Friday, October 30, 2009

Jessa Lynn

Really? Okay, so I’ve been told I need to fill this section out. You know what I hate most about the “tell us about yourself” section of just about anything?? Its not exactly like there’s a f*cking outline.

Well, here’s my best shot.

I’m a 24 year old, female, Executive Of Brokerage and Client Developement for a local logistics firm here in the Twin Cities… I think if you went looking for one, you’d come back with…. well, me. But feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Pretty sure I’m not though; as that’s the high point of my life.

Other than that, I’m actually rather strange… or moreso I think I am. Then again, I think far too much. So what’s the opinion actually worth?

According to my other half, if you will, I’m a sushi eating, granola crunching, raging femenist, hippy…. but I’m pretty sure I was probably 10 the last time I “crunched” on granola, and that I adore the male species far too much to be any sort of “raging” femenist.

Underneath all of my walls, which I do have many; I honestly think I have a really big heart. I take everything personally, everything effects me on one level or another. Perhaps that’s why I can hold a grudge like a motherf*cker. Analyze that Dr. Frued….

I read too much. I think I like other worlds better than my own. So reading helps me to coagulate the two. I LOVE Lord Byron. If I were born circa 1840, I’m pretty sure we’d be… involved.

I love music. I hate music. Or figuretively speaking, I hate what the year 2000 DID to music. I hate that someone like “Fergie” can be a household name, but you could walk down the street asking who Saul Williams is, and everyone would look at you funny.

I love to cook. I discovered this talent a few years back. I think it has something to do with the fact that I like to eat. I’m the kind of person who’d fly to Osaka, just for the sushi. I’d also learn to speak Japanese… if the task requited it.

I have amazing friends; and I know that everyone says that, but I really do. Just ask them.

Other than that, I’m pretty sure I’m just your everyday lemming….. haha… lemming; I wish life were that simple.

 

 

> Woman offered sex for tickets

Oct 28, 2009 WASHINGTON – POLICE charged a 43-year-old woman with prostitution on Tuesday after she offered sexual services in exchange for tickets to the upcoming World Series.

Susan Finkelstein, of Philadelphia, was arrested after police responded to an advertisement she posted on online classified site Craigslist, the Bensalem, Pennsylvania, police department said on its website.

Finkelstein’s ad, which was still posted on Craigslist on Tuesday, described her as a ‘desperate blonde’ in need of tickets to the World Series featuring her hometown Philadelphia Phillies against the New York Yankees.

‘Diehard Phillies fan – gorgeous tall buxom blonde – in desperate need of two World Series tickets. Price negotiable – I’m the creative type! Maybe we can help each other!’ it said.

Bensalem police said they responded to Finkelstein’s ad and filed prostitution charges against her after she ’solicited an undercover police officer to perform various sex acts in exchange for World Series tickets’.

The Phillies open their defence of their Major League Baseball title against the Yankees in New York on Wednesday. — AFP

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The WHY Question

 

THE “WHY” QUESTION

HOW TO DISCOVER YOUR VALUES and LIVE IN HARMONY WITH YOURSELF

By
VIKRAM KARVE


Values are core beliefs which guide and motivate attitudes and behaviour.

When you value something you want it (or want it to happen).

Values are relatively permanent desires.

Values are answers to the “why” question.


You keep on asking “why” questions until you reach a point where you no longer want something for the sake of something else. At this point you have arrived at a value.

Let’s take an example – I was once teaching a Post Graduate Professional Programme at a premier university, a centre of excellence, and I asked a student, “Why are you doing this academic course?”

“To gain qualifications,” he answered.

“Why do you want to gain qualifications?”

“To succeed in my career.”

“Why do you want to succeed in your career?”

“To reach the top.”

“Why do you want to reach the top?”

“To get power.”

“Why do want do you want power?”

“To control people,” he answered.

“Why do you want to control people?”

“I want to control people.”

“Why?”

“I like to control people.”

“Why?”

“Just for the sake of it – I like controlling people,” he said and further why’s elicited similar responses related to control. [Control for the sake of control – that’s when you discover your value!]

I realized that control was one of his values and maybe he was a future megalomaniac in the making!

The same line of questioning of persons undergoing higher education may reveal values like knowledge, money, status, standard of living, ambition, achievement, growth, reputation, excellence, fame.

Values are our subjective reactions to the world around us.


They guide and mould our options and behaviour. Values are developed early in life and are very resistant to change.

Values develop out of our direct experiences with people who are important to us, particularly our parents.

Values evolve within us not out of what people tell us, but as a result how people behave toward us and others.

Remember, there cannot be any “partial” values.


For example: you cannot be 50% honest (half-honest) – either you are honest or you are not honest!

Are you doing you MBA?

Keep asking yourself why you are doing it, and you will ultimately arrive at your value.

“Why are you doing your MBA?”

“To learn the art of management.”

“Why do you want to learn management?”

“To get a good job in a top firm as a manager.”

“Why?”

“To make more money.”

“Why?”

“To have a high standard of living.”

The person I was talking to re-iterated here, again and again, since standard of living was his value but you can go on and on till you find your true core values.

In one case I was surprised to find conformance as a prime value in a student of MBA – she was doing MBA because everyone else, especially most of her friends, were doing MBA!

With the rise and predominance of the utility value of education, the most important criterion for ranking B-Schools is the pay-packet their students get and not other factors like the quality of faculty and infrastructure, academic achievements and ambience etc.

That’s why there is a rush towards IT and Computer Science as compared to other more interesting and challenging branches of Engineering and Technology – money seems to be the cardinal value amongst students these days!

Some do prefer the civil services even after completing their Engineering from premier institutions as, for these individuals, things like status, service, power, and maybe, patriotism may be important values.

  • Is a high salary important to you?
  • Is it important for your work to involve interacting with people?
  • Is it important for your work to make a contribution to society?
  • Is having a prestigious job important for you?

It is most important for you to find out your own values (by the “why” method) to avoid value mismatch.

Value mismatch is at the root cause of dilemmas in your life.

Even when you plan to marry or have a relationship you must look out for value mismatch.

A conflict between your personal and organizational values may result in ethical dilemmas at the workplace, while value mismatch between two persons may sow discord and cause stress and turbulence in a relationship.

Your values are possibly the most important thing to consider when you’re choosing an occupation or workplace.

If you do not take your values into account when planning your career, there’s a good chance you’ll dislike your work and therefore not enjoy it.

For example, someone who needs to have autonomy in his work would not be happy in a job where every action is decided by someone else.

It is important to distinguish between values, interests, personality, and skills:

  • Values: the things that are important to you, like achievement, status, and autonomy.
  • Interests: what you enjoy doing, like reading, taking long walks, eating good food, hanging out with friends.
  • Personality: a person’s individual traits, motivational drives, needs, and attitudes.
  • Skills: the activities you are good at, such as writing, computer programming, and teaching.

Of these, interests, skills and personality can be developed, but values are intrinsic core beliefs inherent within you. You have to look inwards, analyse, introspect, reflect and endeavour to discover your own true values.


Whether it is your work or relationships, value congruence is of paramount importance – your values must be in harmony for the relationship to tick.

Value Dissonance due to mismatch between individual values and organizational values can cause great strain and trauma at the workplace.

Even within yourself, in order to avoid inner conflict there must be no confusion about your true values.

Remember the saying of Mahatma Gandhi: “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony”.


Dear Reader, please sit down in a quiet place all by yourself, introspect, ask yourself the “why” question and find out your own values.

First know yourself. Then know others.

Try to ascertain your and their values (personal values and organizational values too!).

Avoid value-mismatch and value-dissonance to the extent feasible.

The extent of mutual harmony in your values should determine your choice of work, activities, relationships, friends and partner.

Is freedom an important value for you?
Is the career or job you are considering (or the person you want to marry or have a close relationship or friendship with) going to give you enough freedom?


Do you value leisure?

Oh, yes! Leisure is not only an important value but also a determinant of character – If you want to know about a man find out how he spends his leisure.


It’s true in your case too – If you had a day off what will you do?


Would you read a book, write a story, go hiking outdoors, play your favourite sport, adventure sports, chat with friends, picnic, see a movie, eat your favourite cuisine in a restaurant, or cook it yourself, socialize in your club, spend the day at home with your family, study, play with your pet dog, or see TV at home, or just spend the day in glorious solitude enjoying quality time with yourself?

Or would you rather not “waste” your leisure time and spend the day doing something “useful” connected with your work, career or advancement towards “achieving” your “goals”?

How you spend your leisure reveals vital clues about your values too!

Do you value humour, fun, pleasure, food, enjoyment, sex, family life, quality of life, status, money, success, fame, power, prestige, security, nature, loyalty, love, affection, independence, privacy, togetherness, tranquillity, adventure, leadership, followership, competition, contentment, creativity – look within, reflect, find out for yourself, and the values of others too who you want to relate with – match and harmonize your values, and be happy and fulfilled in your work and your relationships.

Remember, at any important milestone in your life, when you have to make a vital decision, whether you are on the verge of selecting a career, a job, a house, or a marriage partner – trust your sense of values!

In conclusion here is a quote from the German Philosopher Friedrich Hegel: “A man who has work that suits him and a wife whom he loves has squared his accounts with life”

 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.


http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com


http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve


Appetite for a Stroll

 

vikramkarve@sify.com

One is the lonliest number...

I miss having a boy around.  I’ve been fantasizing about putting an ad online again and finding myself some gawky, puppyish bit of cougarbait to corrupt.  Perhaps a virgin, so I could teach him stuff.  Perhaps I would also make him bathe me (I love lying back in the bathtub while a pretty boy washes me) and/or spread moisturizer on me.  Stupid movie last night putting fantasies in my head…

This arrangement would be all well and good if I could find someone stable, but it’s astoundingly hard to find a guy who just wants to come over and play and who will do so regularly and not suddenly get a girlfriend or inexplicably stop calling.  I’m sure there are guys out there who aren’t looking for anything serious and who’ll happily come over and service me on a long-term basis, but the problem is weeding out all the flaky dumbasses.

The other thing is that when I’m this lonely, any time a boy treats me well I find myself thinking “Hmmm.  Could this guy be dating material?”  No.  No, he couldn’t.  Especially if he’s under 23, because guys that young are so emotionally stupid and lacking in life experience that it’s like they’re a different species.  When I try to explain anything emotion-related to them – even the more intellectual ones – I find myself dumbing it down like I’m talking to the family dog.  And while snuggling up to watch cartoons and then giving each other a bunch of orgasms does technically describe my ideal relationship, this synopsis leaves out the part where I’m madly in love with the guy.  The part where he understands me.

