Archive for November, 2008

Up Shit Creek


I didn’t sleep much the night before we landed in Progresso.  I stayed up a few extra hours so my snoring wouldn’t keep Josh up all night long.  Sadly, we were both still exhausted when we rose at 6:30 in the Mexican sun.   We ran for a quick breakfast and made our way down the ship to the Port of Progresso.

You know those Sally Struthers commercials that used to come on all day long, where she would show you kids in shanty towns in Africa, then she would unhinge her jaw and just eat one of the fucking kids whole?  Well this was sort of like that, but in Mexico.   Progresso’s port looked like it had been built just the night before, held together with duct tape, silly putty and dried up shit.  These people are fucking poor, and they are forced to live their lives trying to shill crappy glass figurines, ugly hats and cheap cheap fucking beer and beg money off our fat asses just so their fucking kids can get fed  (and presumably be well nourished when it’s their turn to jump the border).  I feel really goddamn bad for the people of Progresso.   Josh and I scheduled a kayaking excursion.  The description promised education and adventure.  Well not so much.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our tour guide put us on a bus hobbled together with sticks, rubber and superglue.  His name was… fuck… Pablo or Tico…  I don’t know, something Mexican.  All I know is he kept making bizarre monkey noises intermixed with broken Spanglish.  So I’ll call him Tarzan.   Tarzan spent the majority of the ride… well, making said monkey noises… but in between he assured us repeatedly that Progresso is the most important port in Mexico, and that is why there were dozens of armed military men stationed everywhere.  (Because apparently the real Pirates of the Carribean couldn’t give a shit about Incan gold, preferring instead to steal burritos and “I love McDonald’s!” tshirts from fucking dirt farmers in the middle of a wasteland.)  We asked what made Progresso so important.

“Progresso is de moooost im-por-tahnt port in Me-hee-co.”

“Yes, we got that, but why?”

“Progresso is de moooost im-por-tahnt port in Me-hee-co.”

That’s all we were getting out of  him.  And I don’t think its that his English was bad.  I think he just didn’t fucking know.  I think he was just like “Look, I have to tell you this or that big monkey looking guy with the k-mart brand AK-47 is going to fuck me like an exra in Oz.” Meanwhile the bus driver apparently plays way too much Grand Theft Auto, because he was gunning for those kids in the street like he got extra points for each hit.

Seriously, the people of Progresso live in squalor.  I grew up in New Orleans my whole life, so I know what poor as shit looks like, and these people are… like, poor as fuck-all.  It seems every building was in various drastic states of disrepair, and many seemed impossibly uninhabitable, despite the obvious residency.  Every building– except one.   There was this big pink goddamn mansion in the middle of town, like a flower blooming in a wasteland.  It was the oddest thing.

They took us to their encampment where our adventure would begin.  Curiously, there were no real safety instructions or tutorials.  They just passed us a life jacket and paddle and pushed us in.

The kayaks were different than the ones I’d seen in Tennessee. There were old, and lacked the covering to keep out water.  Being especially heavy, this was not a good thing as I started taking on water a few seconds in. There was an overcast sky and a breeze pushing past the brush that surrounded us, so it felt good to be alive and on the water.   I enjoyed paddling around in my little boat, right up until I realized that I would have to paddle harder than anyone else there because my weight sunk my deeper in the water, pushing me more upstream.  Paddling became a bitch.

Even trying to tread water during breaks became a chore, since the constant pull of the stream made my paddle useless even when anchored deep into the ground.  The worst part though were the tunnels.   The majority of our tour took us through these tiny forest crevices barely large enough for the kayaks to pass and just small enough to get our oars caught in their branches.  In some spots the water was so shallow that we’d get stuck in the mud and have to fight to get out.  The breeze and current were non-existant there.  All that were present were the sweat upon my brow, the strain on my muscles and back and the terrible, terrible stench.  The forest’s odor was a disturbing mix of red beans and shit.  The water’s color did little to assuade that assessment.

