigh and cunt. Suddenly he is eating. His fingers are jammed in her cunt, curled up to try and hold her clit still and keep it from moving away, as his tongue works frantically on the little clit.

Her body is singing, awake, sexual after a long dreary sleep of marital celibacy. The juices run down off his chin, it is time for his cock to go in. He breaks out the condom, slides it on and then begins the well-lubricated slide into sexual nirvana. His cock keeps going until his pelvis crushes against her clit and the cock by some miraculous coincidence hits bottom and stays there as her whole body shudders at being so full. She comes, hard.

An hour and a half they fuck. She comes repeatedly -- clitoral, vaginal, cervical, oxygen deprived orgasms -- one after a fucking another until her body is quivering nerve endings. He finally comes with a "Oh shit, I didn't want this to end." Biological imperatives take over and the rigid turns to soft and the bodies pool together on the bed.

"I've got to get home." They dress with a functionality that is as purposeful as the undressing was chaotic. They walk out. Except for the ruffled bed and one condom in the garbage can, the hotel room is untouched in its pasteled uniformity, only to remain empty throughout the wee hours of the morning, until 8:00 a.m. when a maid will come in and straighten up a little bit, while the woman, her clit throbbing, will be making breakfast for her children.

4x4: Group Sex, Aging and Mormonism

I turned 44 this week. I half expect something mystical to occur in a year with double digits. I immediately thought of all the things that start with a 4:

Four Seasons

Four Elements

Four Points on the Compass

Four Corners

I could go on, but I've also been reading Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day and of course I came across passage making a unique utilization of the imaginary geographic entity known as "The Four Corner's Region":

They took her down to the Four Corners and put her so one of her knees was in Utah, one in Colorado, one elbow in Arizona and the other in New Mexico -- with one point of insertion exactly above the mythical crosshairs itself. Then rotated her four different ways. Her small features pressed into the dirt, the blood-red dirt.

So in addition to the Mile High Club, I am now obsessed in my 44th year to find a woman and get down to the Four Corners and fuck in all four states at once -- maybe even achieving four different states of consciousness in the process. Drilling my cock into her cunt right on the bulls eye, with our four arms and four legs intertwined as one flesh -- the four elements appear as well with the fire of our loins, the water of her pussy, the hot air of our breath commingled all on the earthy stone -- our heads point north along the Utah-Colorado border, our feet point south down through New Mexico and Arizona and the orgasm generating out from our genitals flows perpendicular to the East and the West completing a sexual mandala.

With all these fours running through my head, I revert to my Mormon heritage which does not (at least in eternity) bind me to one solitary female partner and begin to think of a daisy chain foursome covering four states at once. Calling the Guinness Book of World's Records: The world's first group sex held simultaneously orgasming in four states at once. Foursomes provide multiples of fours in legs, tits, arms, eyes, ears and balls. Of course, we would have to go in some type of 4x4 given the rough terrain of Southern Utah, with lots of extended foreplay on the close to 444 mile drive from Farmington, Utah to the closest city, Farmington, New Mexico -- both of which begin with "F", as does "Four" and "Fuck"

The debate about polygamy is so misguided. (Here is where I get serious.) To understand and deal with the psychological implications of growing up either

1) male ;

2) female;

3) straight; or

4) gay

in a religion whose doctrine espouses polygamy requires an understanding of not just polygamous abuses, but the strong sexual and spiritual compulsion -- that urge to merge into the oneness -- that is bred into each of our culturally Mormon psyches.

Someone needs to do a sociological study on the sex habits of the Mormons who have left the church. How many sex partners? How many Tantra workshops? How many serial monogamous relationships? My guess is it is significantly higher than the average U.S. culture, because there is a spiritual, as well as a physical promise, that comes from the subliminally indoctrinated promise of communal sex and free love.

Our aspiration was to become like the ancient City of Enoch -- transformed, translated, transcending common existence and being raised up into heaven as one heart and one mind into God's bosom-- one giant celestial fucking orgy. (Moses 7:18, 69) One heart, one mind, one flesh -- if the symbolic oneness of the act of consummating and carrying out the marriage of a male and a female works for two, why not four, why not more? And of course being a guy, the two girls per boy scenario is fantastically fun.

Moses 7:62-65 gives me my scriptural basis for this argument: (Link warning -- the links are straight from scriptures.lds.org-- no further translation has been provided.)