So, yeah…if I could magically meet a young’un who’s honest and straightforward and always calls when he says he will, and who’s awesome to hang out with and yet somehow, magically, I don’t find myself crushing on him – that would be great.  But magic doesn’t work like that and the trial and error thing is just gonna waste my time and fuck me up.

I’m going to focus on myself, instead; I’m going to do all the things I wish a boy would do for or with me.  Make myself little meals; bathe myself in yummy-smelling products; treat myself to a movie now and then.  And all the time I save by not obsessing on why some douchebag hasn’t called will go into launching my art business.

Monday, October 26, 2009

The Cool School Bus

Photo by Jonathan Goldberg

School kids in Spanish Town are waiting around for special cool buses to get to school in the mornings.   These are the buses playing the music they like at loud volume and also have tinted glass so there are fears that there might be sex going on, on there.

The so called “sex bus” has been in the headlines on a number of occasions – Vybz Kartel sang a song about it – and there were claims of sexual activity on buses in 2006. The practise of “lapping up” on packed buses where you have to sit on other peoples’ laps might have something to do with it (or not).

I prefer the buses playing the loud music myself, I have to say.   Better atmosphere!

In defense of the reputation of Jamaica’s buses, I would like to post this link to the bashy bus which is about spreading the AIDS awareness.

Certified in Erotic Talk

From the first time I heard about this course, I thought it is something that every erotic author needs to study. I just completed the course tonight – and I’m more convinced than ever that erotic authors should take this class. Especially people who want to get into writing erotica. People who want to learn to talk erotically for their partners should also take this course.

I’m not even sure I can explain the wealth of information that is packed into this class. Here are some of the things included in the 130 slides of this class. There are also 12 recordings (about 2 hours) by Dr Ava Cadell which are wonderful examples of how to talk erotically and each is a different topic or situation.

Topics Covered in this Course –

  • Fantasies – Differences Between Men & Women’s Fantasies and Much More
  • Reasons to Talk Erotically
  • When and Where to Use Talk Erotically
  • Understanding Errogenous Zones
  • Understand Nouns, Pronouns, Verbs, Adjectives & Adverbs
  • The Formula to Talk Erotically
  • Practice Makes Perfect
  • Prepare to Talk Erotically
  • Exercises – Pictures are included for practice and a list of suggestions after each one
  • Phone Sex is Discussed in Detail
  • Erotic Talk Options  – How to Get People to Talk Erotically to or With You
  • Erotic Words to Use in Place of Standard Names of  Sexual Terms

Is that not enough? How about the fact that talking erotically can be part of your foreplay, can be a great way to spice up a conversation or build anticipation, use it to arouse one another when far apart or while at the office, leave erotic notes and poems for one another and much more.

To read teasers for a few of my erotic stories – visit these links… and I welcome your thoughts. I’m still learning and practicing – so I plan for my work to get even better.

  • A Lazy Saturday Afternoon – Teaser
  • A Storm is Brewing – Teaser
  • On the Boardwalk – Teaser
  • Order Your Copy of Sexy Afternoon On The Boardwalk

Erotic Talk Certification Course From Loveology University

Welcome to Loveology University’s Erotic Talk Certification Course. This course is about the definition of erotic talk, not just four letter words but how to get over your shyness and express what turns you on in bed, why we need to express it, how to do it and what the benefits are to incorporating it into our relationships. With instructions on how to choose the right words to arouse your partner, what vocal tones and sounds are most alluring to sharing erotic fantasies and using body language to enhance erotic talk, you are sure to give your partner an unforgettable eargasm! There’s erotic talk for flirting, seduction, lovemaking, wild sex and even after sex when it’s time for a verbal replay. You’ll find out what men want to hear vs. what women want to hear and how to give the most powerful erotic compliments during sex. This course isfilled with hotter dialogue than you’ll ever hear on phone sex lines, so get ready to say exactly what you think and turn your lover into putty in your hands. This course will make you anything but speechless.

This Course Is For You If:

  • You want to Learn to Get Your Lover to Talk Erotically
  • You want to Say the Words Your Lover Wants to Hear During Sex
  • You want to Have Erotic Scripts at Your Fingertips for when You Need Them
  • You want to Make All Your Fantasies Come True with Erotic Talk

For More Details – https://www.loveologyuniversity.com/ShortCourseDetails.aspx?CourseID=38

Friday, October 23, 2009

Police crack down on prostitution

Arrests at three massage parlors are latest effort to curb growing problem

After receiving complaints from neighboring businesses, residents and some disgruntled customers during the past year, undercover police officers went to five local massage parlors on Oct. 15 and Friday to find out if they were soliciting customers for sex. The officers were solicited for sex at three of them: Pine Tree Massage, at 151 Lynch Creek Drive; Moon Light Massage, at 136 Howard St.; and at a residence on the 100 block of Second Street, said Lt. Tim Lyons.

The officers arrested Abby Dancer, 50, of Petaluma at the Second Street residence for solicitation of prostitution. Two Los Angeles residents were nabbed at Moon Light Massage: Mi R. Downing, 43, for residing in a house of prostitution, and Son C. Cho, 52, for solicitation of prostitution.

Arrested at Pine Tree Massage were Susan H. Song, 53, of American Canyon, for residing in a house of prostitution; Sun H. Jung, 42 of Fremont, for residing in a house of prostitution; and Myong S. Moravec, 52, of Sunnyvale, for solicitation of prostitution.

Search warrants were served at the time of the arrests to obtain additional evidence. This enabled officers to obtain detailed customer lists, phone numbers and payment information, Lyons said.

All of the suspects were arrested, booked and released on a citation to appear in court. The police department’s code-enforcement officer will be following up on local ordinance violations, and will be contacting property owners, Lyons said.

“The city is experiencing an increase in massage businesses conducting illegal activity,” he added. “Three years ago, the department was aware of just one business conducting prostitution, (but) today there are at least seven that the department is investigating.”

The sting represents another step in the police department’s efforts to actively address a rise in prostitution.

“The Internet has made it easier for prostitutes and their clients to connect, and prostitution often leads to other crimes, such as robberies,” said Lt. Mike Cook. “So, as soon as we see such problems starting to grow, we address them.”

Since 2008, 26 people have been arrested on prostitution-related crimes in 13 different incidents in Petaluma, compared with just five arrests in five incidents during the preceding three years. During the past two years, only one juvenile, a 14-year-old girl, has been involved. In Santa Rosa, on the other hand, runaway youth frequently have become victims of human sex trafficking.

“Most of the women working on Santa Rosa Avenue — about 55 percent — started in human trafficking,” said Bobbi Turner, crisis-intervention manager with United Against Sexual Assault in Sonoma County, in an interview with the Press Democrat.

Last year, the increase in prostitution triggered a sting and online surveillance by the Petaluma Police Department. Eleven people, from six different cities, were arrested on May 1, 2008 at a local motel. None of the people were juveniles. The sting was done because there was a growing trend in reported prostitution incidents at motels on the north end of Petaluma.

This year, police have responded to five reported prostitution incidents. After seeing an advertisement for prostitution services on the Internet, on Feb. 18 Petaluma police arrested a 21-year-old Concord woman at a motel on the north side of Petaluma. The following day, police arrested a 27-year-old Oakland woman who had solicited services online.

Police also accessed Internet ads for prostitution to nab a 44-year-old Santa Rosa woman at a motel on March 11 and a 26-year-old Petaluma woman at an apartment on the 100 block of First Street on April 9.

The amounts of money that were to be paid for prostitution services in these incidents generally were from $100 to $200, Cook said.

Arresting pimps and clients typically is more difficult than arresting prostitutes. Pimps often do not come to the locations, and prostitutes commonly are arrested before clients arrive.

But on Sept. 4, three people were arrested for an alleged prostitution incident at a Petaluma motel. An officer stopped a vehicle that was leaving America’s Best Value Suites, at 5300 Old Redwood Highway, at around 11 p.m. because the driver made an illegal left turn. The driver had trouble producing identification, and so did a 14-year-old girl who was with him.

The officer noticed that the girl was underage, and was inappropriately dressed. He eventually established that the girl was a runaway, and had an outstanding warrant for her arrest. She told the officer that she had met a man at the motel for prostitution. The driver was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and police subsequently were able to track down the 31-year-old Emeryville resident who had come to meet the prostitute.

Human trafficking also has been reported in domestic, agricultural and other types of work in the county. At the request of several local and state agencies, Sonoma County District Attorney Stephan Passalacqua proclaimed Jan. 11, 2009 as Human Trafficking Awareness Day. Also, the North Bay Human Trafficking Task Force, which includes Detective Sgt. Tara Salizzoni of the Petaluma Police Department, was created in 2008.

“The problem that I’m seeing most is underage girls being exploited,” said Joan Risse, the county’s chief deputy district attorney, as well as a member of the task force, which plans to present the results of its findings in July.

Besides prostitution, no other types of human trafficking recently have been reported in Petaluma, Cook said.

“We haven’t had a report of, or done an investigation of, any other types of servitude cases,” he said.

But Risse says that given the types of work being done in Petaluma, including considerable agricultural work, it is likely that other types of human trafficking are taking place.

“I’m not personally aware of them, but it’s one of those things that, if you look for it, you’ll find it,” she said.

source: http://www.petaluma360.com/article/20091023/COMMUNITY/910229924/1362?Title=Police-crack-down-on-prostitution

Part-4 "The Pink Cadillac"

PART-4   “The Pink CAdillac”

 

they happened, the dreams that is. They started on the hottest night of Summer. Anna had been at the pool all day with Morgan, and she was completely exhausted. She was sweating as soon as she got out of the shower. She went to lay down on the bed, she was out like a light.

The heat caused the sweat to just poor from her body. Her mother, worried about the finances, and so she kept the temperature at seventy-five degrees. In Anna’s room the vent didn’t work well, she’d stuffed a doll down it years ago and her father never manged getting it out. The one lamp she had on her night table caused the pink walls to look a bit orange after sunset, and the white furniture stood out beautifully, what with Anna’s four poster bed, and white sheers draped over the tops. It was befitting of Anna, she always loved being a girl, and everything that came with it.

Anna dreamed of a young blond girl her own age. She could see her as plain as day. In fact it was as if she was the girl. Flashes of this image and that came flooding in like a tidal wave. She saw someone coming into the girls room at night, and rubbing on her legs. She pushed the person away. Then she saw the girl walking to school, but Anna felt as if she was the one walking.