After a while we came to open area for our final break.  They served water and bananas for lunch.  I declined since paddling to their boat would have required more energy than the banana was worth.  My patience was pretty much at an end by this point.  The adventure I was promised was just me struggling through the Mayan jungle at low tide.   I wanted off the ride.  By then my kayak was nearly sub mersed and each time I moved, I nearly flipped the boat.  My shoes were soaked.   Josh took this time to laugh at me, which is fine.  But  he also felt the need to give me advice on how to maneuver and paddle.  Which was not so fine.  I knew perfectly well how to paddle, but my weight combined with a flooded boat meant I wasn’t getting anywhere and his unwanted (yet, as always, insistant) advice wasn’t helping my mood.  Finally as I was in the throes of just giving up and waiting for the sweet hands of death  to take me down, he came up with a useful suggestion.  Ask them to let me ride in the motorboat.

Which they did.  And that was the best part of the whole damn time.  Fortunately for my ego, I wasn’t the only one who’d had it, and a couple had to hitch a ride.

Not long after we got back to the dock, they sent us back to the port.   I was soaked, tired and hungry, so we skipped out on looking around the port and went straight back to the ship.   As soon as we got back to the room, I tore my clothes off and ran in the shower.

After we ate, I went back to the room and ended up taking a long nap.  about 3 hours.  My left shoulder was killing me by then.   So when I woke from my nap, I put on my bathing suit, headed up to the spa and scheduled a massage.

With and hour and a half to kill before my appointment, I went to find Josh out on the pool deck. He was down in the hot tub talking to a girl.  When I got there, they weren’t alone.  Besides the hot girl, there was a middle aged couple and two kids.  The lanky kid was apparently trying to get with the just recently collegiate hot girl, but mostly he was just getting on her nerves.   Josh was the one with her ear, so lanky kid decides to show off by doing a flip off the hot tub into the pool.  When he was gone, the middle aged man asked if he was with us.  When we said no, he beathed relief.  I hadn’t noticed, but lanky kid had some sort of whistle and was apparently aggravating everyone in the hot tub.  Apparently I just completely tune teenagers out, because I never heard the damn thing.  When he got back in, he started in with the whistle again, and this time I did hear.

I’m not certain whether Josh was truly irritated by the whistle, or didn’t like the kid, or if it was just a case of male hormones pushing him to show off in front of the girl, but he kind of went off.

“Hey!  You see that whistle thing??  You’re pissing off everyone here!”   Cue stupid kid’s need to push authority.  He whistles again.  “You know I could punch your teeth down your throat.  Or he could. {me}  Or him. {middle-aged man}  You need to cut that shit out right now.”

I was fucking shocked.   The whole hot tub was silent.  I can’t speak for them, but I felt like it was over-kill. It was a fucking whistle.  And the kid looked like he was going to cry.  So I kind of stepped in.     “Don’t worry, he isn’t going to hit you.  But you are annoying everyone.  Seriously… STOP IT.”  The kid felt threatened and scared, so he bailed into the pool again.   I made a comment about him never getting an erection again after being emasculated so thoroughly in public.  Everyone laughed, but I really felt bad.  Still, I guess it worked because Josh and Hot Tub Girl took off to… well, that’s private.

I went up to get my massage.  My masseuse was a Welsh girl named Rachel.   She was skinny and tall with deep black hair cut shoulder length. Cute is definitely a good word for her, but it’s true what they say about teeth in the UK.  Seriously, these people need affordable orthodontia like flowers need sunshine.

She told me to strip down and said I could leave my underwear on if I wished.   Two problems with that.  One: all I had on was a damn bathing suit.  And two:  I was on vacation. It’s naked time.   Her hands were divine.  Which presented a problem.  When I was face down, all I could think about was her sticking her finger in my ass.  No, only kidding, but I did want her to rub my butt.  And then when I was face up… well… let’s just say I would have made a very effective sun dial.  And more I really really hoped this was going to go all 70’s porn on me.   Sure my arm felt better, but by the time I left I was so horny that I was more wound up than when I started.