62 And righteousness will I send down out of heaven; and truth will I send forth out of the earth, to bear testimony of mine Only Begotten; his resurrection from the dead; yea, and also the resurrection of all men; and righteousness and truth will I cause to sweep the earth as with a flood, to gather out mine elect from the four quarters of the earth, unto a place which I shall prepare, an Holy City, that my people may gird up their loins, and be looking forth for the time of my coming; [People wonder why we went to church -- to gird up our loins and come, of course.] for there shall be my tabernacle, and it shall be called Zion, a New Jerusalem.

63 And the Lord said unto Enoch: Then shalt thou and all thy city meet them there, and we will receive them into our bosom, and they shall see us; and we will fall upon their necks, and they shall fall upon our necks, and we will kiss each other; [Elder Wanker's Translation Through the Power of His MelcheziDick: We'll suck on their tits and the nape of their neck and make out like crazy.]

64 And there shall be mine abode, and it shall be Zion, which shall come forth out of all the creations which I have made; and for the space of a thousand years the earth shall rest. [A thousand year fuck party.

65 And it came to pass that Enoch saw the day of the coming of the Son of Man. [And who says prophets can't watch porno? He even got to see the money shot. Not to mention, how much fun it will be in that millennial sex party to gather round the orgy and sing with gusto and verve: Cum, cum ye Saints.]

Yet, at the same time I'm a puritanically chaste creature that feels extreme guilt and agonizes over my sexual morality. Everybody rants and raves about polygamy. Everybody rants and raves about the Mormon Victorian attitudes. Why aren't we discussing how those activities play out in our lives, our actions and our fantasies? It seems much more relevant than haggling over whether Joseph was horny or not -- he was. Or whether Joseph was a charismatic mystic with a strong religious bent-- he was. (Most charismatic mystics end up being horny, comes with the mystical God territory.) We need to talk about why we fuck who we fuck and how often we fuck and what the fuck it is all about. (That was four fucks, in case you weren't counting and fuck has four letters. Please four-give me four I know not what I do four you and four you.)

300 -- Sex, Blood and Sexual Politics

Today, I got an email from my friend, who happens to be from Iran, which read as follows:

Friends,
As some of you may have heard, recently the Warner Bros. Pictures has made
a movie about the famous battle of Thermopylae between Persians and Greeks
at 480 B.C called 300. In this movie the Persians were pictured as some
monstrous savages and animals. My friends have created a petition against
this unethical action. Please join us to sing it and forward it to all
people you know as well. You can find the petition online at:

http://www.petitiononline.com/wpci96c/petition.html

First of all, this is absolutely ridiculous. Even without having seen the movie, bitching about the political correctness of a movie depicting a war that happened over two millenia ago is absurd. It is even more absurd when the present day Persians from Iran are being vilified because of a small percentage of the population that is radically fundamentalist and anti-West. A gladiator movie is not the most effective place for geo-political hell raising, especially when much more serious distortions of the Iranian life and character occur daily in American media and politics. Objecting to the Persians portryal in this movie is like objecting to the depiction of white slave holders in the South before the Civil War because it makes Caucasians look like monstrous savages and animals. Attempts at world domination aren't something to be proud of for any culture, whether it be Persia in 480 B.C. or the US in 2007.

Having been prompted by the email, I had to break down and go see the movie tonight, just so I wouldn't feel completely culturally isolated. JulieAnn has already commented on her blog about the movie in the context of parenting and some feminist issues. As usual, I don't completely agree with her, but nothing new there.

As I sit here trying to digest everything, I feel a bit overwhelmed, because there are so many ways to take this movie. In case you've been living in a cave the last little bit, 300 is based on the ancient Battle of Thermopylae, in which a contingent of 300 Spartan soldiers hold up a vastly superior force of Persians -- kind of Ancient Greeks and Persians do the Alamo. Now that we got the plot out of the way, I'm going to go with my subtitle -- Sex, Blood and Sexual Politics.

SEX

The best I could do for a sexy picture was the one at the top of the blog of the dancing drunken oracle in diaphanous array, complete with the occasional peek-a-boob moment. Queen Gorgo also provided some sexy toga costumes that should be a big hit next Halloween.

I wanted to post a picture from the love scene between King Leonidas and his wife, but alas I couldn't find one. The sex scene was pretty routine as sex scenes go, but you did get the sense that this was a loving couple. And Queen Gorgo looks like she's actually enjoying it for a moment or two.

I hope to have my gay readers chime in, because they will be better equipped to give you an analysis of the homosexual underpinnings in this movie. Xerxes, an androgynous, rock star God of a dictator, runs around demanding that everyone kneel at his feet. You almost expect him to start saying in the digitally altered voice -- Kneel human and suck my cock. It is that obvious. There is one time the Spartan King, asserting his heterosexuality, mocks the "boy lovers" from Athens, but that moment of derision is counterbalanced by the fact that the rest of the movie looks like something straight out of Tom of Finland.