West Michael’s High School, the sign on the building read. (I know that school) Anna thought. Then she saw the girl sitting in a car, with a knife in her hand, and blood all over it, as she looked towards the passenger side seat. It was as if she was the girl again, and she was sitting in a car herself.

She was sitting in…the car seamed very familiar. It was her car! (It was the pink Cadillac!) She recognized the radio and dash board. Anna felt another rush, and then as if she were falling very far down, while still in the car. Then Suddenly at exactly 1:21 am, Anna awoke at the last moment before the car crashed.

Now the person who laid down on the bed was Annabelle Williams, but the person who awoke was someone else altogether.

She opened her eyes abruptly, as if she were sleeping beauty, awakened by her beloved. She sat straight up from a dead sleep and started putting make-up on, and getting dressed. She had a look in her eye that was not her own. She slipped out of the window easily from the one story home. She allowed the car to roll down the driveway backwards, quietly, as to not wake her parents. She lit a partial cigarette Morgan had left in the ash tray. She felt alive again. And then, she was gone. She was there no more. It’s difficult to describe to just anyone but sometimes the boundaries of this old world, get mixed up. Anna was no longer Anna. Sure she was in there somewhere. Where, we may never know. The person in charge now, was who ever still lived inside the dimensions of that car. As for now Anna still did not know who exactly the blond girl was.

She drove the Cadillac out of the neighborhood, like a ghost in the night. She went towards town and hit all the good hot spots, for her age group that is, and then some. She cruised by a friends’ home, and then her own. He was there_ Her father_ he was standing in the driveway, polishing his his brand new pretty red Boxster S Porsche. It only cost him forty-five thousand bucks, the pig.

“Tom Worth, Tom Worth, if any one knew how much Tom was really worth they’d be surprised!” she said.

She decided to go by Randal North High School, another school in their district. She too was a cheerleader, just like Anna. She knew all the teams, players, & players girlfriends, just like Anna did. She realized it wasn’t a game night, and moved on to Randal North’s main hang out. The Frozen Popper, that was where everyone from Randal North would go in the summer months.

Dane Levier, and Jocko James aka Jack the Jock, were the teams brightest and best. Dane, beautiful Dane, was the quarterback, and Jocko was the center. Of coarse he was and he was an asshole too.

He would hit on her every time they had a game with them. He was a handy man indeed. He and his buddy were standing out front of the place.

“How handy indeed.” she said aloud to herself, as she pulled the car right up in front of them.

“Need a ride boys?” she said.

“Well actually, sure why not!” Dane said, and he looked down into the car to see who it was. “Annabelle Williams? Is that you?” he looked at his friend and they both laughed a bit.

She wasn’t dressed at all like herself. In fact she didn’t look anything like she had when they had seen her before, and they knew that she was the girlfriend of one of their own_ a quarterback_ a football player, and she was head cheerleader for her school. Why the hell was she out on the other side of town, this late at night, without her boyfriend, and dressed to kill?

They were gonna find out!

 

To Be Continued!

 

Hey Horror Fans, Check out Part-5 of SSHartman’s “The Pink Cadillac” in just a few days! This story is running a bit longer than usual. Hope your all enjoying it! Happy Halloween Friends, Stay Scared!

 

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Saufgelage und Sexspiele - Skandal um Orgien an US-Botschaft in Kabul

Skandal in Afghanistan: Wachleute der amerikanischen Botschaft in Kabul haben perverse Sex-Orgien gefeiert! Es geht um Partys mit Huren, um Saufgelage und abartige Spiele – im Camp Sullivan, der Unterkunft für US-Mitarbeiter in Kabul. Acht Security-Männer wurden gefeuert, zwei kündigten selbst!

„Ein Vorgesetzter prahlte damit, dass er zu seiner Geburtstagsfeier Prostituierte bestellt hatte“, berichtet Danielle Brian von der unabhängigen Organisation „Project on Government Oversight“.

Aber woher hatten die Wachleute die Prostituierten? Im streng muslimischen Afghanistan ist käufliche Liebe verboten! Prostitution wird hier mit Ehebruch gleichgesetzt. Und darauf stehen 15 Jahre Haft. Nach der Scharia könnte eine verheiratete Prostituierte sogar mit dem Tod durch Steinigung bestraft werden.

Dennoch blüht in Afghanistan die Prostitution. Die Hilfsorganisation Ora International schätzt, dass allein in Kabul rund 900 Frauen das Risiko in Kauf nehmen und anschaffen gehen.

Die Organisation „Project on Government Oversight“, die den Skandal ans Licht brachte, vermutet, dass ausländische Huren an der Geburtstagsparty eines Sicherheitsmannes beteiligt waren. Sie könnten möglicherweise aus China stammen. Dass chinesische Prostituierte in Kabul tätig sind, ist hinreichend bekannt.
Quelle: bild.de

tap tap that bed to the wall

My body is going back into “starvation mode.” Hair falling like snow, bones popping out, nailbiting (excessively; not attractive), always cold, sore all over… this is the sort of time when I usually feel afraid this might someday kill me.

But what’s death to a suicidal person? I’ve been closer to killing myself lately than I have been in a long time. I’m not as scared as I normally would be.

It’s the same with smoking. I’ve been almost up to a pack a day, I measure my time with cigarettes, but I don’t care what happens to me.

Actually, I shouldn’t say I don’t care. That’s not true. But I don’t care as much as I feel I should.

I haven’t weighed myself in quite a while and I’m not sure if I should. It could either make things better or worse. Not that I know what “better” and “worse” even entail anymore.

Weird though: in spite of all this, my libido has spiked. I’m pretty obnoxiously horny; a very attractive dormmate/smoking buddy of mine is on my mind right now. We went for a cigarette and got on the subject of our respective significant others. As it turns out, he’s in an open relationship too.

This might just be a good weekend after all.

(Unless, of course, I start blacking out from hunger again, and/or have to return to hospital.)

Monday, October 19, 2009

Zephyr 4.1 "Hatching"

IT IS NOVEMBER 6th, 1971. The footage is drab, so unlike the era, the shifting, turbulent crowds, the thrashing of the desperate as they choke London’s streets and their faces are a riot of the worst emotions. Anything you might care to name – horror, terror, fear, grief, anger – is stamped indelibly in the grain of the historical recording. Yet watching it, all I can think is, fuck, that’s my dad, that’s my dad and watch on in disbelief as the cavalry arrives in a psychedelic wash of lights that break like soap bubbles over the crowd.
            The four of them appear in a wave, Starkey in those terrible elastic pants he had to wear, all of them in their matching blue marching band jackets, the closest thing they ever had to a uniform since they grew out their awful fucking 60s hair, a long way from the leather-jacketed young hoods they had first been. In seconds the Wolfman transforms, hirsute top half practically hanging out of his sleeves and the open top, a feral grin on his face as he leaps from the tableau before St George has even lowered his arms from the teleport that brought them from their secret base on the Isle of White.
            Within a year, Ringo will be dead, but that doesn’t trouble him obviously as he powers through the crowd on all fours, people throwing themselves like the Red Sea out of his loping path. There had been a terrible mood in Britain that winter with the miners’ strikes and the government’s debt default and the renewed IRA bombings and the Manchester rail disaster and, like meat left in the sun, the public rage stayed cold and hard all winter and then boiled over once the warm weather arrived and the Beatles, along with the other loose change of British superdom found themselves at the front again, advocating violent social change as if by accident. And the Summer Rebellion was born, an inevitable expression of the twisted logic of metahumanity which, if not destroying them, would at least ruin any hope for the way things could’ve been.
            In the footage you can hardly see my dad’s face for the radiant smile and those stupid little glasses he wore. I can’t see that I really look anything like him. He lifts his hand to the cheering crowd as Paul shoulders past with what seems to be a look of unrestrained menace. George already has the moustache he wears today, whenever that was the last time I saw him on the news, anyway, and he and John lift from the ground and float towards where the wall of British policemen in their Saturday morning cartoon helmets are being slaughtered.
            No one seems to even remember the Spiders from Mars – Bowie’s term, if I recall. And even fewer remember what they were called until Bowie’s song came along. All anyone knew was these dark evil fuckers from outer space had been hatching inside members of Parliament for a lot longer than anyone would care to admit and it wasn’t until the Preacher, my dad, stumbled across their alien thought-waves that their conspiracy came unstuck. How much of the country’s woes at that time were down to their influence, no one could really tell. And even after the events of November 6, the people weren’t in much of a forgiving mood. The fact the ruling elite could even be vulnerable to such a threat inspired the fury of the common people, like their masters’ weakness was just a new form of an ages old betrayal.
            Ironically the news crews couldn’t get close to the action. The crowds and the retreating police, hopelessly under-armed to face such threats, carrying their dead and injured like from a terrorist attack and crying and moaning and bleeding and stoppering their wounds with little more than their handkerchiefs, they all blocked the path to the burning street where the Spiders were finally routed. There is little to see of the well-upholstered members of parliament with their heads burst open directing desperate and powerful attacks. There are white balance-destroying flashes of red as McCartney unleashes his eyebeams and another bang, the crowd reacting like a single flinching organism as a car explodes, but otherwise the cameraman’s testimony blurs softly in and out as he plays at the far extremes of his focal range.
            If you sit through the whole thing, eventually there’s this enormous ragged cheer and an hour later, a victorious procession as the four of them are carried on the crowd’s shoulders under the shadow of Big Ben, huge grins on their comfortably adored faces. I don’t have the patience for that sort of thing and my back is aching from sitting hunched at the computer and I switch off Youtube to spare my download limit and call up the web archive instead with the grainy Leibovitz photos from autumn 1972 – their last photo shoot as a powers team, taken for Rolling Stone.
            Outside the panorama windows, the city is quiet. I call it that even when I can hear the odd car horn, a distant siren, a drunk guy retching his heart out in the alley down the side. This is as close as the city ever comes to being at peace, four o’clock in the morning and the weather turning cold and sunrise still effectively a long way off and me without a cold woman to warm my bed or a child to do the same for my heart. Instead it is just me and Wikipedia as my hand trawls over the mouse sensor and the facts flick by.
            He wrote two books: one just before they went to India and one in ‘74, after the Wolfman died. And he fathered one child the world knew about. I guess I should call him my half-brother, Julian, but I can’t help wondering how many more half-brothers I have out there.
            It is a while before I realise I have closed my eyes, unconsciously asleep. That’s the mixed curse of total freedom in the postmodern. In track pants and a Starbucks tee, I stumble as far as the settee and let the darkness wash over me.
In the early premonitions of my sleep, I see myself as a baby, lifted up into the arms of a strange man with a hoary beard and small round glasses that reflect my innocent curiosity and mirror his own.