I got dressed and headed down to dinner.   As we ate, Hot Tub Girl passed by with her family, not so discreetly giving Josh those eyes.  Fucker.

When dinner was done I went off to get my suit back on for late night hot tub action.   I saw HTG on the way to the room.  When I was leaving, Josh was walking in and I told him I’d seen her.  He told me he’d meet me at the pool soon.   I was up there for about an hour by myself and it was getting really really cold.  I went back down to the room to get some clothes on and go singing.  I opened the door to silence and pitch darkness, but there was something off.   Specifically HTG’s panties on the floor.  From the darkness, Josh asked if I could come back later.

This presented a problem.  On the one hand, guy code demands that I leave immediately.   Cock blocks are specifically un-dude like.   But on the other hand, I wearing nothing but a wet bathing suit, a bathrobe and some flip flops.   Which is bullshit.   So I decided to be a dude.

I went back up to the pool deck and tried to wait it out.   That lasted about a half an hour.   Having no other alternative, I went to the karaoke bar in my bathrobe.  I could hear the snickers and hoots of “Hey Hugh Hefner” as I found a seat.  I ordered a smirnoff ice, because this is the sort of occasion that requires alcohol.   I sang two songs; one of them being Wave on Wave by Pat Green.  What’s cool is that it’s a fun song, and it actually brought a few new people in.  The legend of the swimsuit swinger began to spread far and wide.  Soon my reputation would preceed me.

After I did my second song, I left.  By then the rules of dude-hood meant jack shit to me.  I needed clothes. Josh was there alone when I went in.   Unfortunately before I could be thankful for my good luck, he informed me that she was coming right back.   I dried off the leftover dampness and put on some underwear when suddenly there was a knock at the door.  Needless to say I could barely get my pants zipped before I was booted out the door.

Mostly what I did was wander around for the rest of the hour.  By the time I got back she was gone.   He told me about his own personal three ring sexual circus, which mostly made me sleepy.  Then I told him what I did all night while he was out banging the Pink Power Ranger. It was mutually agreed upon that I am the greatest Dude ever and that Josh owes me a debt which is either beyond recompense or only satisfiable by providing pussy.  And then I passed the fuck out.


The Problem With New Orleans

There’s a slogan that’s been passed around the city of New Orleans since the flooding of 2005.  “The City That Care Forgot.” Maybe it’s older than that, I don’t know, but it adorns many a t-shirt and bumper sticker.  The City That Care Forgot.

Now if those of you who speak English are confused, there’s a reason for that.  It doesn’t make any fucking sense.  Care isn’t a noun.   Only an idiot would say that, much less wear it on a t-shirt.

But grammatically incorrect or not, the statement does a fair job of illucidating the problem with New Orleans. The first instinct is to pass the buck on blame.  The city that care forgot suggests that it has fallen on hard times because no one wants to help it.   It’s someone else’s fault.  What’s sad is that people actually believe this horse shit.  Just look at rapper/ jackass/ racist cunt Kanye West’s simplistic summation of the the flooding of 2005 at the Katrina benefit special. “George Bush duh-does not care uhb- about black people.”  Way to go Kanye, thanks for being the only dick in the room who uses a benefit concert to express an unfounded political belief at a fucking benefit concert.  (Pssssst!  K- there weren’t just black people in the city. Stick to what you do best… uhhh.  Doing drugs and having sex with mentally handicapped strippers.)