So as for sex, the movie gives a little bit to everyone -- straight or gay, male or female. There is even a lesbian kissing scene in Xerxes den of iniquity.

BLOOD

Everybody bleeds in this movie. Digital blood flies faster and more furious than sperm in a porno. Decapitations and all sorts of mayhem spew across the screen. Elephants fall off cliffs and blow apart on the rocks below. The violence is comic book violence of the most brutal and sadistic kind. Animals, humans and children are all destroyed. Oddly (with one notable exception that I'll discuss below) no women are injured in the slightest. Male children are beaten, abused and killed. Animals --wolves, elephants, horses, rhinoceros -- tend to die the most ignoble deaths. Women, apparently because of the valiant efforts of their male protectorates are unscathed.

SEXUAL POLITICS

The most intriguing part of this movie is the sub-plot. Queen Gorgo is left behind while her husband is out fighting in blood and she is left to deal with the lack of political will at home to send reinforcements to help the King. Her rival in the counsel is Theron, who has been conspiring unbeknownst to everyone with the Persians. Realizing that even as Queen her standing as a woman in this testosterone based political system is unlikely on its own to be persuasive, she knows that she must deal with the leader of the civic council, Theron. She meets with Theron and they negotiate. He demands sex as payment for his support for her cause with the council. Gorgo, without any hesitation, mirroring her husband's willingness to go into battle allows Theron to take her. He is the proverbial ass about it, adding to his already villainous nature the feeling that this isn't Gorgo agreeing to sex, but rather him taking it.

Gorgo made a choice and used the ammunition at her disposal to attempt to achieve her ends, which was to get aid to her husband. It is the inverse of the choice made by the women in Lysistrata in which the women deny the warriors sex until they stop fighting. Gorgo consciously chose to submit so the warriors could keep fighting. To say that it wasn't her choice weakens her as a woman and demeans her character. She may not have wanted sex with Theron, but she'd do it no matter how distasteful if she thought it would achieve her ends.

The strength of her character is born out even further when she discovers that Theron is not abiding by their agreement in front of the counsel and instead is trying to use it to discredit her. Once Theron has broken the code of honor that Gorgo and the Spartans abided by, all bets are off. Gorgo reacts promptly and violently. She grabs a sword from a guard, the most handy replacement phallus she can find and fucks Theron in the gut with the sword, uttering the words back to him that he had said to her when he took her -- "This will not be over quickly and you will not enjoy it" -- as she slowly moves the knife around in his lower abdomen. This is not the action of a victim or a weak woman. She is just as brutal, ruthless and committed as her husband.

CONCLUDING GEO-POLITICAL THOUGHTS

Ultimately the appeal of the show, apart from the sex, violence and graphical magic, is that we like to cheer for the underdog. As I filled out my March Madness brackets today, I realized that we love to have battles where David beats Goliath, 300 beat 300,000, a 15 seed beats a number 2 seed. I know that David sleeps with Bathsheba, all of the 300 are killed and a 15 seed is never getting to the Final Four. Reality kind of sucks that way -- the big guy usually triumphs out in the end.

I read with some interest that 300 hasn't screened well in Europe because the Europeans see this as being American propaganda since the Greeks spend most of the time spouting slogans from the Revolutionary War like "I only regret I have one life" and "Give me freedom or give me death." I can certainly see the Europeans point of view, but like any history lessons can be learned from both sides of the story. In the Revolutionary War, England invaded and was the global super power fighting the rag tag insurgents. In the Battle of Thermopylae, Persia invaded and was the global super power fighting the insurgents. Our current world situation has the United States as the super power invading and fighting insurgents. The human drive for self-governance is strong. Before he allows himself to be killed, Leonidas turns down an offer by the "benevolent" and all-powerful Xerxes to be war-lord ruler over all of Greece, if he would but bow down to Xerxes. Xerxes rhetoric is the rhetoric of George Bush, Xerxes just happens to have a cool digitally altered voice and the side benefit of having died over two thousand years ago.

So what did I learn from the movies today? We all like sex. Violence has its appeal, too. Look out for tough women. And history teaches us nothing unless we pay attention to it -- even when it is dramatized and digitally enhanced.

