I want to be a cult phenomenon.

Hi.

So, I have a story up here (thanks to the ladies at Sleep Snort Fuck):

http://sleepsnortfuck.blogspot.com/2010/05/old-enough-my-wants-wont-kill-me.html

Read it, comment, follow the blog, submit yourself.

Dirty Poetry.

EAT A BAG OF SHIT




Dear heckler,

one day I was

sitting on the bus

& I met your moms & your

moms moms & I moved to sit

closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them

that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records

& drink gin from my asshole.

Not reluctant, they nodded yes,



&



when we got to my place,

I put on that Frampton song that goes



“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”



& we started talking, & your moms said that her son

is the biggest fucking loser this side of the

prime meridian

who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base

& jerks off into his dirty socks.



You sick, depraved fucker.



Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment

she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because

she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.



Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait

& used her fake chompers to open the gin

they came out in the process, but it was a laugh



& your moms pulled down my pants &

commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts

she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since

your daddy promised he’d tell her when



& he lied, of course



(She was excited)



& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.



Dear heckler,

your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest

& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts

& then she poured a shot of gin into

my asshole.

It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack

but she drank it all & licked it clean.



So basically,

your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.



Eat a bag of shit.



*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.

---
 
“How Academics Fuck”




Academics are turned on by academic things.

My friend Adam Strange

Said that they are

Not

Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps

(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)

But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing

Revisionist histories.

One time I crafted my own vision.

I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than

What

The

Books

Say.



In my vision,

Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all

Those crazy conservative things because

He wanted the

World

To see how insane the neo-cons are.



The Academics, of course, disagree.



So do I.



I was just having some fun.



Academics, well, they fuck for fun.



They are very studious and wear formal things,



But in the bedroom, they are animals.

Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,

No rubbers.

Cum on bellies,

Cum on backs,



Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,



FUCK.



They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.

They’re for speech codes and against on-campus

Military recruitment

Good good liberal types

Trangressive behind closed doors,

Sensitive to feelings in the open

And I support transgression, and I support free speech,

In the open.

Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.



When Academics fuck

People listen (credibility)

And follow suit

Fucking in emulation

Intellectual masturbation

For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same

Nation.

¡Viva La Raza! or Why Stuart Antonio Rey-González didn't attend yesterday's marches

See, I have this thing. She's called a "girlfriend." Friday night was her birthday. I spent every penny I had from my tax return on a swanky hotel room in VP. There was Evan Williams. There was cocaine. We drank, inhaled, and watched the NBA playoffs on an HDTV, blaspheming overpaid assholes the whole night. Just me and her. It was sweet. Romantic.

I told her that I had to be more conservative with my excess because May Day (this year) is an important day for us Mexican-Americans. Of course, she's of the blonde-Swiss variety, so she just stared blankly at LeBron James or whoever. I don't know. I started cutting a coupla lines on the glass coffee table when there was a knock on the door. Housekeeping? Can't be. There's a DO NOT DISTURB tag on the doornob. Roomservice? We never called for any. Fuck. The room was like, $450 for a night!

My girlfriend, in a paranoid panic, swept the two lines that I'd been painstakingly molding with my long expired, maxed-out credit card off the table. After some choice expletives, I went to the door, stuck my face to the peep-hole, and saw a strung-out looking hipster and his-- I had presumed-- morenalicious girlfriend. I shrugged, turned to my girlfriend, who was snorting grains from the carpet, and decided to let them in.

They claimed to be part of a big wedding party and were inviting the entire floor down to the bar for the festivities. After prying my Swiss beauty from the carpet, we made way downstairs. We did some shots with complete strangers, and then the hipster dude and morenalicious (they said their names were Homer and Gracie) came back to our room where we played drinking games and did lines of coke off the girls's asses.

The whole time I was thinking, "man... I've written a story that was kind of like this." The last thing I remember is that we swapped partners. At least I thought we did. Because Homer and I woke up naked, spooning on the balcony; finding that we'd been locked out. After the initial, "holy shit, we're gay" scare, we tried to see if the girls were in the room. Neither of us had our phones, so we had to scream for them. Nothing.

Hours later, we were let out and asked to explain ourselves. The girls were gone and the room was fucked. The glass coffee table: broken. The HDTV: the object used to break it. The handle of Evan Williams, tipped on its side. Its contents: soaked into the carpet. Thousands of dollars of damage. Homer and I claimed that we were fucked up and that we didn't know what the hell had happened. I tried to deny that the room was in my name, but was unable to avoid it as I "looked more like a González" than Homer.

In short, I was profiled!

I'll also be hearing from their lawyer.

Trannies on Parade

I drew this on the back of an envelope (it is a bill, unopened). The title is "Trannies on Parade." As you can see, I am not an illustrator. If you asked me the impetus for this insult to art in ink which was cobbled up in mere seconds, I would have to answer that trannies of all shape and sort fascinate me. They are interesting and compelling for various reasons that shall not be catalogued here.


These are stick-figure trannies with no clothes (save a hat on one of them), noticeable deformations, and no variegation save penis size/shape and the fact that one is prostrate (and one is wearing a hat). Two are pissing/cumming, their bodily fluids seemingly defying laws of gravity and physics and who knows what else.

To some, this may be tasteless, even offensive. I'm fairly positive most will never see this, but fuck you all just in case. You are the most joyless, humorless people in existence, and you make the world a horrifying place to live in. You'd rather sit on your ass and choose to be offended by what other people do instead of taking one minute to create something beautiful, and that is what makes you sad, empty, boring, and annoying.

To everyone else:

The opening bid on this piece is a bottle of low-end brandy. I like Christian Brothers. I think you can get 750ml for less than $10 these days. However, I'll gladly give it to you if you promise to frame it and hang it in your living room for all to see.

Doug Stanhope Wikipedia Photo, "Ablutions" by Patrick deWitt, and a snippet of a story

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

It's not the fucking drugs, it's the fucking idea of fucking

Ubiquity, transmogrification, obsession, and drugs (metonymy).

Richard Hermes is a lonely guy. That's why he spends a lot of his time with the most vacuous people in London. Who are these people, you dare to not ask? They are only interchangeable vessels of lust and syncophantry for the adman/madman known as Bell.

Will Self is probably my favorite writer. Not because his characters are the most developed or the most endearing, but mostly because of the prevailing voice. He has a way with words, and knows how to use them. He's also endowed with a vision that he elucidates in a way that engages both intellect and primal instinct.

He's said that his writing is only communicative of a tangential relationship with reality. Which is to say that he doesn't see himself as an observer/social commentator but as a participant. His stories are journeys into alternate dimensions where psychosis and drug abuse are orders of the day.

