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.