 

THERE IS SOMETHING appropriate about the bass throb of the wind turbines as my daughter and I land like two refugees from the postmodern astride the same Newfoundland coast on which mad Viking explorers once fumbled their colonisation so badly. Like the thirty-odd unit wind farm, we are on this squall-battered peninsula for the elevation and the isolation. And like the turbines, we are far enough from civilisation that not even the most vocal civic association could object to what we propose.
            Far to the north the land turns dark green with fir and spruce and I expect there are concrete barricades eventually as the crumbling Canadian highways head like a thwarted destiny to No-Man’s Land, the rusting watch-towers with their big-breasted, shaven-headed, woollen pullover’d guards forever on duty protecting the tiny principality from the patriarchal threats of the outside world. A cruel joke and a living irony in one breath. The pun on their name is a testament to what so many costumed freaks like myself discover: you can choose a dandy title (in the late 70s, the separatists declared they were Wimminsland), but the newspapers will ultimately decide whether or not it takes. Some grumpy sub-editor, or perhaps a legion of them, their ire multiplied, eyeing the gap in the headline or the cadence of some inferior cub reporter’s sentence and deciding to rewrite the course of history in a clatter of keystrokes.
            Here on this pulsing scarp we are safe from any threat and small enough not to present one on the separatists’ Cuban-supplied radar. If there are blobs, they do not tell the story of a father simply trying to do the best thing by his child.
            Windsong is a name the media have taken to with a fury. In her mask and vandalised leather jacket, Tessa is as much a stranger as any teenage daughter could ever be, the disaffected teenager par excellence. Yet she has a knowing wink for me and flushed cheeks that belie great expectations. We are both of us “leathered up,” as she put it, spare civvies in a Dulce & Gabana shoulder bag her mother bought as a surreptitious divorce present, a way of letting Tessa know things were only looking up with the deadweight dad out of the picture. I have mine stashed in the flat panel of the back of my jacket. The screwed-on plates of the stylised zed, now in gold, on advice from my new publicist, mist over with the cold, but I don’t feel it and Tessa tells me it’s the same for her. We are built to withstand such lesser things. We are in our environment.
            “You know, when I was a child –”
            “A child who knew I was Zephyr,” I say.
            “Yes,” Windsong slowly exhales. “When I was a child, when I was eight or something, I went through a long patch thinking you were gonna leave us.”
            “You must find this ironic.”
            “Dad,” she fumes.
            “Let’s practise,” I reply. “Zephyr, remember?”
            “Okay.”
            “Why did you think I was going to leave?” I relent and ask. “Because I was Zephyr?”
            “No,” Windsong replies. “You know I said it was never a conscious thing, understanding you were Zephyr. It’s only the past few years, you know, that I was hiding from mum that I knew.”
            “Just as well,” I say. “Being a kid, knowing that sort of thing? I dunno.” In my head I imagine a quick thousand-odd scenarios where my secret ID could’ve been compromised. Most of them are during the school Christmas concert.
            “It’s not a good thing,” I say at last. “A kid could spent their life worrying I wouldn’t come home, some of the things I’ve done.”
            Windsong bites her lip and says nothing. A light breeze stirs and I know it is my baby weather-controller testing out her powers, flexing her muscles, so to speak, now we are far away from prying eyes. My other super sense – the one attuned to my role as a parent – tells me I have stifled whatever point she was trying to make. I snap my mouth shut and contemplate for perhaps the hundredth time this morning that having a split life really is more than just a very obvious metaphor. I fear what a psychiatrist would think, observing that I could be such very different people with and without the mask. Tessa desperately needs training if she is going to persist in flying out her bedroom window at night looking to thwart bad guys. So ironic that we’re finally here, it’s Zephyr-her-dad she needs more than anything.
            So I peel off the mask. The spirit gum leaves gunky pores, but no actual telltale residue. If there’s someone gunning for me with a telephoto lens then I’m about fucked, right about now, though in all likelihood its just us and the seals down on the rocks. The air is cold enough it seems to congeal in the swirls and eddies Tessa makes rise up from the damp and silent earth, brief glimpses of shapes appearing and disappearing in the mist.
            “Is that you doing that?”
            “Yeah,” she says, seemingly as astounded as I. “Never tried before. Hell, I don’t even think I’ve been out in the cold like this with my, you know, powers before. I just wondered if it could be done and, well, there you are.”
            “Not sure it has a combat application,” I grin.
            She looks up and notices for the first time I have demasked. Her face contorts with caution, but she says nothing.
            “You were going to tell me why you worried I would leave,” I say softly.
            “Because of me.” The voice is small, the gaze turned away. Tessa removes her own mask and dabs at a sudden tear that has come from nowhere.
            “You?” I give half a laugh of surprise, confusion, affection. “You? Baby, half the things I did, back in those days at least, I did because of you. I wanted my little girl to be proud. It was one of the frustrations of my life that I couldn’t share this with you. I’m glad those days are behind us.”
            “Even if it means I have powers?”
            “Yeah,” I shrug, surrendering to the observation.
            I’m still not thrilled to see Tessa going into the wrong side of the family business. Judging by the chauffeured town car that comes and drops her off for her twice weekly visit, my wife Beth made the better call when it comes to professions. We shared an interest in the law initially – her as a student and later practitioner, and me as a guy who dresses up in gaudy outfits and beats on villains – and that wore thin over time.
            Windsong replaces her mask the same way I do – it’s one of mine, after all – two fingers pressing it in place either side of her brow. The transformation into young adult is miraculously complete. Last time I glimpsed her on the NBN news I instinctively checked out her cans, her stocky childhood legs fast thinning out and hope not for any starvation diet. Although I am in good health – miraculously so, given the events of the past month – my own obsolescence is dawning on me the more I am confronted by my replacement.
            “I used to think you would resent me,” Windsong says at last. The words tumble free in a rush that I recognise from my own habits, it’s a sudden confession. Her face is turned away so I can’t see if her masked eyes still water.
            “Why?”
            “Well you’ve got to admit it, dad,” she says and gives a throaty laugh, wiping her face with the back of her fingerless gloves. (They’re a little bit Young Madonna, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. Kids will be kids and I can recall stomping around for a year in Maxine’s high heels pretending to be Gene Simmons at one stage, though admittedly I was a lot younger than fifteen). “No one could blame you if you had masculinity issues.”
            “Really?” I say, like this is a revelation to me.
            “Well, take a quick check: you grew up thinking your father was a gay sperm donor and you were raised by two dykes. You knocked up your childhood sweetheart when she was, what, eighteen? And rather than be the bread-winner, because of the whole costume thing, it was mum who went on to graduate law school and bring in the income. I thought one day you would be looking after me and something would happen, some urgent call, and you just wouldn’t come back. Like I just didn’t matter.”
            There’s silence for a moment, but not for long. It’s not like me to let such feelings linger.
            “And did I?”
            “No,” and she laughs softly, a commiseratory sound. “No, you always did.”
            “Better still, babe, there were plenty of times the police scanner went off and we couldn’t get a sitter or it wasn’t your day at kindy and I just watched it on the news. I just left it, let guys like Mastodon and the Wavemaster and Aquanaut and, that other guy, the guy with the fucking horns. . . .”
            “Capricorn.”
            “Ha, you know your shit, don’t you?”
            Windsong laughs. “Put your mask on old man. You sound like Zephyr again.”|
            As I comply, I give a wry smile and watch Windsong roll her arms around like she has any idea of what a warm-up is. We flew here from Atlantic City and I clocked her top speed at just under four hundred mph. Not a dash on mine. Still not a warm-up, to my mind.
            “So are you ready to get this show on the road?”
            “Yep,” she nods, and starts pulling back her hair from her heart-shaped face. “Combat training 101. That’s what I want, Zephyr.”
            “No, honey, that’s what you need,” I reply. “I saw you trash that jewellery store heist on CNN on Tuesday. That guy with the crowbar almost had you.”
            Her face pales as she realises she’s been busted.
            “You . . . saw that?”
            “I sure did,” I say without much of the amusement I feel. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell your mother.”
            “She’d only blame my visits with you.”
            “Exactly,” I say back. “Why do you think it’s our secret?”
            “Thanks, dad,” Windsong says through lowered lashes in the true tones of the abashed teenager she is. “I appreciate it.”
            “You owe me,” I reply. “And payback starts here.”
            She looks up. There’s fire and determination in her eyes, though unfortunately not a whiff of experience. I make a slow lunge with my hand lit up like a birthday cake and rather than defend herself, Tessa just wrinkles up that cute snub nose of hers and I think she’s about to say “Dad!” in her best irritable teenager voice. And then she’s launching backward courtesy of a significant but low voltage shock.
            Windsong lands fifteen feet away and doesn’t move. The idiocy of my grin drips steadily off my face until, with concern, I hurry forward to check I haven’t hurt her too badly.
            And walk straight into her attack.

Long Weekend

This weekend I saw “Where the Wild Things Are”. Fucking amazing. Never before have I cried so long and so hard during a movie. By the end, I had given up stifling tears, and had to fight tooth and nail just to avoid openly sobbing.

Honestly, “The Iron Giant” has lost its tear-jerking championship belt.

The rest of the weekend, a friend let me crash at her place, which was all well and good until I realized that she still wanted more than friendship from me. No hanky-panky was had – thank goodness – if only because I behaved like a gelded monk. On the second night, even after downing a mickey of whisky, I refused her bed and slept on the floor.

My back is still aching.

As an added bonus, we got to talking about past relationships and sexual exploits, and I have yet another reason to avoid a relationship with her. You see, she has never had an orgasm, and while that would have never stopped me before, she also revealed the reason as to this situation. You see, she was born with a vagina three sizes too small, and based on what past partners have told me, and my own research as to where I fit on the spectrum of dong sizes, I’m fairly certain that we would be anatomically incompatible.

Still, lots of fun was had, what with all the excellent conversations and howling like Wild Things. I even climbed a tree at one point and yelled that it was time to “let the Great Rumpus start”. Good times.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a weekend with this friend if there weren’t some kind of new romantic complication thrown into the mix. Whereas before I was starting to dig her sister, now my wandering eye has turned towards her sister’s cute friend, and now, I’m honestly seeing this as a wonderful thing.

You see, the cute friend appears to be exactly what I need right now. She’s cute, she’s older, she’s a theatre student, she laughs at my jokes, and perhaps best of all, she’s only in town for the next few months. On top of all of that, she just moved to Kensington, so I’ll probably be able to invite her out for a “welcome to the neighborhood” pint in the next few days. And if all goes according to plan, I won’t even be living nearby if we do decide to start doing the horizontal monster mash.