With "The Sweet Smell of Psychosis," one of his earlier novellas, Self explores a dimension where Richard Hermes is constantly tormented by his desire. The only thing that stoked his curiosity (in the first place) with regard to the Sealink is Ursula. He sticks around because wants so badly to get close to her. To know her. To fuck her. To love her (maybe). All this keeps him under the influence of Bell. Ubiquitous, transmogrifying fucking Bell. Richard sees the man's visage everywhere he goes. Billboards. People in the street. People at the Sealink. Did I mention that Richard often dines with Pablo (you shouldn't have to be a cokehead to get the reference)? He does. He hangs with Pablo so much, it's like they're fucking roommates. But Pablo isn't a good roommate. He's put Richard on the bubble at his shitty job.

So.

Without giving away the ending, let's just say that for a man, sex would never be the same if what happened to Richard happened to us. A man will go through a lot of shit if he thinks he's going to get laid. A lot. He will not question, complain, or avoid compromise. Of course, he will lie, but doesn't it make sense to use a manipulative tactic as a countermanipulative measure? No? Okay.

Whatever you do, don't say it's the drugs. Pablo doesn't make a man hallucinate. That's bullshit. If Richard didn't spend all his time trying to fuck Ursula, he might've continued just being boring ass Richard Hermes. But that would've been... boring. What actually happened was a lot more interesting.

FUCK IT & FUCK U 2

“‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too”




I scribble.

Color outside the lines

‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.



I drink.

Sloppy, obnoxious, flirtatious

‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.



I smoke.

Insistently, persistently, against your grain

‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.



I fuck.

Badly and in the light of day

‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.

Movies & Music

"9 Songs"

Written/Directed by Michael Winterbottom

Featuring: Kieran O'Brien, Margo Stilley and some rock bands.

I was warned about this film a few years ago by a friend. At just barely an hour and six minutes, it's a mercifully short film about a love affair between a British man (Matt) and an American woman (Lisa) living in Britain. There's no back story. They just meet at a concert, and the year long tryst goes from there. There's no plot. No real story. Just a lot of sex. A lot of kink. A bit of tension.

Throughout the film, we are asked to slog through concert footage from several bands... I think I may have listened to the BRMC once or twice, but everything else here is shit. Because the couple met at a venue,  it's only to be expected that they spend a lot of time going to shows. But I have to say that this is the weakest aspect of the film. Winterbottom is expert at capturing sensuality, but not so much at capturing the feel of a live music venue.

There are also some vignettes where Matt spends some time in Antarctica, but it seems more like filler to push the film into the "feature length" category than anything to do with the relationship between him and Lisa. There is a bit where Lisa gives him a book on Antarctica, so I suppose that explains it, but it still seems random as hell to me.

I like this film because the unsimulated sex scenes are beautiful, and the chemistry between the two leads is used to great effect.

"Hoy y Mañana/Today and Tomorrow"

Written/Directed by Alejandro Chomski

Featuring: Antonella Costa

This is a nice little film from Argentina. It's a joint production with a Spanish film company. It's very raw, but also very pretty. Lots of cityscapes and vérité. Twenty-something girl struggles on her own. Her gas is cut off, then she is threatened with eviction. Her borrowing power is naught, and she has an untenable relationship with her father, who lectures her and then doesn't give her shit! So what does she do? She becomes a street-walker. Of course, there's some reluctance... fear... that sort of thing. She's got no pimp and no street smarts, so she gets ripped off a couple of times. And when she does manage a little scratch, it's stolen by a guy pretending to be a cop. She meets a Spaniard looking for a little fun away from the wife, and he's loaded. Of course, she doesn't hold up her end of any bargain with him, which leaves her with the worst kind of options: old dudes in seedy motel rooms.

The film is a low budget visual wonder. There's no candy coating the lifestyle here, unless you believe it a must that all prostitutes end up drug wracked and STD infected (I say this being an avid reader of William T. Vollmann, who is a master at capturing these things at their most ugly, most human). Costa is very endearing and relatable as Paula. And I love the theatre scenes.

***

"Option Paralysis"/The Dillinger Escape Plan

Without question, The Dillinger Escape Plan is my favorite band of the last 10 years. I have never loved a band as I have this one. Sure, I love Ornette Coleman. I love Albert Ayler and Charlie Christian, and some of that old jazz music. I think Ted Leo is a gifted songwriter. But this band just does it for me. In general, I have drifted away from their style of music, but not from them (I might indulge in a #12 tune from time to time).

From "Cleopatra's Sling" (the first song by them I heard), to "The Mullet Burden," to the entire 11 track masterpiece that is "Calculating Infinity" to "Setting Fire to Sleeping Giants" and "Mouth of Ghosts," they have proven to be a skilled, versatile band. They have a punk ethic and a virtuosic touch. They're down-to-earth guys who take their music seriously. Themselves? Not so much.

I could talk about the lineup changes, the genius of lead guitarist and founding member Ben Weinman (the only original member left),  but it's been done. I could use "Calculating Infinity" as a measuring stick to this, their fourth full-length release, but it's unnecessary. For the first time in their 13 year existence, they have released a dynamic, challenging, and extremely listenable record. I don't consider that a knock on their previous output. More, it's a comment on how they've managed to synthesize all their previous endeavors.

Here, you'll find tracks like "Chinese Whispers" and "Gold Teeth on a Bum," which seem to be a continuation and progression of the ideas and melodies found in "Milk Lizard" from '07's "Ire Works." "Widower," which is probably the most emotional song they've ever written... and includes some brilliant piano interplay between Weinman and guest musician Mike Garson (David Bowie). "Parasitic Twins," a song that, in parts, wouldn't be out of place on an A Perfect Circle record, and in other parts evokes 70's rock. The guitar solo at the end makes me think "Houses of the Holy" era Zeppelin.

And then there's this:



About 1:50 in, I was kind of expecting them to do some improv here, as it reminded me of some of their live sets, but it goes in a different direction. This is probably my favorite track on the record so far.

The most notable improvement here is the vocals. Greg has always had the dimensions. The ability (See: Spylacopa). But this is the first record where he really makes his mark, and it makes a big difference on the song writing end.

I recommend this to anyone who likes crisp musicianship, experimentation, and unpredictability. You can get it here: http://e-shop.season-of-mist.com/en/catalog/show/22675 that's the big package, but there are cheaper options if you're like me and have no money.