Fantasy: Getting Back to My Erotic Intentions

I just realized that I haven't written enough erotica for my blog. I don't want to misadvertise, so I'm going to propose seven questions that I was asked recently in a writing class I took from Susie Bright (who I might add, should get some credit for me actually starting to blog). I'm going to post my response, but I challenge any of you to answer all seven questions in the comments or on your own blog -- if you do it on your own blog, at least let us know and leave a link. It beats the hell out of all those other tag questions that make the rounds. Anonymous posts are fine and better to be anonymous, honest and typing, than known and silent. Oh, and this needs to be done as you fantasize -- sort of a Zen sex thing -- the sound of one hand typing.

1. Who is in your fantasy?
2. What is the location, where are you?
3. What do the other people look or sound like?
4. Are you having sex in the fantasy, or are you watching others?
5. What are the elements that make this fantasy so exciting?
6. What is the most intense point of excitement in the fantasy?
7. What are the feelings going on during the fantasy (joy, contentment, love, anxiety, fear, guilt, anger, jealousy, pride, relaxation, tenderness, remorse, naughtiness, revenge)?


1. Who is in the fantasy?

I realized that I’ve gotten lazy in my sexual fantasy life. Clicking on some Internet porn, mentally swapping myself out with the participants in a mindless little release to make myself fall asleep most nights (sounds sad and depressing doesn’t it) has been my standard operating procedure for long enough that I felt limp at the task of coming up with something to fantasize about, but here it goes.

I’m going through a list of names of girls I’ve fantasized about in the past – Jana, Dora, Kandy, Kora, Leah, Mary, Carrie, Sally, Justine, Lana, Callie, Lori. Little twitches in my cock about each one, still on the limp side though.

I think that my fantasies seem kind of limp and generic too. I like to imagine watching the girl’s pussy sliding up and down on my cock – boring, but generally effective when coupled with fondling. So the fantasy works like this: My cock, tab A, is inserted into Slot B, INSERT GIRLS NAME HERE’s pussy and away goes the fantasy. A couple of tugs per girl and I’m still limp. This ordinarily effective way of fantasizing is failing me, probably because of this conscious dialogue and note taking.

So I start thinking of things to spice things up. It is funny because the fact that my blog "audience" appears to be females and a gay males has an effect on my attempts. Abortive attempts at harem fucking, joint cock sucking with one of my harem, crass chauvinistic rutting with as many females as possible, all start to raise my cock a little. A six-some leaves me not hard, but kind of droopy.

The sound gets me most right now – the almost dry sandpaper sound of my hand going up and down on my cock. Looking at my cock as it starts to get hard, I watch as the curl of circumscribed flesh begins to pull away from the head and tighten. I realized I don’t usually jack off in the light and it is strange to see the hairs on my cock in such distinct relief. My cock looks a little dried out. I’m making progress, but still not particularly hard.

2. What is the location, where are you?

Since I wasn’t making much progress I decided I’d try out location. Since it is snowing and near sub zero temperatures outside, of course I chose Jamaica – a clothing optional resort with beautiful weather, lots of naked people, naked volleyball.

3. What do the other people look or sound like?

I couldn’t help but see the next question and started to think about what it looks like around the pool. Clothing optional resorts tend to have about the same type of body types and looks as the supermarket, just absent the clothing. I think about the resort and just like the supermarket, there is one woman who is flat out attractive. She wades up to me, her hands swaying above the water in counter-rhythm to her tits. It is a seductive sway. Since this is my fantasy, there is no precursor, no foreplay, no chance of rejection, just her flat out propositioning me. I accept and join in the general orgy that has formed with all the naked bodies.

I’m trying to think what everything sounds like and I think back to the audio recording I heard of a six-some. The sounds have a rhythm, dah-dah, dah-dah – the in and out. Lip smacking. Giggles. Sighs. Moans. All done to the underlying rhythm of the bass smacking sounds. When it gets wet, it sounds like a wet dish rag slapped repeatedly against the counter. Occasionally, soprano sounds join in with the bass grunting.

4. Are you having sex in the fantasy, or are you watching others?

Oh, I’m definitely having sex in my fantasy. I’m hard, my heart is pounding, from previous exercises watching myself, I know I must be a little flushed – and the phone rings.
I’m serious, the phone really rang. I figured what the hell, this is an experiment, so I answered it. It was a friend of mine, Mark, who was calling me to set an appointment. Earlier in the month he had called me with a problem with his 20 year old step daughter, who had been arrested for peeing on the side of a Wal-Mart. She was a little bit drunk, apparently. I ask how she is and he goes on a tirade about her boyfriend who was arrested for forgery and who he had kicked out of his house because as he said it, "I was tired of providing him with a warm room and a vagina." I wondered if he realized I was in the middle of a fantasy exercise, with my cock still quite hard. I struggled to control my breathing, trying to sound normal. So of course, I slip out of Jamaica and start thinking about his bad girl daughter. The one time I met her she was falling out of her shirt, all her young curves accosting my eyes. Peripherally listening to my phone conversation, I started fucking his step daughter in my fantasy. Her wild child persona that she tries so hard to portray makes the fantasy fun and naughty. In the fantasy, I pretend I’m fucking her and not talking to her step dad, but to another woman, Lindsay, who is exactly her opposite, tall, slender and angular. Lindsay’s husky voice talking to me and young, Ruben-esque wild child in too much make-up going wild on my cock. I lose the fantasy as I have to schedule an appointment.

