My Stepmother The Whore.

My Stepmother The Whore.

These days in porn Pseudo incest is a trending topic. 

Audiences seem to really get off on the notion of a stepfather taking advantage of his new stepdaughter, or stepsiblings succumbing to their hormonal desires.  So long as the “step” pre-fix is made painfully clear just about anything is fair game.  Sometimes it is silly and light-hearted and sometimes it can hit a little to close to home and teeter on the bounds of uneasiness. 

I can certainly see the allure in this topic; it’s the taboo nature of the whole thing that turns people one. It’s sexy to be bad. 

Speaking of bad, allow me to walk you through the play by play of a scene.  We’ll call it, a day in the life of an Evil Stepson.   

I Recently I shot a scene for the company “Evil Empire.”  This was a first for me.  I knew about Evil Empire long before I dove into porn.  Their content is simply the dirtiest and raunchiest material around.  In my opinion Evil Empire is synonymous with wholesome and quality smut.  So, needless to say I wanted to make a good first impression. 

I performed under the direction of “Darla Vendetta”.  Darla is one of the most powerful and most influential female entities in porn today, and that’s not speculation, its documented, it’s a fact.  Darla is a performer turned director turned producer. 

Her and I met about two years ago on a set where she played the attractive and promiscuous best friend to my character’s dear mother.  Naturally one thing lead to another and Darla succumbed to her lustful urges.  She took advantage of her best friend’s sweet and naïve son, that is, me. 

This time around Darla played maestro and acted as the puppeteer to my meat-marionette.

My co-star was a miss “Nina Knives.”  Nina is a tall, caramel toned, leggy blonde with big fate tits, luscious lips, long gaudy nails, and a head full of extensions.  In other words, she’s a whore. 

The plot: I possess a sick and depraved fascination with my step mother the whore. 

I lurk from a distance and hungrily watch her sunbathe by the pool.  I sneak up behind her and caress her shoulders, taking a big savoring whiff of her hair and perfume.  These small occurrences compound and eventually culminate in me surprising my step mom in the shower and joining her while I am fully clothed in the uniform for my presumably overpriced private school.  Before she has a moment to question my motives I grab her by the hair, forcefully press our bodies together and stick my probing tongue into her mouth and down her throat.  I grope her tight body and worship her voluptuous tits.  Soon she relents and allows her body to relax and give in to temptation.

She has wanted this almost as bad as I have. 

Fully clothed and drenched in the shower I eat out my stepmother’s pussy and asshole from behind.  I stand up, whip out my cock and make her gag on it while the hot water beats down upon her face, causing her whore makeup to run in a gloriously gothic fashion.  I then bend her over and fuck her doggy style.  Soon I lead her out of the shower, strip whatever remaining clothes I still have on, and we continue materializing our pseudo-incestuous lust on the tile floor in front of the deep spa tub and the flaming wood burning stove. 

She gets on her knees and sucks me off as she rubs her clits, then I spin her around and fuck her in an up-and-over doggy style position.  Then I toss her on her back and eat her cunt before fucking her in missionary.  She then blows me and I straddle her and fuck her big fake tits.  Next she bounces up and down on my throbbing cock in reverse cowgirl, and then I haul her onto her side and fuck her in spoon before pulling out and spraying a massive load of creamy white pearls all over her whore face.  We then exchange some witty banter about this tryst being our dirty little secret and that my father must never ever find out.  Cut. Print. 

We cleaned up, we got paid, and we drove away. 

We both return to our respective lives never to see each other again, or maybe we will, who knows.  Porn is a very tight-knit community, after all.  Everybody is having sex with everybody just like one big happy twisted fucking family.  

Banana Milkshakes.

Banana Milkshakes

I shoot a scene for the company No Acceptance.  I am paired with newcomer, Kimberly Taylor.  Kimberly is a cute little bubblegum blonde who apparently holds degrees in both business management and physical therapy. She fucks like a champ. I would assert we had ourselves a very satisfying afternoon.  Shortly Thereafter Kimberly and I begin hooking up privately. 

Besides her bubbly personality Kimberly also comes complete with obedient, subservient tendencies due to her being, “raised by a man,” as she boasts. The only thing that sets her apart from a teeny-bopping daddy’s-girl is her vast array of tattoos. She has an entire sleeve up her right arm, which connects to a leopard tattoo at her collarbone and then continues down her breast and her ribcage, turning into flowers as it reaches her pelvis. She says she accomplished this feat in only two sittings at 8-10 hours per.  That’s a lot of pain to experience all at once. She must have a high tolerance.

During sex I slap her face, as I tend to do with most girls I fuck privately. Naturally she loves it. We finish in spoon and I pull out to shoot cum all over her abdomen and her tits, to which she replies something in the vain of, you should have let me finish you in my mouth. God, I love that attitude.  She also tells me that was her first time being slapped during sex; I kind of find that hard to believe.

Kimberly recounts a funny story regarding a scene she shot earlier in the week.  She participated in a double blowjob with her good friend and fellow porno starlet, Cali Cumz.  Apparently the scene focused on puke, so Kimberly and Cali both chug big banana milkshakes moments before the scene begins. Then they force one another to puke said banana milkshakes all over the guy’s dick and then they slurp it up and spit it into each other’s mouths like absolute gutter trash.