Redefining the Threesome as Ultimate Male Nightmare. LO-fuckin-L

“When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6”

By Stuart González

When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6, but it’s probably the best sex you could ever hope for. I met two women at a strip club on the outskirts of town, and the price was right. I had just received a grand in tax return money that was burning holes in my pockets. Forty dollars in one dollar bills went a long way in a joint such as the one I found myself in, but it didn’t go far enough. I’d already spent about two-hundred. They informed me that all a night with them would cost me was a room at the Motel 6, a couple handles of whiskey, a bottle of Thunderbird, lots of rolled cigarettes, and an eight ball of coke.

These women were a mother and daughter team of strippers: blonde, skinny, and tatted to the hilt. They weren’t my type at all, and they could barely speak proper English, much less could they possibly relate to me on an intellectual level, but sex is sex, and need is need. They were offering sex, and I was needing it.

They had cool stripper names. Roxy and Allura. Allura giggled and said that her name was like “allure,” but with an a. Because she’s a girl. Get it? I got it, and the sleaze in me wanted it. I was an expert at mixing liquor with sex, but I’d never before purchased coke myself, so I gave Roxy the money for the eight ball. There was method to my madness. I waited in the motel room with Allura. She turned on the TV and started dancing to latin music on LATV. She didn’t have hips to speak of, but I could feel my dick hardening in my jeans. I cracked into the whiskey and poured two cups.

We sat on the bed, sipping whiskey, quiet. The TV had been turned down and the girls were still dancing and sprawling themselves on the hoods of souped up cars; little more than ornamentation, a sexy visual compensation for shitty music. I asked her if she liked that kind of music. She said that she didn’t know what it was, but it made her want to fuck.

I tried to get her started, but she said that we couldn’t start without Roxy. It wasn’t long after that the devil appeared, and she had an eight ball of coke and some weed. We started with the weed. I took a couple of hits and then turned down further offers in favor of the liquor and coke.

They took off all but their tops, and I did lines off their asses and began drinking straight from the bottle. They did lines off my dick, which was erect and poking out through my open zipper. They weren’t long lines, but soon the coke was less involved and their tongues more prominent. It turned into a mother-daughter tag-team on my cock. I managed to get Allura’s bikini top undone and off, revealing her small, perky tits. Roxy volunteered the removal of her top. Her tits were saggy and covered with awful tattoos, recipients of years of groping and abuse.

We all three fell onto the bed in an animalistic mass and noise. Roxy straddled me and proceeded to grind and gyrate into my groin while I swapped saliva with Allura. The mass and noise of our tryst seemed to outgrow the motel room. I imagined it as a Kafka story about the sex in a motel room between a coconut Mexican and two white trash strippers that engulfs an entire city to become a new city called, placerparasiempre-- or whatever it would be called in German.

I was in the throes of that excitement when the door was kicked in by two guys with guns claiming to be state cops. They were yelling something about having received an “anonymous tip” about our orgy and drug buffet, and that I was going to spend a long time in the federal pen. What the fuck? They were calling me a spic, a scumbag, and all kinds of shit. On top of that, the guns that they plunged into my face made my dick instantly soften inside Roxy. She and Allura were both laughing. It was the funniest shit in the world to them. Because it was a trap. I was being rolled.

These cops had an empty duffel bag, which they filled with the weed, the coke, the whiskey, my clothes, and my money. I was drunk, high, and scared. I shat myself. It was messy and smelly and fucking embarrassing. Roxy and Allura joined the two assholes dressed as cops in mocking me and poking and prodding at me while I squirmed in my own excrement.

Eventually they had me cowering in a corner, telling me that they were going to kill me. All I remember was screaming about how if they were going to kill me, they should dispense with the casting of aspersions and get it over with. I regretted nothing. Fuck them. They punched and kicked at me a few times before I felt a sharp pain in my head. It was the butt of a gun.

I woke up in the tub with a headache and a bloody lump on my head. I touched myself to make sure I was alive. My balls were sore. I thought about crying but decided to see if I had anything left. Nope. No clothes. No money. They even took my fucking socks and shoes. There was half a bottle of Thunderbird on the table and a couple of half smoked cigs in the ashtray.

I downed the Thunderbird and lit one of the cigs. The cleaning lady came in, and didn’t seem to think it was strange to see a bloody, naked Mexican sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. She tried to ignore me, but when she noticed the shit smeared all over the sheets, she exclaimed, in Spanish, that they didn’t pay her enough to clean up people’s shit.

Lo siento, I said. Lo siento mucho. She called me a filthy pig and said that I’d have to pay for the mess. With what? I was just robbed, I said. She didn’t answer. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later with clothes. Cleaning service attire. She made me clean the room and wash the sheets and towels. When she told me I could leave, I realized that they had also stolen my car. I had to walk five miles back to the city.

When I finally got home, I masturbated, thinking of Roxy and Allura.

(2010)

Encyclopedia Pornographica and Berenstain Bears

i always meet the prettiest girls in the shittiest bars
buy her a drink, show her my scars,
we drive to her place in a broken down car,
in minutes we’re drinking more and taking score,
i tell her that i used to masturbate into my older brother’s
girlfriend’s panties,
she says, my older brother’s a tranny,
i tell her that my hole ridden socks become cum rags,
she says, i used to pose in porn mags,
i tell her i lost my virginity to a fat tijuana prostitute,
she says, i can shove a coke bottle in my coot,
i tell her that i’m a premature ejaculator,
she says, see ya later!

… big brown bear blue bull beautiful baboon blowing bubbles biking backwards…

...and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex... we had mad, mad, mad, mad oral sex

Rebuttal

More from "Ahora, tengo que ir..."

"Cigarette Butts in Beer Bottles"

i don't know how many times i watched
billy bob thornton in bad santa but may
be the most important lesson to learn if
one even cares is that one should proba
bly not drink from the first bottle one s
ees

&&SG

"Party Girls and Wake and Blows"

i woke up because i was dreaming of having sex
everything felt so wet and warm and nice and
i remember
i remember opening my eyes and thrusting my hips
up and down
and i could hear mmmming and hummmming
the beautiful sounds sensually
signaling satisfaction
but as nothing was towering above me i picked
my head up and saw her
the party girl
and without removing her lips from my cock
she smiled and went back to work
i remember thinking "i love you party girl"
te voy a casarse

&&SG

"Foreign Girls Rule"

She thought it was great that I hablo español and I thought it was wonderful that she tried to hablar inglés even if she was shitty at it because in situations such as the one we were in not much hablando was necessary except las palabras that led us to la cama y
yo me desperté
y la cosa más graciosa
was that she was the one
out of all the ones I'd had
who I wanted most to stay
and she didn't
ella me dejó sin
información de donde estaría
I saw her on campus a couple of weeks later and confronted her like some weird creepy kind of guy that I was normally not and she gave me that "ay no mames wey" look and turned to meet her other foreign friends
CHINGADA!