I just pray that my luck will turn in time for that pint.

Friday, October 16, 2009

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Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Obamova máma Stanley Anne

 Ženu na této fotografii lze jasně identifikovat jako Obamovu matku. Je mi proti mysli je publikovat, tak alespoň v co nejméně explicitní podobě. Samotná jejich existence je dost skandální, ale skandálnější je skutečnost, že kvůli nim nevznikl žádný skandál a to v době, kdy hollywoodské hvězdy dobrovolně skandály fabrikují.

Další skandální okolnost Obamova života je známost s Frank Marshall Davisem, kterého Obama ve své autobiografii označuje jako svého mentora (dával Obamovi “školu života” v Honolulu).
První jmenovaný byl komunistickým radikálem, opilcem a feťákem, přiznal se k pedofili a dalším perverzním sklonům,  je autorem pornografického románu Sex Rebel: Black (Memoirs of a Gash Gourmet).

9: love is

Love is Vegas.

Not the party city itself but the decision to fly there impromptu, a decision made in a hasty chat conversation with one of your best girlfriends while you’re still sitting alone in the office at 8 p.m. eating noodles out of tupperware.

Love is being a grown-up with the good fortune of having a job and enough savings and independence that you can take off and go to Vegas whenever you want.

But even if you don’t have enough savings, being a grown-up still rocks because you can stay out all night if you want, eat pie for dinner and put off chores for a week. You can wear ballet shoes and dance in your room till morning with no one walking in. You can even photograph the aforementioned pie after a few bites, then spend an hour on a Tuesday night editing the photos while listening to Madonna. Come on, giiiiirls … do you beliiiieve in loooove? Cuz I got smm to say about it.

Love is being grown-up enough to understand what someone like Madonna has given your generation. She’s done the work for you, and you just sit back and enjoy the fruits of her labor. Like so many others in the past have brought you here, woven a bridge out of love so you can step on it and get across. They built the foundations, they grunted and withstood the load on their way up the ladders so that you can sit here, now, and enjoy the view.

I honor those people too, our shared ancestors, but tonight I pick Madonna. Dooooon’t go for second best, baaaby. Don’t. Express yourself. Respect yourself. I love the song. Love her. Girl power was born thanks to her. Nobody likes Britney but she’s able to do what she does best because of Madonna.

I can’t imagine what a hurricane she was wherever she went in the DOB (aka Decade of Brilliance — none other than the ’80s, of course). She changed people’s notions about women, showed the truth about the female body, put herself out there and used her own body as a vehicle to liberate the women of future generations.

She showed everyone that we’re not just Barbie dolls, content to smile and look cute, but we’re women — with yes, sweetness, yes, tenderness, but also more sensuality than you can handle, buddy, and plenty of excitement. And filled with desires too.

In truth, we’re just as fiendish as men. And that’s that.

***

My knees were pulled together tight, the bag of tupperware laid on my lap. I sat on the train at 9 p.m., and looked around absentmindedly, thinking about what to write tonight.

I was on top of the world, feeling the kind of high you get after a crazy-stressful day that has seen the end of a long project — the happiness that springs from the comforting thought that tomorrow life will be back on its track, and you’ll be able to do your regular work at the pace you love.

I noted the feeling as I felt it and relished it more. It was a simple emotion, a sheer joy of sharing a train with others, a celebration of life as it is. I thought of what a wise friend said today, about thinking of the people in your life as their essence, not as the history you have with them or the degree of influence they have on your self-esteem.

And so I thought of them, the people in my life, excluded the facts surrounding them and pictured them as they are, with the traits that make them them. I thought of the strangers on the train like that too. And suddenly I wanted to write about the whole world. I wanted to write about the silent old Chinese woman that stepped off at 49th. Or the couple in their 40s sitting across from me, his beard greying and her hair starting to look dowd — yet how beautiful they were, how engaged and connected as they leaned in toward each other and shared a laugh.

At 59th, a girl walked in wearing shorts and workout gear. Her legs weren’t sexy, but they were bare, and out there. Yet nobody cares, because this is America. It’s all free. I tried to picture myself watching her from an Afghan’s perspective. I would want her stoned. I tried to imagine I was from the ’50s. I’d call her a slut.

That’s when I knew I had to write about Madonna. She’s freed our minds! She’s  allowed us to wear shorts, and choose to make love or have sex or plenty of both and write about it unashamed. You know, you know, you know, you got to!

Love is the here and now and being grateful. Love is freedom, and freedom of expression.

Love is pie:

Monday, October 12, 2009

Why You Can't Find A Good Man

I was reading a blog that I tend to read very often by Shaun King called Shaun in the City, and he brought up a hot button topic for men and women (particularly here in Atlanta.) He was concerned about why “good” women here are not able to find a man even though they are highly educated with Masters degrees and Ph.d’s and are beautiful. He says “own their own, they are the bomb. However, without fail, they are overwhelmingly single and highly disappointed with the market for men in our city.” He says that they are falling for men who are married, heterosexual and permanently single, sorry (permanently unemployed, cheaters, dirty, bad habits, abusive, thuggish, etc.), gay (undercover gay, normal gay, flamboyantly gay) or caught up in the criminal justice system (in jail, on the way to jail, or just got out of jail.)

I personally think that the “problem” is a lot more simple than these single people know. They are “too smart” for their own good, I suppose. And as I surfed through the comments (mostly from the ladies) I noticed again some of the same problems that is leaving them currently single. I wanted to respond to every single comment but instead decided to post this blogpost.

So here is my disclaimer: You will probably be offended. Get over it. Somebody had to tell you the truth. Sometimes the truth hurts and is most times controversial. Do not try to come up with excuses as to why I am wrong. I’m probably not. In fact, I’m quite sure of it. I’m not single. I’m pretty happily married. I am where you are trying to be. So stop wearing your feelings on your sleeves. If you will listen you might be able to be helped. So here goes. This is why you can’t find a good man.

1. You are defining your success by the wrong standards: I noticed that most of the comments in Shaun’s post were saying “I’m educated, and beautiful” as if being smart and pretty guarantees you a good man. There is nothing wrong with having something going for you in the education department and chances are you didn’t have anything to do with how pretty you are. (Thank your mama for that.) So why do you keep bringing this up? Do you think that a woman who is less educated and not so pretty should get the second rate gentlemen that you are so frequently ending up with? The fact is that if you are defining yourself by these things it’s being shallow. Why aren’t you talking about the integrity that you have, the character you possess? Why haven’t you mentioned that you are kind, funny, non-judgemental? Did you say anything about being supportive, easy going? Did you let us know that even though you aren’t yourself perfect that you have identified areas of your life that are weak and that you are working on it? Your MBA or Ph.d is really nice. It is. It just won’t help you advance your relationship. Sorry.

2. Measuring Men by the Wrong Stick: While at first that seems like a double entendre, it’s not meant to be. Your problem you smart, beautiful woman you, is that you choose men by a different standard than you measure him with. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. What do I mean? Well you choose men usually based solely on those same shallow standards that you use to measure your own success. So you look for a guy with money, has at least the same level education, and is extremely good looking. And there is nothing wrong with that, except you eventually measure him by more core items such as his character. You wait way too long to start making his character mean anything to you. While men tend to look for good lookng women, they also know what type of personality, character, etc. that he is looking for. There are men who are out just to have a good time (and there are men out there doing that) but when these men get serious, they absolutely already know what type of woman he wants in most areas and he won’t take a woman home to meet his parents that don’t fit the bill. They don’t settle. Why do you?

3. Fear of being alone: My wife and I always tell young ladies that we found each other during a time that neither of us were searching for a mate. We were absorbed in bettering ourselves personally and being busy about life. She tells them to stop looking for a man. Seriously just stop dating period. Yet these women think that if they start taking time out of the meat market to work on themselves and enjoy the gift of singleness, that Mr. Right will pass them by. “My biological clock is ticking and it’s cold on Christmas!” So instead of being discriminating, ladies, you end up trying to get close to whomever shows you any sort of interest just because of fear. Don’t give me excuses on this one.

4. Looking for Love in All The Wrong Places: Everyone knows the adage, that if you continue to do what you’ve been doing, you’ll continue to get what you’ve been getting. Where have you been finding all these “winners” you’ve been dating. If it has been at the same consistent places, may be it’s time for a change. I hear you saying, “I know somebody who found her husband at the night club or on Twitter.” Good for them. We are talking about you. That hasn’t worked for you. Really, you should try finding somebody at a place where you two are involved in an activity and get to interact more than once before exchanging phone numbers. This way you get a chance to see them interact with people in action a few times. “But I met him at church!” So what! While church seems noble you still don’t get a good chance to interact with him unless you are involved in a ministry activities with him. Bottom line: you need to see this person a few times more than once in most cases.

5. Looking for Love Period: I am a believer that a man finds a wife. Sorry. I believe in the Bible where it says that when a man finds a wife he finds good.  Ladies, that does not put you in a powerless position. It makes the man do the chasing and it puts you in a position to examine and send the dirty rotten scoundrels on their way. “But what if the guys don’t come looking for me?” Well, it looks like that fear of being alone creeping back in. If they are not seeking after you… why are you chasing them? The men that you chase figure that you are desperate. He knows that he can be sorry, married, a player, or whatever and still stay in your good graces a long time because you came looking for him. When you came chasing you gave your power away.

6. Making Things Options That Shouldn’t Be Options: One of the most disturbing comments I read in Shaun’s post was a woman who said that she considered “settling for someone else’s man.” Uh, this should not have even been an option. This is like saying you are looking for a new car and come looking in my garage. That’s not an option on the table for you. I am never sure why single women want married men, even if these married men come looking for you – he’s no-good ladies! The second thing I read is that the women think that the options mentioned in the post (married, sorry, in the justice system, player, etc.) are the only options out there. This list should be your “don’t date” list, not your dating options list. Once you eliminate these guys all that’s left are those good men that you have been in search of.

7. Stop saying there are no good men!: I commented on Shaun’s post asking women to stop saying that there are no good men out there. There are good men. I am one of them. And before I married my wife, I was a single man and my wife was able to see past all the crap guys to see me and I pursued her. Ladies, if you stay convinced that there are no good men, you will continue to settle for the ones that aren’t. Keep hope alive. There are good men.  You just need to make sure that when he finds you, that you are everything that you want him to be. Because a good man is not looking for a woman that is less a good woman than he is a good man.

Now you can chew me out in the comment section below. Thanks.

Why can't I find someone that actually wants to date?