Yeppers. It’s George Bush’s fault.  Not Kathleen Blanco, the Governor of Louisiana, or the snake to her mongoose, Ray Nagin, the mayor of New Orleans.  Blanco and Nagin are bitter enemies who would rather re-enact a Spy vs Spy cartoon strip than execute a proper evacuation of the danger radius.  Nagin himself abandoned the city and his subordinates for the greener pastures of Dallas.  So much for that whole “the Captain goes down with his ship” thing, huh Sugar Ray?  Since 2005, Ray Nagin has in fact done jack shit for the city.  It’s understandable though.  Here’s a list of his accomplishments in the last 3 years.

  • Gone off on multiple blatantly racist tirades, including one at a MLK Day speech.
  • Been re-elected despite telling the majority of his constituents that he only wants black people in New Orleans, not them.
  • Requested a third term.
  • Spent most of his time on the road getting paid thousands of dollars per event to tell people in other states tales of his bravery under pressure and tireless commitment to rebuilding New Orleans.
  • Been honored as the black mayor of the year.
  • Used city funds to take his wife out on expensive dates and buy her things.
  • Hired his brother to fraudulently build buildings that don’t exist.
  • Do little to nothing to help with rebuilding New Orleans.
  • Do little to nothing to curb the ridiculous per capita crime rate post 2005.

But no, it’s George Bush at fault.  The billions upon billions of dollars allotted to the city (and subsequently poorly invested by Louisiana’s leadership and citizenry) were simply not enough, despite the fact that New Orleans’ recompense eclipsed the amount of money given to Biloxi Mississippi which was hit dead on by the Hurricane (and by the way was pretty much rebuilt after a year, even though Louisiana still isn’t up to speed).

Pass the blame.  Don’t take responsibility.  Be greedy.  This is the holy trinity of Louisiana and New Orleans government.  Did you know Walt Disney had selected Louisiana to build Walt Disney World?  The men in charge tried to hit him up for bribes and kick backs so old Walt told them to get fucked and then proceed to deliver some truly heinous round house kicks to their collective heads, DUMBO STYLE!!!!!!  …  ahem.  okay i made the last bit up. Why does the French Quarter constantly smell like piss and beer?  Because people piss in the streets and spill beer everywhere.  Why are Louisiana and New Orleans consistently ranked among the lowest in education rate in the nation (often ranked number one)?  Because the School Board was embezzling millions for years from the budget.  THEY WERE LITERALLY STEALING CHILDREN’S FUTURES.

And yet people continue to pretend.  There’s a writer for the Times Picayune, Chris Rose.  He’s considered somewhat of a local celebrity, and he is in fact a talented, eloquent writer.  The only piece I’ve ever read of his column was about how hard it is to live in New Orleans because of the crime and lack of general kindness and all the other bullshit.  But then, he notes, he remembers…

  • The food is better than anywhere else in the country. (Bearing in mind he hasn’t been everywhere in the country.)
  • They have the zoo and the aquarium.
  • Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest.
  • {You can hear more and better live music than anywhere else in the country except maybe for New York or Los Angeles and most of the good bands from New Orleans anyway.

By the time I got to that last bit, which is a nearly word for word quote by the way, I had torn the paper in half from sheer rage at the ludicris statements made in his article.  For one thing, New Orleans isn’t a big city, so in order for NYC and LA to be populated with NOLA bands, we would all have to play a goddamn instrument and move.  Secondly, New Orleans is nowhere near the top 3 in most important cities musically.  Has this fucker even heard of Nashville, otherwise known as MUSIC CITY????

okay, i’m calm now.

My point is, this is the bullshit that permeates the city. If the core of the city is wrotten, ignore it.  If something is wrong, sweep it under the rug.

This isn’t the city that care forgot.   This is the city who forgot to care.  The city who only cares about themselves.  The city that forgot Southern pride and hospitality that still exists in many cities south of the Mason-Dixon.

Or better yet, it’s the city that just doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.

My Name is Adam

I walked into the hall with pep in my step.  On any other day I would have shivered nervously and tread slow.