&&SG

"Lecturing Bukowski"

I told her to get out
We had drank & fucked
I told her to get out
It was over & there was nothing more
She started screaming
She threatened to burn her arms with a lit cigarette
Mortified, I grabbed her
She told me to let her the fuck go
So I let her go
& she threw herself on my kitchen floor
I was still drunk and I wanted to laugh
But this was no time for levity
So I pulled her up & she smacked me
I was an asshole because I had used her
She started breaking shot glasses &
Telling me I was a bad lay but damn it
Part of me wanted to laugh again
Because I was just happy I didn't have any
China
& when finally she settled down I asked her
If it was possible for her to finally leave &
She got this devious smile on her face
"I'm not fuckin' leavin' 'til you fuckin' apologize"
So I apologized but I didn't mean it
She said "I'm leavin'" & opened my fridge &
Threw all the food onto the floor
& took my last beer
I wasn't getting paid for another week

&&SG

A broad abroad. Or the manhood of Europe

“The Manhood of Europe”

from ¡Existe el amor solamente para matarme! or Love and Me Have No Business Doing Business

By Stuart González

Sarah got her man. She got him in every country. In Albania and Poland. In Italy and Germany. In France and Spain. In Denmark. She had them all. Men typical of their nations. Stereotypical. Some were greasy. Some pale. Some dirty. Too dirty. Some clean. Too clean. Some hirsute. Some androgynous. She hated that the most. It wasn’t that she was old-fashioned, she just liked her men to-- look like men. She didn’t want to wonder or be made to play a guessing game. The only points she wanted to stack up were penis points. And she was never behind.

Sarah Leigh and her not esteemed friends, like many young Americans with loaded parents, traveled Europe after high school. Despite hating each other, they called themselves a “band of sisters” and decided-- fuck men-- they were going to fuck men. The plan was to backpack from country to country, notching bedposts, and hopefully, maybe, gaining some culture along the way.

The journey began in England, where she met guys with great teeth and poor fashion sense. Seriously. There, she bedded young men who called themselves things like, Wilbur and Philip. In the seemingly ubiquitous pub environs of London, they wore argyle sweaters and sipped on pints while watching football on the telly. They weren’t sporty guys, but they feigned well enough their European machismo. Their sex was quick and eventless. Slow to start, fast to finish. Oh, how her sexual appetite had not been sated in the slightest!

In Germany, one of the girls let a guy named Friedrich shit on her. Sarah was appalled when the girl giggled and said that she enjoyed it. How could someone get off on being so debased? She herself met a guy in Bavaria who liked to have his nipples bitten to the point of bloodshed, but other than that, it was all quite normal, and he wasn’t nearly as quick as the English men.

By the time they reached France, Sarah found out that she was in the lead. Of course, she lied a little. At least ten of the guys she counted were just random oral partners. No penetration. But the truth was, outside of collecting condoms filled with seminal fluids or taking photographs, there could be no certitude. No real way to substantiate quantities.

It wasn’t too much later that her epiphany came while she ground her hips into a Scottish guy's crotch in Glasgow. In a room solely consisting of shadows and blue light. It was simple. She felt no joy. It was too easy. She could conquer, oh yes, and easily at that, but one cannot rape the willing. She wasn't doing anything new, even for a woman. None of them were. And despite the much touted and spoken of romanticism that supposedly gripped Europe, she felt she must be in the wrong place.

Because romance for the European male was merely a clever, serpentine artifice to the fruition of raw, unadulterated sex, by the time she met the beguiling Oliver from Italy, she’d become jaded to the whole contest. The “band of sisters” had traded pleasure for competition and what was the fun in that? A guy could thrust once, come, and that would be it. It’s just another number without the sensation to copy to memory. So with Oliver, Sarah began to count her orgasms. Maybe she wouldn’t break any records (she didn’t), but she’d feel damn good, and the process; focusing on her own pleasure, would lend more to hedonism than whoredom. Because that was what she needed. In the midst of all the boring, monotonous, occasionally wild copulation, she needed to regard herself as the user and not the usee.

Nearing the end of the trip, she’d become emboldened by her experiences. Now she could gather all her notes. She’d fucked men in two different continents. White men. Black men. Mixed men. Men who barely spoke the same language as she.

Her confidence solidified itself on a bus in London. She sat next to an older man. They were traveling from Greenwich to Westminster and she was reading "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." When she took her eyes from the pages to look out the window, she noticed the man shifting his eyes from her face to the book in her hand.

"Raymond Carver is no Hemingway," said he, chuckling.
"And Italians don't fuck nearly as good as Chicanos," she responded.
"Yes... yes. Very well," he said, and eased himself out of the seat with the aid of a cane. He tipped his hat to her as he stepped off into the wet street.

(2010)

Excess & Blasphemy: The Advent of Sex

http://excessblasphemy.wordpress.com/

A Decade of Shit: Worsts

Hi, Stu here.

Look, I would say that no one likes to be the one person in the room who gleefully sprays diarrhea all over everyone's parade of lists, but if I did say that, I'd be lying. I love it. If anyone believed that I would pass this opportunity on to Patrick so he could write about how much he dislikes the 'cult of Tao Lin', then you are a bigger glutton for punishment than even myself. Congratulations.

Now, as much as I would love to write about my favorite 00's sitcoms, the holidays always put me in a bad mood. Of course, I'd be in a much better mood if my favorite hooker hadn't become a born-again Christian.

5 worst sitcoms of the 00's:

5. Glee -- not technically a sitcom, but it's on the list because fuck everyone.
4. American Dad -- it's a cartoon, but it sucks. best way to get rid of a talking goldfish? fucking starve it.
3. Scrubs -- i think zach braff is talentless. someone somewhere compared him to john ritter, which i think should be punishable by being made to be the only sober person in a room full of drunken assholes.
2. Everybody Hates Chris -- i don't think chris rock has been funny since his SNL days. in fact, he's obnoxious. best way to get rid of chris rock? stop encouraging him.
1. According to Jim -- this is here only because king of queens began in '98.