Since December 2008 I lost about 40 lbs, started coloring my hair, using better makeup, dressing nicer and certainly sexier.  I have been really nice and upbeat.  All these personal improvement even earned me a raise.

I think I’m ready emotionally to be in a relationship.  I’ve tried several websites in the past, with no success.  I did go on a few dates, all were disasters.  Granted, there were the few I actually hooked  up with, none of them were ready for anything more.  I was able to maintain myself and didn’t fall for any of them especially hard.  I really think the sex is better when there is some sort of emotional connections.  I absolutely love kissing, it just isn’t the same without it.  I adore making out on my couch, it’s really good for it-super comfortable.

I think one night this week I might take a new picture, do my hair and makeup, all that girly stuff.  I feel like this would be a very productive use of my recovery time.

Friday, October 9, 2009

This will make Cause even more pissed...

Just days after Cause ranted about PLAYBOY and how it was pissing him off this may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back as November’s covergirl is none other then CARTOON icon, MARGE SIMPSON. Cause nothing screams hot more then a cartoon naked and gracing the pages of PLAYBOY. I wonder if they will include CYBER CLUB photos for this pictorial. Remember you must be 18 years of age to purchase this magazine.

I think PLAYBOY forgot that.

Join Bower & “The Sweet Nasty” Chris Cause this Sunday October 11th @ 8pm ET/5pm PT for the Sunday LIVE edition of THE WHEELHOUSE! On tonight’s Wheelhouse we will be stripping down the Weekend with THE WEEKEND STRIPDOWN! We will recap everything that has gone on in the MLB DIVISIONAL PLAYOFFS, WEEK 5 of the NFL and all the big stories around the world of sports! Be there LIVE @ 8pm ET/5pm PT by CLICKING RIGHT HERE: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/thewheelhouse/2009/10/12/The-Wheelhouse-Episode

Im Kino: Die nackte Wahrheit

Fatih Akim hat einmal zum Besten gegeben, dass Komödien das schwierigste Genre für einen Regisseur sind. Schmerz in Dramen ist weltweit für jeden nachvollziehbar, gelungener Humor jedoch kulturell abhängig. Einen weit größeren kulturellen Kreis als die herkömmliche Komödie schließt nun aber “Die nackte Wahrheit” ein. Denn das Thema ist für fast jeden interessant: eine Frau, ein Mann, noch ein Mann und viele Verwirrspiele, den Richtigen oder die Richtige zu finden – falls es so etwas überhaupt gibt.

Abby, eine TV-Produzentin, ist zwar erfolgreich im Job, aber ihren Traummann hat sie noch nicht kennengelernt. Zwar hat sie regelmäßig Rendevous, aber alle scheitern an ihrer Must-have-Checkliste. Als sich ihr neuer Nachbar als alle Punkte erfüllender Traummann herausstellt, ist sie auf Hilfe angewiesen. Und die kommt von ihrem neuen Kollegen Mike, der die Quoten ihrer Show mit “Der nackten Wahrheit” über das Beziehungsgeflecht zwischen Mann und Frau nach oben schnellen lässt. Mit seinen anzüglichen, simplen und oberflächlichen Tipps gelingt es Abby tatsächlich, ihren Nachbarn um den Finger zu wickeln. Dumm nur, dass sich ihr Gefühlsleben allmählich um 180 Grad wendet – hin zu Mike.

Die Geschichte schon tausendmal so oder ähnlich in anderen Komödien gesehen? Vielleicht, aber noch nie mit einem solchen Lachzwang, der auch nach dem Film noch anhält. Katherine Heigl und Gerard Butler glänzen als ungleiches Pärchen, das über Umwege zueinander findet. Sie haben Spaß, der sich auf den Zuschauer ganz zwanglos überträgt. Und letztlich bleibt die Frage, ob Männer in Wahrheit nicht alle “Mikes” sind und nur Oberflächlichkeiten bei der Partnerwahl zählen. Schieben Männer Gefühle nur vor, um Frauen ins Bett zu kriegen oder sind Männer doch auf innere Werte bedacht? Sind Frauen nicht genauso oberflächlich und verbergen dies gekonnt hinter einer Gefühlsfassade?

“Die nackte Wahrheit” ist eine gelungene Gelegenheit, über diese Streitfragen der Geschlechter nachzudenken, laut zu lachen, zeitweise kaum Luft zu bekommen, zu schmunzeln und am Ende gut gelaunt den Kinosaal zu verlassen. Auch wenn die Meinungen zum Film auseinandergehen, Lacher gibt es zahllos. Deshalb eine absolute Filmempfehlung für alle, die bei Fäkalsprache nicht gleich zusammenzucken – sie kann auch intelligent eingesetzt werden.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

A fucked up confession

I made a pledge when I started this blog….

1. to be completely honest

2. to record memories that pop into my head at random moments so that I dont lose them

I was about to give up on this night and go to bed for lack of anything else to do…when something popped into my head…a wish, a thought that I  had growing up…I can’t believe that I ever felt/wished this and further that I’m going to admit it…but here goes!

you know how some people growing up, wish for glasses, crutches, or braces and you just wonder why that person would want something so awful?

I always wished, growing up that I had a guy best friend….

that best friend that most boys seemed to have…that best friend that is so fucking close he is like your brother…this best friend and I were never supposed to be romantic…it was truly just a platonic best friend…he was of course fucking beautiful, popular, all the girls and guys wanted to be near him..he smelled great he was amazing at everything he touched…he was both athletic and sensitive, competitive and yet poetic, he believed in something and made it cool to everyone…I wanted this best friend to be so comfortable in his sexuality that we could lean on each other and hug…cuddle and say i love you…this best friend and I had inside jokes, memories and stories of our childhood hijinx that could fill up a series of teen novels…

this best friend and I had pics of us thru our childhood on our bedroom walls…at camp, in school, in the pool, on xmas, at birthday parties, sleep overs and camp out’s in the backyard, that typical best friend photo with your arms around each other heads pressed together with big smiles looking into the camera and you just knew we were best friends….

I wanted to be jealous and envious of my best friend for all the amazing things I saw in him, and I wanted him to be jealous of me for some aspect of my life/talent/looks where he felt inferior in comparrison….this best friend and I maybe experimented as kids sexually but never spoke of it after…not because we were ashamed or felt dirty about it..but because it was so normal to us that there was no need to talk about it and if it did ever come up…we would have no problem laughing about it and talking about it as we would the time we camped in the backyard and got sprayed by the skunk…

 people would roll their eyes at our antics…we would know each other better than we knew ourselves….he would call me out when I was being a douche bag and I would do the same for him…we could talk to each other about anything…we would play video games for hours…watch movies and tv….we would be together and hang out every second we could…our families were so intertwined that it was one family…we treated the other’s home as our own…our parents shopped for both of us at the grocery store…and we were always expected on the other families vacations…we could feel each others thoughts without speaking and knew what the other needed at that moment…we were going to be best friends forever

we would be each others best man at our weddings we would go to college together and be dorm mates…we would jack off together, watch porn together, share cloths, food and cologne cuz we were so intertwined his things were just as much mine as they were his and we both had the same things so who knew what belonged to who…after college we would get an apartment together until we fell in love with someone and moved out…which of course would perfectly match each other in timing so neither of us was left behind…

I never had this…I have always had best friends for short periods of time but would move on, grow apart, fight or whatever…and most of the time these were girls (such is the plight of the gay boy and usually they were chubby bitchy girls)

and even tho my best friend Brandon and I (who have been best friends now for a good 7 years or so, and match this description pretty damn closely) even tho we have pretty much all the things on that list…its diff…we didn’t grow up together…we were never sharing lunches on the playground…we dont have a childhood of pictures…and clearly it will never happen as the past is over and this fantasy includes this best friend growing up with me

now you may be wondering what is so bad about this confession?!

Well I have not made the confession yet…I think anyone who never had this kind of friendship has wanted it…

but my confession is that I always wanted this friendship and I wanted it to end dramatically somehow….either he moved away, or family went into witness protection, or he died…I had read a story in Jr high on www.nifty.org and this kid had this kind of friendship exactly…and the best friend was killed by an abusive step dad’s beating…and I remember being so jealous of this kid in the story…that he got to have that and then lose it and be sad and miss and long for his best friend….I remember feeling such an intense jealousy for his “special situation” in this story (his best friend then came back to him as a ghost to help him solve the death by finding proof to get his step dad sent to prison…and then…ok the story got a bit weird but you get the idea)

after that I found myself always loving these kinds of stories and I found so many of them, movies and books, internet stories and poetry, songs and tv shows….I was always drawn to this set of circumstances

now clearly going thru life loosing people I care about a few times thru my days and feeling that pain…I fully realize what a fucked up thing this is to wish you had…..I would never ever wish for this now….this was my “wanting glasses or crutches”

so there ya have it a fucked up piece of my childhood brain….I would love a therapist to psycho-analize that twisted little wish…

anyone wanna take a stab at what it means when a 6th/7th grader wishes for a best friend to die so he can be special in his sadness?

I guess it’s good that I never had that wish come true..cuz well..he’d be dead…and that wouldn’t be very cool at all…and like I said…Brandon and I have quite a kick ass friendship that covers pretty much most of this list…he is my wing man, my confidant, my brother I love him and hate him, it is completly platonic and I wouldn’t have it any other way….ONWARD HO!!!!!

Autosexual Kissing - Ready for Another 'First Time'?

In Tantric philosophy, the female’s upper lip is linked to her clitoris and the male’s lower lip is linked to his penis, energetically speaking.

First, practice this meditation with a partner:
Sit yab yum and breathe deeply together. As you inhale, visualize the energy rise up your spine from your genitals and move through your head. As you exhale, send the energy into your partner’s head and down their spine. Draw up with each inhalation, pull down with each exhalation.

Now for the autosexual part – Practice this meditation alone within your own body, and draw the descending force down the front of your body. The connection is then made through the tongue, which is pressed to the roof of your mouth. Energetically, this is autosexual, as the tongue symbolizes the lingam and the mouth symbolizes the yoni.

Lovemaking is an exchange of energies, and a dance of energies between you and a partner. With practice, these exercises will allow you to use your sexual energy to create the experiences of your dreams.

Monday, October 5, 2009

A Pastor's Love Triangle


He’s a pastor, she is married, and the man in the middle is a young, attractive, college baller with a girlfriend and lady friends’ with benefits.

Today, pastor Robert Reaves is facing first-degree murder of 21 yr old married female Latrease Curtis (fatal stabbing her 40 times) because the victim was an obstacle to his sexual advances and obsession with his male college basketball player roommate: Steven Randolph.