But not today.  Today was different.  Today I felt that fire of life that I had long since been missing.  I remembered something.  My name is Adam.  And I am one bad ass son of a bitch.

As my feet slid upon the marble tiles music danced in my head.  The sounds of the BeeGee rang through to my toes and my walk became a strut; slick suede jacket swaying with my jig.  I tossed casual “I could have you” stares at the women I passed.  It felt good.  I felt strong; powerful.  And the longer it went on, I could not decide whether I wanted to blow shit up or fuck someone senseless.  And secretly I wondered if I were capable of both.

This is how I once felt.  Yeah, I was an arrogant prick.  But I was a man.  It felt good to feel strong and masculine. And then one day I lost it.  Lost.  I have been hollow inside.  Stifled and no longer in control of my own destiny.  Less than a man. Less than a human.
But today was different.  And tomorrow will be a brand new day.


I’m approaching 30 fast.   On most levels it isn’t that big a deal to me.  30, after all, is just a number.  Is 30 really that much more mind-blowing than 31? And you’re that much closer to dead at 31.  But still.  We’re given a certain amount of time on this Earth to accomplish our tasks.  And I haven’t accomplished much of anything.  It bothers me.  I have no intention of leaving unfinished business when I’m gone.

You may have read my list of things to do before I die.  But what I have in mind right now is more urgent.  I have a To Do List.  It’s about self-improvement.  Some are obvious.  LOSE WEIGHT.  That’s on everyone’s To Do List.  But there’s things that feel more immediate with each passing day.

I was thinking the last few days about things I want.  A new car for instance.  I want to buy a Pontiac GTO.  Or a Cadillac STS.   Something nice.  Something sleek and sexy.  Also, I could use a new computer.  I’ve settled on an iMac as my next goal.  I want one.  A lot.  My intention is to buy one soon, but that is contingent on job status. I’d been looking for a part time job for months.  Nothing has come up.   And today I realized I was thinking too small.

There’s this girl at my work.  She’s not my boss, but she is technically above me.  I’m a cashier, she’s a service writer.  That never bothered me until I found out she’s a year younger than I am.  I assumed she was a year older.   She’s younger than me and making more money.  That just kind of sucks.  I’ve been thinking too small for way too long.

But today is different.  Today I am feeling ambitious.  As I told a beautiful young lady, today I’m feeling hungry.

I have a business venture in mind.  A big one.  And one I plan to make happen.  But that’s long game.  In the short term, I have decided to find a new job.  I spoke to my bosses about possibly being a service writer.  They were very receptive, which I find surprising.  Also I plan to speak to the Sales Manager about possibly working as a salesman on Saturdays.  I think I would rather be a salesman than a service advisor, but either way would be a step in the right direction.  I need to be better.

This is good.  It’s a little scary, but it’s good.

The Second Day

Sunday: Water Bored-ing

The problem with Carnival Cruise lines is that its designed for two groups of people.  Families with kids and really old people.  That isn’t to say there’s nothing to appeal to those of us outside those demographics, but let’s face it no one pays 600 bucks for Spring Break so they can spend their days playing bridge, doing Scavenger Hunts and learning to Cha Cha. But since your first and last days are usually at Sea and that’s what’s available, you are left with few options; those being sun tanning, massages, hot tubs and girl watching.   Fortunately for me, as those options happen to be my favorites, I’m sitting pretty.