5 worst news personalities (decade/contemporary):

5. Tim Ryan (kdfw fox4 news anchor): old, fat, white, whiny motherfucker who has more cash than brain cells. considers himself a curmudgeon, but just how thin is the line between curmudgeon and privileged dumb shit who basically reads teleprompters all day?
4. Keith Olbermann (nbc cable liberal version of Bill O'Reilly): smug, loud, and obnoxious. it's not that i hate him, i just don't particularly like him.
3. All those ultra conservative chicks on FOXNEWS: ugly, dumb, obnoxious, interchangeable vessels of neocon lust, these bitches know less about politics than i do about being a twelve-year-old thai transvestite prostitute.
2. Bill O'Reilly: this man needs no introduction. http://www.ruthlessreviews.com/653/a-bold-fresh-piece-of-humanity/ took the words right out of my mouth.
1. Glenn Beck (foxnews?): this man is a fucking titty baby. it's amazing: if a liberal cries or shows emotion, he/she is either crazy, a whiner, or worse, but a conservative does it, and it's passion? it's okay? no, it's not. a titty baby is a titty baby, and this guy is crazy to boot. i see him, and i'm thinking: this guy screams homosexual. but not the kind that buys you drinks in a bar because he wants to get to know you, no... one that bottles up his sexuality and hides in a closet, bashing the ones who accept who they are no matter the cost.

5 worst movies of the decade:

5. (500) days of summer -- i hate musicals. next.
4. eternal sunshine of the spotless mind -- i guess kaufman thought it'd be more clever to have this whole mind erasing shit... instead of having his characters respond normally; you know, like... going out and getting blitzed, fucking everything in sight. perhaps it is, but it's not as fun. fuck this movie.
3. jesus camp -- think of the children, my ass.
2. oh brother, where art thou? -- it's not the big lebowski, therefore it blows.
1. the 40 year old virgin -- not nearly as interesting as 'the 18 year old nympho.'

5 worst drunken benders:

5. in 2004 i woke up in bed with a girl that i thought my friend was hooking up with. she wasn't ugly, but she insisted on making me breakfast in bed. burnt pancakes and a small cartoon of oj. i left shortly after.
4. in 2006 i woke up with my jeans on. the pockets were bursting with lottery tickets. i'd bought $90 worth of tickets. i didn't win. lesson learned. er... not.
3. in 2003 i woke up pantless in a field. i freaked the fuck out. i was still a bit gone from the tequila. i realized i was in the field right next to my apartment complex when my neighbor began yelling at me. 'hey stu! stu! what in the hell is you doin'? naked ass muthafucka!'
2. in 2007 i brought a bottle of brandy to a college party. everyone was drinking beer and hitting the garbage pail punch. i started challenging the douchier looking guys to shot-for-shot contests. the general response was, 'hell yeah, brah! whatcha got there?' things commenced only after i was teased mercilessly for being snooty. for brandy! hennessy is brandy! never mind the fact that it was 7$ brandy. i woke up hours later naked on the floor under the beer pong table with three only moderately attractive coeds. i'd fucked them all. without protection. i made several trips to the local clinic. am std free.
1. in 2009 i woke up in a drunk tank after doing a series of dumpster readings. i was apparently so wasted when the cops found me that i was pissing on my own shoes and singing 'de colores.'

actually that was pretty cool.

Fucking is the Wave of the Past, Present, and Future

“Fucking is the Wave of the Past, Present, and Future”


If you think about it,
I mean, if you really, really ponder it,
break it down, give it the deliberation it deserves,
you realize that that is it,
that fucking is, was, and will forever be,
the single greatest motivator in the history of human-kind,
not money,
not power,
not revenge,
and it doesn’t matter what you think,
of anything else,
you can argue, passionately invalidating my positions,
with well-thought-out explanations,
with reasoning,
with facts,
with the greatest of intellectual precision,
but you know that deep down, the only reason
it even matters,
is because you’re trying so desperately to fuck that beautiful
brainy bombshell-- who is a contradiction in terms, which in
and of itself,
is something you find alluring to no end--
that sits in the back of the room or at the end of the bar (you heard her talking about string theory and popular mechanics-- at least that’s what you pretend),
and you don’t think twice,
you acknowledge the ramifications,
pregnancy, STDs, the HIV, but it’s the notion of conquest,
of sexual prowess,
of getting your rocks off,
without guilt or the strings attached,
without love and feelings matched,
without a doubt,
fucking is the wave of the past, present, and future.

(2009) © Patrick Patterson-Carroll

My Girlfriend Experience

Girlfriend Experience (GFE) is a type of service a female prostitute offers which includes acting like a girlfriend to the client.

-- Wikipedia entry

I suppose I could've written a more sexy definition myself, but such that the dictates of my economic situation are, I can say freely that I haven't the requisite experience on the matter to do such a thing. If I could afford a sexy young thing to pose as my girlfriend-- although, it seems to me that in this film, Miss. Grey is more of an escort with a romanticized view of herself than a prostitute who offers herself as a girlfriend to the highest bidder-- I'd probably choose a more lively woman.

That's not to say that Christine (Grey), who is known as Chelsea to her clients, isn't beautiful. Sure. She is. But beyond that, Soderbergh and company have managed to take a very promising tale of a young woman actualizing herself in a world where the measure of successful actualization is-- pardon the pun-- equivalent to whoring oneself out until one is indistinguishable from all the other whores out there, and turn it into a whiny snoozer that is thankfully short.

The very fact of its brevity is a problem. There's just not much there, and one wonders if there's even a point at all except to say, "well, these people actually exist." But is that good enough? Is that worth the 1.3 Million supposedly spent? I'm not sure. As someone who wishes he could feasibly follow his dream of being a filmmaker, someone who has been sitting on a developing screenplay since he was 19, I can say that I would've loved for this film to be so much more, and I'm disappointed that it isn't.

It looks good. The premise sounds delicious. But the substance is nil. Soderbergh's film is set in modern day America. In fact, one of the themes is political and economic uncertainty. Very relevant. Very now. Christine and Chris are a couple. They live together in a swanky NYC apartment. They share very little screen time together and the two actors who portray them likewise share very little chemistry. There's a very arty, very European feel to their scenes together, but there's something amiss. The camera is almost too distant, too unobtrusive. Soderbergh (commendably but ineffectively) goes out of his way to not manipulate his audience at the expense of capturing any real performances.

It is almost unbearably minimalist. Spare to the point of wondering what the director's intent was. Was there supposed to be an ironic joke in casting an "it" girl, known for her adult film roles and risqué ad appearances, as a prostitute, and then having her do zero sex scenes (in fact rarely even nude)? Not that sex scenes were necessary, but they would've lent more action to such a catatonic film.