According to Steven’s testimony, the story goes like this: Pastor Reaves befriends college baller Steven and due to the college students financial challenges became pastor Reeves roommate. Later, Steven’s became pastor Reaves “assistant”/intern/mentee (Steven states assistant). The evening Steven and Latrease had sex, pastor propositioned Steven about escort service employment which lead to pastor Reeves asking to see and measure Steven’s penis. Steven’s states that while pastor sat on a couch he pulled down his pants and revealed his penis to pastor; pastor measured his penis and and physically examined his penis with his hand(s). Afterwards, pastor instructed Steven to “go clean up”. Steven refer pastor’s command was for him to clean off the “stuff” left over from sex with Latrease earlier.

After viewing Steven’s testify on Thursday, I’m convinced that Steven allowed pastor to perform oral sex, more than once, on him for financial benefit which sent pastor Reaves into an obsessed killer. If pastor takes the stand, which I doubt, I’d love to hear his side of the story.

I’ve echoed repeatedly what sex therapist know as fact: most clients’ sexual challenges stem from religion. Too often pastors will go to great length to mask and hide there sexual desire(s) because they have been taught that such acts or behavior is considered sinful or unchristian like; therefore these ministers hide, creep, and on the down low, because they are terrified of social stigma, and intrapersonally tormented. There are too many examples of anti-gay pastor hyprocrites’ to list.

Here a pastor fatally stabs a female over 40 times because she had sex with the man the pastor clearly desired or had sex with too. This story is so sad! So many ministers allow their religious conviction to halt their sexual orientation and sexual proclivities. The victim could be alive and the defendant could be at home preparing his next anti-gay sermon – only if he knew that the same God he worship deeply love those he created who love someone of the same sex.
You can view non-bias reporting at Pam’s Houseblend and Rod’s2.0

"BIG" News - 'SEX AND THE CITY' STAR CHRIS NOTH ENGAGED!

from ETOnline.com:

Actor Chris Noth — whose character Big marries Carrie Bradshaw on the ‘Sex and the City’ movie — is tying the knot in real life!

The actor broke the news to ET Canada that he is engaged to longtime girlfriend Tara Lynn Wilson.

The couple has a son, Orion Christopher Noth, who turns two in January.

Noth was seen last month filming scenes for ‘Sex and the City 2.’ He also appears in the new CBS drama “The Good Wife.”

Friday, October 2, 2009

What The Wheelhouse! is Watching: 10/2

Trailor for The Rock’s NEW movie…“THE TOOTH FAIRY”

The video Bower was talking about from Thursday’s show…We are all going to HELL in a handbasket!

This dude gets ALL the chicks!

Why do FOOTBALL teams think they are ROCK STARS?

Picture from the set of the new A-TEAM movie!

 Join Bower & “The Sweet Nasty” Chris Cause on Sunday October 4th @ 8pm ET/5pm PT for the LIVE edition of The Wheelhouse! The guys will be stripping down the weekend that WAS sports with “THE WEEKEND STRIPDOWN” by looking back at everything from the NFL Week 4, College Football and the Final Weekend of the MLB Regular Season! You can listen to the LIVE show on Sunday night HERE: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/thewheelhouse/2009/10/05/The-Wheelhouse-Episode

The difference between sex and death is that with death you can do it alone and no one is going to make fun of you.

I’ll just be brutally honest here: part of me really misses sex.

I do. I loved sex. The way I lost my virginity was awful, and I can’t say I ever had really good sex… I don’t recall a single time I orgasmed. It felt GOOD, but I never really “got there” if you catch my drift.

It was great stress relief, too.

But the rest of me overpowers this primal need for sex. The rest of me is screaming, I WILL GOUGE OUT THE EYES OF THE FIRST MAN WHO TOUCHES ME!!!

It’s so bad that I’m seriously concerned that when I go back home this weekend to observe a Taekwondo tournament at my old high school, someone will try to hug me and I’ll just punch them in the gut. Or scream. Screaming is probably more likely.

It’s not as bad with girls, but with guys it’s terrible. Especially if they’re black. Which I know sounds horribly, horribly racist, but it’s honestly not because of their race — it’s because they resemble the Organism. Does that make any sense? I hate myself for it, but it’s one of those things I just can’t seem to convince my subconscious to get over.

But oh, how I can scream. My father and I got into a huge fight just recently, over something totally idiotic. I got mad, he got mad because I was getting mad, and I got mad because he was getting mad over me getting mad… I ended up threatening to pepper spray him. At some point he reached out and grabbed my arm, and I just started screaming. “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!” over and over and over. Bloodcurdling screams.

That’s what I’m afraid will happen when I go to the tournament. I can totally see Mr. P coming up and hugging me and me just freaking the fuck out.

At the same time, though, there’s that little piece of me that keeps saying, you’re never going to get fucked again. Never. Your rape was the last sex you’ll ever have.

And that part makes me desperate to go out there and find some guy to jump on mindlessly. Fuck the brains out of him, you know? Get SOMETHING in there to think about when someone says the word “sex” other than rape.

But I know better. So I won’t.

I didn’t always know better. The way I lost my virginity was… stupid. (Then again, are losses of virginity anything but?) I’ll be totally honest here, I lost it by prostituting. Sort of.

See, the summer after my senior year, I was lonely and craving any kind of human contact. Not that that’s an excuse, but it’s all I can come up with. So I started hanging around sleazy areas, and inviting guys to come to my car where I’d give them blow jobs. Sometimes they’d give me money. Sometimes they wouldn’t. I accepted what came to me. Then a friend of mine, AF, suggested actually charging the guys for my services. And I was down with that. So I started charging the guys fifteen bucks to get off in the back of my car.

Then, one time, the guy said — I’ll never forget it — “I’ll give you double if we go all the way.” And I, being the cheap whore that I was, agreed.

So I lost my virginity for thirty dollars. I forget what I spent it on. Nothing important, obviously.

That wasn’t the last time I whored, either. The Organism and I had sex for the first time in a hotel room. I charged him eighty bucks (because I was still a cheap whore).

But THAT, the eighty dollar one, was the last time. I quit after I became scared I was pregnant/diseased. And, of course, after my psychiatrist flipped the fuck out on me.

And after that, my only experience with sex has been with the Organism. We did have consensual sex quite a few times before the rape. And it was pretty good. But… I don’t know.  I get the feeling it won’t be the same ever again, you know?

That’s my sob story when it comes to sex. You all probably think very badly of me now… but I am not ashamed. I have made mistakes, it’s true. I admit that. But I have learned. And isn’t that what counts?

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Amor libre

Título: Amor libre
Advertencias: Yaoi, Spoliers de la 5ºTemporada.
Pareja: Benjamin Linus/John Locke (Bocke), NC-17
Disclaimer: Todos los personajes de Lost pertenecen a sus creadores (Jeffrey Lieber, J.J. Abrams y Damon Lindelof) si esto sucediera yo sería la chica más feliz del mundo pero dado que no va a pasar os dejo con la ficción.

 
                                            Amor Libre

John estiró más aún el cable que tenía atado por el radiador para ver si la viga por donde lo había pasado soportaría su peso. Estaba subido a una mesa que pensaba echar hacia atrás con el tobillo cuando estuviera bien decidido. Ahora solo comprobaba que no iba a ser un suicidio fallido.

Sus pensamientos fueron interrumpidos por golpes secos a la puerta.

¿Quién coño será? pensó

Los golpes volvieron a sonar.

- ¿John? ¿John? – dijo la voz de Ben a través de ella

John miró asombrado la puerta: ¿qué cojones hace Ben aquí? Y sobretodo, ¿por qué se presenta ahora?

Sus preguntas no se hicieron de rogar y con fuerza Ben abrió la puerta. Retrocedió al ver a John en aquella situación.

- ¡John! ¿Qué haces? – exclamó Ben cerrando con rapidez la puerta

John se puso en el filo de la mesa decidido a inclinarse y acabar con su vida.

- ¡John! ¡John! Espera, para. – exclamó Ben

- ¿Cómo…? ¿Cómo me has encontrado…? – murmuró Locke

- Tenía a un hombre vigilando a Sayid. Los vigilo a todos. Para mantenerlos a salvo. Cuando apareciste: me llamó. – dijo Ben

- ¿Qué…? ¿Quién…? ¿Qué haces aquí? – dijo furioso

- John, cálmate.

- ¿Qué quieres de mí?

- Por favor déjame ayudart…

- ¡Contesta a mi pregunta! – gritó John lanzándole una muleta

- Solo intento protegerte. – dijo Ben retrocediendo para no recibir un impacto

- ¿Protegerme? – murmuró John, movió un poco la cabeza aturdido – ¡Tú le disparaste! Tú mataste a Avalon. – adivinó

- Sí. – asintió Ben – Sí. Lo hice. – aseguró – Pero tarde o temprano el te habría matado. – advirtió – Quería hablar contigo, pero te estrellaste.

- ¿Por qué…? ¿Por qué no…? – empezó Locke

- ¡Trabajaba para Charles Whitmore! Es muy peligroso.

- ¡NO! – gritó Locke – Withmore fue a por mí, me salvó. – aseguró

- No John. – contradijo Ben – Te utilizó. Esperó hasta que apareciste para que lo ayudaras a llegar a la isla. Charles Withmore es el motivo por el que moví la isla. – intentó explicarse – Para que nunca volviera a encontrarla, para mantenerle lejos y pudieses ser el líder. – Ben se fue acercando a él con cuidado, John se puso recto y se acarició la soga que estaba alrededor de su cuello – No puedes hacerlo. Si algo llegara a pasarte. John… No tienes ni idea de lo importantes que eres… – susurró

John movió la mano indicando que se callara, cerró los ojos.

- Déjame ayudarte. – pidió Ben

John apretó los ojos al igual que apretó los labios para evitar las lágrimas.

- Nadie puede ayudarme… Soy… Soy un fracasado. – murmuró abatido y al borde de las lágrimas

- No John, no lo eres. – dijo Ben

- ¡Lo soy Ben! – exclamó John – No convencí a ninguno. No logré convencer a ninguno para que volviera conmigo. ¡No puedo liderar a nadie! – exclamó

- Jack a comprado un billete. – informó Ben

- ¿Qué…?

- Un billete de avión. De Los Ángeles a Sydney esta noche, con vuelta a primera hora de la mañana. Lo que quieras que le dijeras funcionó… – dijo acercándose a él – Y si convenciste a Jack convencerás a los demás

John miró el suelo que quedaba lejos debajo de sus pies.