I loooooove laying out on the deck with my head phones on.  It just puts me at peace in ways I cannot describe to you.  The world goes away and all my problems, all my fears and hate disappear as Kieth Urban and Peter Gabriel sing me lullaby’s and the ship gently rocks me to sleep under a sunny sky.
Oh yeah, and there are breasts involved.
Ms. Linda (aka Josh’a Aunt, Maria’s Mom and our host of sorts) asked me to video tape the Swing Dance lessons that everyone was participating in but me.  Mistake.   Half the video is me zooming in on the dance instructors’ asses, and the other half that actually does feature them dancing is consumed by my patented humorous narration.  I’m pretty sure she hasn’t checked the tape.
Shortly after asked that we attend a group picture.  We all had to wear bright green shirts that said ‘Dancing With Linda’ to the shoot.
me: Umm… shouldn’t yours just say ‘Dancing’
Ms. Linda:  what?
me: well… you ARE Linda, but your shirt says ‘Dancing With Linda’.  People are going to think you have multiple personalities.
Yeah. I have to put my two cents in everywhere I go.   The one good thing about the t-shirts was that it clearly identified all the people in our group and made it easier to avoid them all day.
The picture was supposed to take 15 minutes tops, after which we were running for cover before the geriatrics started line dancing.   It took about an hour, and technically we didn’t make it all the way through.  We stood on the stair case as the photographer moved us about like chess pieces for half an hour.  The old women were getting PISSED with Ms. Linda, rumbling and grumbling.  Finally they got two of the five photos, when suddenly one of the old men took a header onto the marble floor and started convulsing.  Not to worry, he’s fine.  he’s 70.  Thats what old people do.   What’s sad is that all the old women were happy as shit not to have to stand there and take anymore pictures.   And once they got him off the staircase five minutes later, they assumed he was fine and all went line dancing.
After which, I went back to the hot tub.
Later that night was the Captain’s Reception.  This is wher eyou get dressed up and go down to the main theater to listen to music, dance and meet the head crew.   This is pretty much my favorite night.  It feels like Prom.   We passed Ashley Landry (previously mentioned in the first days blog) on the way up, and as beautiful as she was in regular clothes, I have to say she was pretty much stunning in that dress.  Since we hadn’t really been introduced, Josh did all the talking.   Upon seperation, I suggested he needed to ask her to dance. He said she had a boyfriend, but honestly, who gives a shit?  When it came time to ask the ladies to dance, he opted to dance with Maria.   Frankly, if he wasn’t jumping on that, I was.
I strolled over to her casually as she sat by her mother.   “Excuse me, I’m Adam.  My friend Josh informed me that you have a boyfriend.  If I promise to behave myself, would you dance with me?”   She smiled and giggled and said yes as I took her hand and led her to the stage.  Don’t be impressed.  I was wearing a suit.  I can do pretty much anything when I’m in a suit.  Possibly even take over the world.  Clothes don’t necessarily make the man, but more often than not, they’ll tell you most of what you need to know about him.  And I am a slick fuck in a suit.  So yeah, I danced with one of the hottest girls on the ship.
After that we went to dinner.
There was nothing to do that night besides go singing, but fortunately I dig that.   I got up and did Black Sabbath’s War Pigs.   And by the way, I can rock me some War Pigs apparently.   Kicked ass.  There was a comedy show at midnight, but we had an 8 am shore excusion in Progresso the next morning so we went to sleep.

Me-Hee-Co: Day 1

I suppose if you were to give me credit for one thing, it’s that I’m never boring.   Or maybe it would be how fucking sexy I am.  But that would definitely be in the top two.