So Christine and Chris are a couple in NYC, somewhere in 2007/2008. America is entering a recession and there are bail-outs and debates and pissing and moaning abounds. McCain is mentioned. Obama is mentioned. Characters whine about being just a little bit poorer all while flying on private jets to Vegas and ordering $60 bottles of scotch and buying prostitutes, etc.. All of these characters (save one), are white, yuppie, and obsessed with anything short of substance.

Christine is trying to modify her website and expand her reach. She enters discussions about starting a true service. She's pulling in nice amounts of money. After all, she sits in her cozy apartment on her computer (a Mac, no doubt), writing of all her various clients-- she spares us deep observations, opting for surface descriptions and Bret Easton Ellis-like attention to product-- and spends her free time shopping and eating and just looking completely fucking dull. Why shouldn't she choose the "less work" option? Then she decides her relationship with Chris is not worth continuing because she started talking to a potential client that didn't laugh at her silly obsession with astrology (I'm not making this shit up)!

Call it a "soft arc" because her revelation is hardly dramatic or a cause for introspection or even action in/by the characters (I like this, actually-- gives it a realistic quality). In fact, it's kind of confusing because things happen so fast, and character development wasn't high on the list of any of the filmmakers' priorities. When I think about the title, I wonder: "has she really acted like a girlfriend to any of these men?" One guy patronized her services because he could, another used her as a kind ear, another used her as a way to foist upon her his kinkiness (which she rejected and was then blackballed), and another used her to not use her. Stood her up. For his family. How sweet. But she was never really a girlfriend. Not even to her boyfriend. Was that the "point?"

In the end, no one has learned anything, no one is happy, and well... we get to watch Christine give a jeweler an orgasm without even touching him sexually.

Welcome to Fucktune (segment)

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

Marko met up with Bernadette at the urban market behind the library. They had planned to meet at one of the usually sun-soaked round metal tables with the uncomfortable set of chairs, but it had rained the day before and the sun hadn't been around in a week, so things were still pretty wet, but brave the elements they did. They covered the chairs and tabletop with pieces of the town's independently distributed paper and sat tentatively, their collective focus torn between one another and their place in the universe according to the chairs and table. The wind was beginning to pick up and so they battled (only) briefly, then muttering "fuck it" to themselves and gathering the partially wet, partially fluttery paper and shoving it into the nearby trashcan.

"Now what?" Bernadette queried.

"I know a quiet place where we can talk. Come on."

They walked quietly west along the sidewalk, wide and empty; the traffic trickling in the street, running against them, eastbound. City busses appeared to lean on the corner like bums with their heads in dumpsters. Even farther in the distance, street preachers yelled the “word of god” as revealed by Christ, and panhandlers tested them in turn by requesting they make good on their exclamations in purely pecuniary gestures (after all, these Christians bandy about words like “charity” often). While people exhaustedly boarded the busses, Bernadette, unaffected by the urban spectacle ahead, commented on the dead air between them.

“I generally try to think before I speak. As my brain is occupied, so my lips are sealed,” said Marko.

“I do, too. I guess I’m being impatient.”

“I think you’re fine.”

“Good. Where are we going?”

There was a small park on the southwest part of downtown which was situated around a large serpentine sculpture that Marko had always found "ugly as fuck," but the benches were comfortable and obscured by trees. This, giving the clean green ground an intangible feel of intimacy, of easily traversed boundary, made him feel like an outdoorsman-- rugged, yet urban (or is it the inverse?), he could, in just a few steps, be his usual metropolitan self.

He gestured to Bernadette to sit. The wood of the bench damp but not wet, she dabbed her fingers at the ring-patterned surface, and then smiled and sat, crossing her legs ladylike. In the silence, he found himself being stalked by his libido. Blinking several times and trying to focus on a thought to make into words for Bernadette, he knew that the task was futile. His libido was fucking with him. Nude, pale, and poking its penis into a blow up doll that looked like one of the local weather ladies, this pathetic manifestation of his libido smiled and winked at him.

“I’m thinking of quitting my job at Neiman,” she said.

“Huh?”

“My job? I told you about it. I do retail for Neiman Marcus. It pays the bills, but I get so sick of all the snobby old hags that patronize the counters, ‘I want this, and this and this just like this dear, and if you would be oh so sweet, could you wrap it and put a nice bow on it... maybe spritz some perfume on it.’ Bitches. I wish I could shop all day and still make money. It isn’t fair.”

“I sit in a cubicle all day and twiddle my fucking thumbs. I make shit for it, too. I’d rather flirt with old hags than be a hamster in a cage. Spinning and spinning and sitting and sitting and monotony the only constant....”

Through the gusts of wind displacing her hair, Bernadette looked at him expectantly as if to plead, “Yes...? yes? There’s more, I know there is!” But he just stared at the belly of the sculpture, trying to ignore his libido as it thrust quicker and quicker into the doll. He tried to think of ways to recreate the sparks that flew the other night in the sports bar. His penis was beginning to knock on the door of the crotch of his jeans. Folding his arms into his lap, he said, “Have you ever known someone so attractive that the very idea of not being able to behold such a sight was heartbreaking?”

“No. I don’t care much about looks.”

“Hmmm. No... hmmm.”

“Yeah, I prefer guys with money,” she said, choking out laughter.

They were silent. The trees quivered with each bluster of air from the southwest. She settled her purse in her lap, opened it, and pulled out a shiny metal case. Inside were four cigarettes and one neatly rolled joint. Extruding the joint with a smile, she shifted her body-- legs still crossed-- toward him. Like in the bar with the cig, she pokes the joint in his direction, "Want a toke?"

"Nah. I'm already seeing weird shit." She crumpled her face, withdrew, and put the joint between her lips. Marko watched his libido. It was done fucking the doll and was smoking a cigarette. He could smell the marijuana smoke and he could faintly hear her making excuses for why she does it. Of course, he didn't give a fuck about her justifications. A little pot every now and then never killed anyone.

He turned and smiled at her. For a moment he considered reiterating his previous question. His libido was escalating the game by pissing all over the doll. Perhaps it was a bid for attention, or maybe a devolutionary swing toward fetishism, but all the same, in that space of time he wished he were high, drunk or dead.

"Let me hit that," he said, and she gladly handed it over. He drew from the joint and pondered what all the fuss was about. He turned to Bernadette and said,

"The way lawmakers talk about this shit, you'd think it'd be more interesting. This has got to be the most boring, everyman drug there is."

"Are you badmouthing my weed?"

"Eh."

Silence.

"There was this one guy," she said, blowing away some ash that had accumulated in the cherry's wake. "He seemed to me like the quiet, mysterious type. At first. Had this very Slavic look about him. Angular, edged face, blue eyes, light skin, one of those Owen Wilson noses, and was very solidly built."