5. What are the elements that make this fantasy so exciting?

Hanging up, my heart rate is up, but I’ve grown a little soft. I see this question on the list and think about what has got me this far and what has been most exciting. Two things I find arousing: exhibitionism and taboo violation. Being bad is flat out sexy and showing off being bad is even better. Thinking about taboo, takes me back to my earliest experiences with sex’s precursors while going to college when everything was taboo and the slightest sexual contact was a sin and evil. I quickly re-run a couple of extra tense make out sessions of my youth and ironically, they still carry a lot of juice -- Rochelle, who I met at the gym, and dry-humped my cock with her in her bikini and me in my swim suit; the girl, I forget her name now, but she was a Levi love queen and she liked to make out during church services or around the corner from her parents with the potential of immediate discovery; Sally, the first girl that pulled me (fully clothed) between her (fully clothed) legs, as I lay on top of her; and another Susan, who much to my amazed surprise peeled her shirt and bra off while we were making out. These memories of more virginal times bring me back to a more full erection. I clench those PC muscles and the head of my cock actually grows, expanding red and the veins pop out, more inflated with blood. For the first time during this jack off session, a small bead of clear liquid shows at the tip of my cock. I taste it. I love the taste of the pre-cum. It is clean and clear in its taste as it is with its appearance. Completely different and better taste than sperm. Pre-cum is the taste of heightening arousal, not the aftertaste of explosion and release. Pre-cum is like speed. This is the spot of sex and arousal I like best, right on the brink. I don’t want to come, just get caught in the buzz and stay there. Feeling the rush, I press my perineum with my little finger and ring finger, my middle finger rests on my balls and my thumb and forefinger form a cock ring sqeeezing the base of my cock, forcing it to fill even more with blood. This reminds me of a story I read about cock rings and the eviction of a gay man, who was clearly submissive and got off on the sheriff haranguing him. This wasn’t working for me on the fantasy. I went back to thinking about the things that turned me on.

Exhibitionism – yeah that is one of my great fantasy turn ons. Shouldn't I do a video tape instead of a blog post? Or at least as an alternative? That would be fun – I could put it on my Hyperlink Footnote blog. Getting off on my exhibitionistic fantasy, I imagine the visuals and sounds of intercourse, the visuals of arousal, the words I mutter "Oh shit, I can’t hold it" as I come on to the folds of her labia and onto my hand in the cold evening of tonight’s reality.

6. What is the most intense point of excitement in the fantasy?
The highest point of my physical excitement was when I was riding the pre-cum bliss. At that juncture, senses and awareness seemed to rachet up. The sensual focus is raised, but the focus narrows onto the body, kind of like the intensification of light by a magnifying glass. I like the feeling of that burning light, much more the diffusion when it bursts into flames.
Ironically the most intense excitement in the fantasy was probably when I was going back and reliving my early university years (yes, I was an extremely slow starter – virginal until marriage). Early, new and initial encounters seem to pack a lot of emotional impact.

7. What are the feelings going on during the fantasy (joy, contentment, love, anxiety, fear, guilt, anger, jealousy, pride, relaxation, tenderness, remorse, naughtiness, revenge)?

I started this post exhausted after a long day of work. I’m surprised that the whole cycle of arousal and release gave me enough creative juice (yeah, that was a bad pun) to get through the assignment, but it did. I feel pleasantly tired now. I don’t think I can jack off without some residual guilt. Some time in my teen years my neural pathways were carved out so the guilt sections of my brain were inextricably linked to orgasm. Over the years the guilt has faded into a shadow of guilt, a mild discontent when I come, which makes me enjoy the ride more than the end. During the ride, I don’t feel the guilt or discontentment, which are burned off in the magnified bliss of sensual focus of arousal.

I enjoy the freedom I feel when I am aroused. Inhibitions get released as the arousal increases. The taboo breaking just adds to the inhibition breaking. In hindsight, it appears that my fantasy is to escape rules, conditioning and control.

Oh, yeah, I’m tired now, exhausted.