- John… – susurró Ben que se agachó para desatar el cable que Locke había atado al radiador – No puedes morir. – le dijo – Tienes aún demasiadas cosas que hacer. Debo de llevarte a la isla para que puedas hacerlas

John tragó saliva y vio como Ben iba terminando de desatar el cable.

- Por favor John…  Ven… – pidió extendiéndole la mano – Baja de ahí… – dijo agarrándole la mano izquierda

Locke bajó la vista soltando débiles lágrimas, pensaba que no tenía valor ni para suicidarse. Ben lo agarró también del brazo y lo ayudó a bajarse de la mesa. Locke se pasó las manos por la cara, ocultándosela sin querer que Ben viera el fracaso marcado en el ella y en las lágrimas que caían por el rostro.

- Sé que podemos hacerlo John. Ni siquiera has hablado aún con Sun… Empecemos por ella

Locke hizo un ruidito con la garganta dándole a entender que estaba de acuerdo.

- Gracias… – murmuró

- No hay de qué. – sonrió Ben

John se dejó ayudar por Ben a bajar de la mesa y a que lo condujera hasta el borde de la cama donde se sentó y sin querer arrastró a Ben para que se quedara sentado a su lado. Ben aún lo tenía cogido de la mano y el antebrazo, debía de soltarlo pero algo se lo había impedido. Lo tranquilizador que le resultaba ese tacto se lo impedía.

Locke, por su parte, no podía tranquilizarse mucho. Se apretaba el labio inferior con el superior para evitar gimotear, aguantando así que las lágrimas le cayeran. No quería, simplemente no iba a llorar por eso. Miró su brazo izquierdo, sonrió al ver que las manos de Ben seguían rodeándolo con gesto tranquilizador. Y fue cuando hizo una locura.

Sí. Otra más.

- Oye… – llamó Locke a Ben viendo que este tenía la vista perdida por el suelo sumido en sus pensamientos

- ¿Uhms? – mustió Ben dirigiendo la vista a John

John agarró la mano de Ben que tenía sobre su brazo izquierdo con su mano derecha, se inclinó y pegó sus labios a Linus. Este apretó los labios sin querer corresponder al beso, sin querer saber si los labios de John estaban salados o dulces… Sin saber si podría ser aún más correspondido si los entreabriera y siguiera. Al poco, y viendo la nula respuesta de Ben, John se separó.

- John… – empezó Ben mirándole

El nombrado apoyó la cabeza en el pecho de Ben con la necesidad de ser aceptado.

- No quiero fracasar en esto también… – murmuró John

Ben le acarició con la mano que tenía libre la cabeza. No quería verlo así. Pero como él en ese momento también estaba confuso: le daría lo que necesitaba.

- No tienes porqué fracasar. – le dijo Ben

John levantó la cabeza, lo miró confundido sin entender lo que había dicho, pero en realidad tenía algo de esperanza. Ben sonrió y esta vez fue él quien comenzó un beso que John mantuvo entreabriendo sus labios para que pudiera echar una lucha de lenguas.

John se inclinó hacia delante buscando más pasión que Ben le ofreció correspondiéndole de la misma manera, le soltó por fin del brazo y le fue acariciando el cuello mientras que abandonaba los labios para pasarlos por la mandíbula. John suspiró. Acariciaba la cabeza de Ben manteniendo los ojos cerrados, concentrado solo en el placer que sentía y que iban a sentir en breve.

Locke se tumbó sobre la cama, separando una pierna de otra para que la derecha no le doliera tanto. Ben se puso a horcajadas sobre él y siguió besándole. Cerraba los ojos dejando que sus labios viajaran por libre por el rostro y cuello de John al igual que sus manos que lo hicieron por el torso. Quitándole la camiseta, acariciando cada extensión de piel morena que salía al sol.

Locke no se iba a quedar quieto. Sus manos vagaban por Ben desnudándole con una velocidad y facilidad casi ensayada. Este soltó una risita cuando Locke le acarició las costillas.

- Tengo cosquillas ahí. – reconoció sonriendo

Locke sonrió y continuó los besos mientras, por fin, le desabrochaba el pantalón. Deseaba ver aquello y poder llevar a su amigo al mismo cielo.

Cambiaron las posiciones y ahora era Ben quien estaba entre las piernas de Locke, este para que su pierna rota no se resintiera estaba sentado sobre los muslos de Ben con dicha pierna estirada. Le hubiera gustado buscar una posición mucho más cómoda pero sabía que no la iba a encontrar.

Los pantalones de Ben desaparecieron y quedaron en un rincón de la habitación, al poco los bóxers oscuros de Ben también siguieron al montón de ropa. Subió las caderas un poco y emitió un suspiro de placer.

- John… – dijo en un murmullo

Locke sonrió apoyó el brazo izquierdo al lado de la cabeza de Ben y empezó a besarle. La derecha, con contada experiencia comenzó a masturbarle. Ben arqueó la espalda hacia delante.

- Ahm… Dios. – gimió

Locke rió al oído de Ben he hizo que se le erizaran los pelos de la nuca. No separó el beso y aumentó el ritmo que tenía en la mano derecha. Su erección se apretaba contra su pantalón y presionaba el muslo de Ben. Este la acarició con una mano sonriente. Necesitaba llegar a más.

“Suerte que siempre llevo condones…” pensó

- John, John. – pidió Ben entre besos – Por favor para. – pidió

John paró en seco.

- No me digas que no ahora… – pidió Locke con súplica

- No es eso. – murmuró Ben.

Se levantó y cogió sus pantalones.

- Quítate los pantalones. – pidió

John le hizo caso. Se quitó la prótesis que tenía para mantener la pierna recta y se quitó los pantalones seguido de los calzoncillos. Le intrigaba lo que iba ha hacer Ben. Este volvió pronto a la cama. Se puso de rodillas ante John y se agachó un poco.

Estimuló un poco más el miembro de este pasando la lengua por el glande y bajándola por el tronco. El tamaño del miembro de John aumentó, al igual que el color rojo de la punta, que se intensificó más. John se agarró al colchón y fijó su vista al techo. Se tornó brilloso. Enmarcó una sonrisa en el rostro, pasándose la lengua por el labio inferior y superior evitando que los gemidos que quería expresar se escaparan de sus labios.

Ben puso su cabeza a la altura de la de Locke y le besó. Se separó un poco y rasgó con los dientes el envoltorio del preservativo.

- Que precavido… – murmuró John mirando como lo sacaba

- Siempre guardé esperanzas en encontrarme aquí a Juliet y acostarme con ella… – contó Benjamin mientras le ponía el condón a Locke

- Yo no soy Juliet… – aclaró John riendo

Ben alzó la cabeza y miró la de John, rió al ver que este no tenía pelo.

- Tu melena rubia y esto que tienes aquí. – dijo acariciándole el pene – Me lo confirmó definitivamente. – bromeó

John rió para ocultar el gemido que se escapaba por sus labios. Ben se dio la vuelta. Se puso de rodillas en la cama pero apoyándolas contra su pecho para estar algo más cómodo para John.

- Eh… Nunca he hecho esto. – admitió John apoyándose con la rodilla buena y acarició la espalda de Ben.

- Yo tampoco. – aseguró el susodicho – Pero ten cuidado, ¿sí?

- Contigo todo el cuidado del mundo Ben… – murmuró besándole el cuello

Ben agachó la cabeza apoyándola contra la almohada. Se abrazó a ella. Locke puso todo el peso sobre su pierna izquierda. Apoyó la mano izquierda en el hombro de Ben para no caerse, cogió con la derecha su miembro y lo dejó a la entrada. De un movimiento metió la mitad.

- Bfff… Dios. – se quejó Ben inclinándose hacia delante

Locke no dijo nada, le dio un beso en el cuello, retrocedió las caderas y volvió a dar una embestida esta vez introduciéndose más. Linus volvió a quejarse aunque ya menos. Locke siguió con las embestidas. Finalmente se introdujo totalmente y tocó la próstata de Ben arrancando de este un gemido.

- Más. Más. – pidió Ben llegando por fin al placer

Locke rió. Apoyó la mano derecha en el hombro de Ben y comenzó a moverse con más rapidez. Ben no ocultaba sus gemidos de placer así que Locke le imitó y tampoco se cortó. Sus gemidos roncos se mezclaron con los agudos de Ben haciendo una melodía extraña. Vagó una mano por la barriga de Ben, la bajó hasta su miembro. Estaba extremadamente duro y caliente. Locke comenzó a moverlo rapidez al mismo ritmo que las embestidas.

No tardaron mucho en llegar al climax y con ello se corrieron. Locke cayó agotado sobre Ben, que soltó una risita.

- Lo ves como tienes dotes de líder. – rió

John sonrió. Se salió de Ben y se tumbó de costado. Se sacó el preservativo, le hizo un nudo y lo dejó en el suelo, entre el espacio que había entre la pata de la cama y la mesita de noche. Estuvieron un tiempo en silencio, escuchando como se relajaba la respiración del otro. Locke se giró y le dio un beso a Ben.

- Te quiero. – le dijo sonriendo

- Yo también John. – dijo Ben, aprovechando de que no lo veía se agachó un poco y tiró del cable que había intentado usar John para suicidarse hasta llevarlo hasta sus manos. – Yo también… – repitió

Enroscó el cable alrededor del cuello de John y lo estiró. J

John luchó por su vida de manera inútil. Ben lo había pillado desprevenido y apenas tenía muchas fuerzas así que acabó desmayándose y al poco, muriendo.

- Eres muy manipulable John. – dijo Ben apartando el cable cuando vio que Locke ya no respiraba.

A veces el mismo se asustaba de eso. Era capaz de manipular a alguien a pesar de haberle traicionado, intentado matar, engañado… Y luego, a pesar de volver a traicionarle (o en este caso de acabar con su vida) no sentirse culpable.

“Además. John confía demasiado en cualquiera.” Pensó Ben

Vistió a John con la ropa que llevaba, le colocó lo de la pierna y con el cable lo colgó a la viga de la que pretendía colgarse el mismo Locke cuando él entró en esa habitación. Se vistió y se puso los guantes de cuero que llevaba. Limpió toda la escena esparciendo agua con un spray y luego pasando el trapo. Quitó las sábanas y las cambió por unas idénticas que había en el armario de la habitación.

Las sábanas se las guardó en su bolsa. Apagó la luz.

- Adiós John. – le dijo al cadáver y se fue

“Al menos he pasado un buen rato.” Aseguró mientras abandonaba el motel donde John había decido pasar su última noche.

Todo tiene sentido, incluso la muerte, después de este amor vivido.
                                                                             (Nash, Amor Libre)