"Hmm. So what was wrong with him?"

"How'd you know?"

"How'd I know what?"

"That there was something wrong."

He thought about her question for a moment and then told her that in his experience, young women made excuses not to stick with men whom, to their own specifications, were physically attractive, but had some kind of nagging, perhaps even trivial personal issues. She laughed at the suggestion, and told him that he watched too much fucking Seinfeld, which, to her mind, was a display of male pettiness and socially arrested neurosis.

“And don’t you dare bring up Elaine,” she added. “Females are outnumbered like, four to one on that penis fest.”

“Uh... I don’t watch that show. But your defensiveness is duly noted.”

“Whatever. Anyway, this guy. I used to follow him around. Stalk him. Kind of. Around downtown. Rides a bike, I know. So one day, I followed him into the coffee shop on Commerce and stood in line behind him. When he finally noticed me, he smiled...”

...

“And?”

“And I smiled back. He took this as license to sit with me by the window. We exchanged pleasantries, but the more we small talked, the more bored I became. I did the ‘uh huhs’ and stared into his beautiful eyes.

“Amazing thing is, I was back at work, leaning on the counter, daydreaming. I don't even remember walking back or even parting with the guy. You know? Like there was this large patch of time that I’d lost. Fell right into oblivion. I couldn’t remember anything of what he said. Not his name, what he does, or even what he thought about the weather. But I will always, always remember his eyes and his skin. And that nose. Mmm.”

Marko laughed at her swoon. The ridiculousness of that girlish expulsion of breath at the thought of a man’s large, crooked nose. He was a little annoyed, disappointed even, at the thought of the moments wasted in listening to her eventless story of aesthetic stimulus lost, and his libido only sat naked, Indian style in the grass, hoping to get a peek up her dress.

Initially he thought it bizarre, this hallucinatory manifestation of his libido, behaving as a seasoned fetishistic porn star one moment and in the next, as a child with a healthy sexual curiosity. But it made sense, because in his mind he was conflicted. He wasn’t quite sure how to view the woman sitting next to him. Possible on-again-off-again fling? One night stand? Unstable relationship characterized by frenzied, passionate sex with an underpinning of empty conversation and boredom?

The woman who at first so stunned him was beginning to, for reasons in that moment unbeknownst to him, grate on his patience. After a time, he blinked rapidly, hoping to shutter the pasty little fucker out of existence. Finally, she returned to his cognizance, offering him a cigarette which he declined as he stood up to stretch.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere. Just stretching.”

She lit the cig.

“So... what’s your story?”

To mention Denica, for him, would’ve been to once again tramp the fields of lonely disappointment. Bernadette observed him with intent, with demand. He didn’t think her revelation deserved that kind of “blood,” but as prevarication wasn’t an option, he decided to tell her. Fuck it. There was nothing to lose, and even less to gain, he’d realized.

“Denica.”

“Denica?”

“That was her name. She was beautiful. I didn’t really know her. She was an aspiring model from Mexico. An itinerant, she spent some time in my apartment. We didn’t talk lots, but when we did, it had an impact on me.

“She always had the sweetest way of describing me. In Spanish. I never understood any of it. She could’ve been calling me an emasculated momma’s boy for all I knew, but it was beautiful. And so was she. I was depressed for weeks after she left.

"The busker dude downtown played a lot of Rod Stewart tunes. Shit’s depressing to me. I must’ve dropped thirty bucks in attempts to shy him away from that particular part of his catalogue.”

“Wow,” she said in a voice tinged with boredom, exasperation. The conversational welcome between the two appeared to have worn itself out. There grew a tension between them suddenly-- though it’d been developing slowly over the course of their interactions-- that was neither sexual nor rancorous; it was somewhat indifferent, but altogether discomfited.

In the silence, she unearthed one of those cell phones that do everything but perform oral sex and began fiddling with it. Marko watched his libido as it became more brazen, running its fingers along Bernadette's silken legs. He met eyes with the pallid form and they exchanged smiles. The libido licked her knee with its tongue and said that the best thing about fucking a new woman was that she'd have no idea what a shitty lover you were until after the fact.

©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)

Selections from my forthcoming chapbook of poetry, "AHORA, TENGO QUE IR; ¿TAL VEZ UN DÍA PODEMOS TOMAR UN CAFE? or ¡ADIOS Y GRACIAS POR EL SEXO!"

Hi, Stu González here. I know no one really reads this shit, but I'm like, in the words of Bart Simpson referring to Prinicpal Skinner, a no-giving-up-school guy.

So!

La vida ha estado muy ocupada para mi. ¿Y para ti mismo (a)?

Patrick and I had this idea that I could do, a la Gustavo Arellano, something called "Preguntale a Un Chicano" and I would answer questions from non-chicanos about chicanos. We bounced this thing around like a beach ball until the damn thing flattened. Patrick said it was "derivative, not creative, lame, 'just something to ruminate on'" I thought it was a bad idea because I considered how I might react the first time some pinche puto cavrón asks me why we are "so proud."

Anyway, for the last few months I've been putting together a carefully thought out, thematically cohesive chapbook of poetry. I'm looking for takers. Despite the title, all poems are in Spanish and English.

Ahora, tengo que ir; ¿tal vez un día podemos tomar un café or ¡adios y gracias por el sexo!

... is filled with morning after regrets and rejoices, rallying cries and escape plans.

"Coyote Really Fuckin' Ugly"

i woke up and didn't even have to think.
her face was turned, buried in a pillow, but i knew.
i'd gone and done it again.
i was naked, but luckily my arm was not around her.
i got out of the bed and searched for my clothes.
i heard her snort, cough and shift.
my heart rate rose.
my chest was like the speakers of a sub woofer.
i turned to her.
she was smiling at me.
her teeth were crooked and stained from nicotine.
her hair was stringy, greasy.
"no entiendo ni hablo inglés," i squeaked.
"aww. pablo. my sexy man. don't be silly!"
i didn't even want to think about the fact...
...that she called me pablo... for when she raised the covers and
kicked up her legs, i was blinded by BUSH!
she offered to make coffee.
"claro, claro," i said.
she kissed me on the cheek and in a haze of bed smell...
moved past me and through the door.
hastily, i re-dressed, made sure i had my wallet,
made sure i DIDN'T have the condom that i'd been carrying,
(good on both fronts)
and opened the sliding glass door.
time for pablo to blow this hag haven.