No, where I go hi-jinks and general hilarity are sure to ensue. So I had to break up the break down of my cruise to Mexico into 5 parts.  Some of it will be funny.  Some of it a little depressing.  But it damn sure won’t be boring.
Around May I was invited by my best friend Josh to go on a cruise.  The catch was that it was with his Aunt and Uncle and her line dancing club which consisted of people from ages 60 to fucking ancient.  Some of these women fucked Moses.  I think at least two of them may have run the train on Ben Franklin.  Not sure.   There were exactly 4 people under the age of 40: myself, Josh, his cousin Maria and a beautiful girl named Ashley who sort of knew them from around the neighborhood.  Those odds didn’t bother me much because I had my own plans once we got the ship.
Saturday Morning:
I got to his Aunt and Uncle’s house with a fresh Smirnoff Ice ready to kick start my vacation.  Yes, Smirnoff Ice.  Fuck you.  I am a real man and drinking beer is like paying someone to take a piss in your mouth after they spent all night fucking (think about that morning’s piss and the head on a beer glass.  Got it?)  Anyway, Josh’s Grandfather took us to the port and we were on the ship by noon.  Being chronic over-eaters on an all-night floating smorgasbord (“orgasbord, orgasbord”), we availed ourselves of the lunchtime buffet.  Ice cream and chicken a doughnut rings, these are a few of my fay-vo-right things!  They may as well have strapped feed bags to our mouths.  It was a vicious cycle that has yet to be broken for the last five days.  Fuuck.  Two more days on that damn boat and I would have my own fucking competitive gravitational field.
Our ship was the Carnival Fantasy, which sounds bit like pornography for clowns.  Because it’s stationed in New Orleans, its pretty much the smallest and cheapest ship in the fleet.  It’s the K-Mart of cruise ships.  Which essentially makes me trailer trash in any language.
I’d been on the Fantasy before, so I mostly knew what to expect.  What I didn’t consider was the timing.  Apparently very few young people go on cruises in Winter and Fall.   The ship smelled like an old folks home most of the time.  That weird mix of linoleum, socks, ovaltine and ass hung in the air.   And nothing will rob you of your ability to sustain an erection like the sight of someone’s bra-less grandmother shaking her kibbles and bits to the sounds of 50 Cent.
But there were a small percentage of reasonably attractive women.  And a few of them were even unattached.   Granted, I didn’t really meet any of these mythical women, but I did get a look at them.
Okay, I have to confess, that first days on a cruise ship are a little boring to read about.   Not much happens.  You familiarize yourself with the ship, check out the “Welcome Aboard” show and then you go to bed.  We did try to do a couple of things.   My nightly ritual on cruises is to go to the karaoke lounge, crank it up and live out loud.  Singing is just about the only thing in the world that makes me feel good about me.  I turned out my favorite Gary Allan tune to poor results, and we left.  There was supposed to be a singles night for people between 22 and 35 in the ship’s nightclub, but when we got there all we saw was the Golden Girls busting a move/hip.
That night I went to sleep with visions of sagging, wrinkled tits swinging back and forth like pendulums dancing in my head.

Riding Dirty

“You wouldn’t wanna date a girl with an over-sized clit?”

“No; “cause the next step up is a guy with an under-sized dick.”

-Dante and Randall in Clerks 2

I have a bit of a reputation within my circle of friends.  Though I am by far the least experienced among them in quatity, I am by far the freakiest freak nasty fuck they know.  I’m willing to do things they haven’t even seen on TV.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m romantic.  Soft sweet kisses at night. Spooning.  Anal lube.   All good stuff.  But when it comes to sex, I like it down and dirty.

I’m fucked up, I know.  Maybe it’s all the porn that has desensetized me.  I once freaked out a friend by admitting I would be willing to let a girl stick her finger in my ass.  Why not?  If it feels good, it must be worth a try.

And that’s only the beginning,

Choking.  Down with it.  Leather and lace.  Oh yeah.   Handcuffs.  Fuck. Yeah.  Spanking, biting, stroking, sucking, flicking, fucking.  That’s how I like it.   I want a woman who likes it rough and gives as good as she gets.  I want to marry a girl who will throw me against a wall and rape me.  I want to wake up on my birthday with her riding my face like a Shetland Pony.

And positions!!!!   If I can bend that way, I’ll try it at least once.  The wheelbarrow.   The screwdriver. Reverse Cowgirl.  Donkey Fucking.  The Alabama Crab Dangler.  The Cincinatti Titty Grabber. The Pennsylvania Pussy Pounder.  The Tree of Pain.  The Reverse Figure 8.  Bring it on!!!

Sigh.  I just want someone I can love and be my nasty, dirty self with. Is that so much to ask?