MOTHERFUCKER!

this bitch lives 3 fucking floors from the ground!
so then i had an existential crisis.
"¡piensa, pablo, piensa! ¿para saltar o no?
i looked behind me.
coast clear.
but suddenly, i heard a "psst." from above.
"young man! i don't mean to pry, but... coyote ugly or forced marriage?"
"coyote ugly, señor."
"ah, well... forced marriage here. 15 years. look at it this way, you could be on my floor."
&&& S.G.

"La Novia que no Sabe Nada"
"The Girlfriend that Knows Nothing"

For the first time in my life
I had two girls at once
For the first time in my life
My girlfriend wasn't one of them
For the first time in my life
I had breakfast not at Denny's
but on my own gas stove
buttered tortillas
como mi mamá siempre las preparó.

For the first time in my life
I was alone and everything felt good
For the first time in my life
When my girlfriend came home
she suspected nothing
she usually suspects everything
because I'm out eating Denny's
after a binge with my friends.

Ay, she knows nothing!
&&& S.G.

"Friends, Brothers, Their Sisters, My Lovers"

--for posterity, may they learn all the lessons i had to, in every conceivable way--

one night i promised my buddy that i'd never hit on his sister.
his hot sister.
of legal age.
and one night while drinking and smoking and talking
we were sitting inches apart
and she confessed that
she liked smoking and sex and tattoos.
oh really?
¿en serio?
well then.
i showed her my tattoo of Raquel Welch
"did you know that she's a latina?"
"yes. very beautiful."
"indeed."

she noted that i have a reputation.
curious.
for what?
"well. showing off your tattoo of Raquel Welch..."
there was an and.
i knew.
"...and fucking my friends' sisters?"
"yes."

soon after we were kissing and petting
O, ROMANCE!
O sweaty, drunken, sloppy romance!
we had each other on the couch then on the floor
and for a few hours more
we talked and smoked and then she got a wild idea.

we got matching tats.
mine said, "i fucked your sister."
hers said, "i fucked your friend."

the next day, her brother, my friend, we sat and talked
for what seemed a time without end,
and he couldn't believe i'd do it to him.

haha haha haha

didn't you know, that nothing is sacred?

BUT.

"in my defense, i never hit on her."
&&& S.G.

"It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon"

It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon.
Me, a studious but hard drinking pupil of rock & fuckin' roll,
Her, a cocktail waitress/queen in need of a king,
By the time we realized that our collective shit was fucked up,
We decided that sleep could only come once we were dead,
Or after a night of raging hard-ons satiated by much needed friction,

Then we went to her place, had drinks, listened to some records,
And when I went to kiss her, she was not a whore nor slut,
But a beautiful queen,
Stuck in a rut,
Tut tut tut,
This is a caprice, and sex is a many splendored thing,
She said, "I guess" and we continued to drink and drink and drink,
And the vodka was screaming, I couldn't think,
Were we listening to the Dolls or Rundgren?
Was I Sid Vicious and she Nancy Spungen?

We rode one another into the morning,
And when I woke up and smoked the last cig,
And thought a final thought,
I dedicated it to Zevon, the man who made it all possible,
To fuck and flee and never get caught!

&&& S.G.

(2009)

Dormitory Debauchery

"Dorm Sex"

By Alix Orozco

It was my second semester of college. I'd already done as much as I could to build up a reputation as a pothead, an alcoholic, maybe even a slut. Not intentionally, mind you. I'd been approached only a month before by one of the more lax resident assistants to go get high.

Now that same RA was asking if my friend Vance would buy the 3 of us some 40s. He agreed and once the contraband had been procured and safely stored in the RAs room, we began drinking and listening to music. Half way through the second 40oz and our filters were off. We began watching porn and showing each other our favorite porn stars.

Then came the drunk texting.

I don't know if the cloud of testosterone that overtook the room got to my head, I don't know what it was that I was trying to prove, but I felt the insatiable need to get laid. And I knew just who to call upon. We met only the week before. After drunken makeouts and confessions of, "I think you're hot," I fellated him in the backseat of his BMW.

In retrospect it's hard to remember what exactly had convinced him to come over, probably some explicit review of the things that awaited him.

"I have to go!" I squealed to Vance and the RA.

"Where are you going?" the RA asked.

"To get laidddddddd, suckahhhh," I replied with zeal.

I made my bed quickly and found a condom. I suddenly heard a knock on the door. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my roommate, "I need the room for a bit. Text you when I'm done."

He surveyed my room and focused on the array of books scattered across my desk. His eyes zeroed in on a Player's Handbook I had for Dungeons and Dragons. "Oh, you play D&D! I have a chara..." he started.

"I didn't say I wanted to talk, Brody. Take off your pants and get on the bed."

"Oh, uhh, okay."

I straddled him. "Is it okay if I tie you up?" I asked.

"Yeah, umm, I guess so," he answered timidly.

I unzipped his pants, slid them down and began fellating him as I'd done once before. Suddenly I felt not only his penis in my mouth, but my own vomit. Part of me was disgusted, but the desire to continue was overwhelming. I swallowed it and continued.

A few minutes and once his penis was fully erect, I put on the condom and assumed the position (reverse cowgirl style) and began to gyrate my hips. He thrust his own forward until I made him stop. I wanted complete control of the situation. He was moaning.

He came and I untied him. He thrust his fingers into me and I directed his every action until I could no longer speak.

Half an hour later he was coming to orgasm a second time, "Oh shit," he said, "I think I got a little bit on your wall."

I pulled my skirt back down, showed him downstairs and ran back to greet the RA sitting on a couch in his hallway. "Guess who just got laid!" I sang while thrusting my hips forward suggestively.

"But you're a girl!" he protests, "It's easy for you!!!"

"You look like you could use a cigarette," a voice says from behind me. It's Liam and he's wearing a sly grin on his face.

"Yeah, actually. That'd be great."

We went outside and I was beginning to sober up from the night's activity. I was suddenly very aware of the rain falling on the awning above us, the silvery dance of smoke emanating from our lips, the dull, satifying ache between my legs.

Liam finally spoke after a few drags off of his cigarette, "Did you take that purity test everyone's been doing?"

"Yeah," I said, "I think I scored like a 46."

"You know," he smirked, "I got a 22. I'd be willing to help lower your score."

I surveyed my surroundings, taking into account possible things that were on the quiz that I had yet to do. "Well," I replied, "I've never had sex with 2 different people in one night, I've never had sex outside, or in public, or in the rain."

"Yeah?" he ventured. He put out his cigarette, "I'm in room D222."

I went to my own room and passed out. I woke up with a hangover.

© Alix Orozco