This girl definitely has some darkness in her.  She is not nearly as innocent as she appears…

The Stranger.

The Stranger.

Johnny and I are standing in line for the bar at The Surly Goat praying the sexy brunette bartender in the daisy dukes notices us. 

Suddenly a hand grabs my shoulder.  Delirious, I turn around and I see a girl, a normal, average, run of the mill girl.  I have never seen this girl before but I already know she is nothing special. 

Without warning she presses her face against mine and starts kissing me.  I reluctantly reciprocate.  There is no passion between us.  Her lips are dry.  No Tongue is utilized.  Between smacks I utter,

    “I.”

Smooch.

    “Don’t.”

Smooch.

    “Know.”

Smooch.

    “You.”

She quickly pulls away and disappears back into the crowd.  I turn back to Johnny and mumble, “That was weird.”

* * *

Why did she do that?  I cannot rack my brain around it.  Why did this random individual grab me and start kissing me?  Did she mistake me for someone else?  Did she recognize me?  Maybe I didn’t recognize her?  Was it a dare?  It was a girl, right?  Admittedly I was approaching blackout status, so anything is possible.  I guess stranger things have happened. 

I wonder if she remembers what she did.  I wonder is she is now chatting with her friends, incredulous by her brazen behavior…

She wanted him and with confidence she glided toward the most beautiful man she had ever seen.  Their lips locked and she was overcome with emotion, her body was pulsating with energy.  She could not believe what she had just done.  She pulled away in amazement, longing to share a look at the man she so tenaciously claimed, but he was disinterested.  He quickly turned back to his friend; oblivious to the amount of courage it took this poor girl.  And so, on this night her heart was broken…  

Or maybe it was a sick and twisted game; a bet to find the most pathetic and ugly guy at the bar and kiss him in public.  Probably make the little guy’s night; shit, probably make his entire week.  He’ll probably waste time retelling the stupid story of how some girl made out with him at the bar, exaggerating and glorifying the story with each passing telling.  Soon the normal girl becomes a butterscotch blonde and the kiss evolves into a public finger blasting. 

The dream of the dweebs: go to a bar and be an anti-social, loser, curmudgeon, misfit, but still get the hot babe at the end of the night. 

And yet another possibility is that she doesn’t even remember; an act so insignificant in the grand scheme of life that it probably is best to just forget the whole thing. 

Still, I dwell on the mundane and the asinine.  The wackness of life.  All of my concerns are petty and selfish.  I swear I have good intentions.  The inadvertent narcissist.  But, hey, I made out with a random chick at one of my favorite bars, so all things considered, it was a pretty good night.

The Double Header.

The Double Header.

Monroe and I have never officially “worked” together but we’ve passed by one another in the hallways, so to speak, and we have shared short dialogue on set, so one could say we are acquaintances. I think she is beyond sexy; Her tight little body is alluring and her teeny-bopper bubblegum demeanour drives me absolutely crazy.  I have been dying to fuck her ever since the first day we met…and she knows this fact all too well. 

Monroe asks if I would like to be her stunt cock for an amateur POV boy/girl scene she has been contracted to shoot for a private client and like the eager little scat monkey that I am I jump at the opportunity.  The weekend approaches and she asks me to come to her apartment on Saturday so we may shoot our content. 

This weekend just happens to be the weekend of July 4th, so naturally we both celebrate by getting shit-faced respectively.  I attend a banging house party in Westwood complete with a large swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and a slip-n-slide, which, is only utilized by my band of flying monkeys and myself.  Typical.

At this party I notice many of the other attendees are shooting videos and taking photos as my friends and I make the pool and the slip-n-slide our bitch.  In these moments I realize my jolly band of pirates and I are not the types to live on the wall or hide behind our designer clothes to protect our “image” when surrounded by strangers.  No, we express ourselves, assert our dominance, and reign over the meek.  We relish the challenge and we live for experience.  We are transparent.  We live by the motto, if we ain’t writing something worth reading we better be doing something worth writing.  That was Friday night.

Come Saturday morning Monroe texts me and tells me, “When my hangover is gone you can come over.”  No big deal, I guess.  So, I wait.  Hours pass and I text Monroe to see what time it’s looking like but to no avail, she doesn’t respond.  Whatever. 

It’s soon 5pm and I decide there is no sense in waiting on her anymore so I make other plans.  I text my friend Becky Bolt and see what she is up to tonight.  Becky is of perfect stature, she has dirty blonde hair and her skin is caramel in color.  She has a tongue ring.  Like myself she is a twenty-something transplant to Los Angeles.  She is originally from North Carolina and like most southern belles she has a tremendous sexual appetite and enjoys playing a subservient slut. 

Becky and I previously met on a “Mile Long” set where we had ourselves a rather enjoyable afternoon fucking on camera under the hot California sun, and then a few short nights later we rendezvous at a house party and share a beautiful moment where we pass a cigar and Hemmingway a bottle of wine as we flirt and commiserate and gaze toward the bright lights of the night sky. 

Becky responds to my text and She begins telling me how much pent up aggression she currently possesses and how badly she needs to have the brat dominated out of her.  I tell her I can be of service and we make plans to spend the evening with one-another. 

7pm and I am eating dinner with my gang at our local Lemonade.  I am eating a side of Orecchiette with mozzarella and grape tomatoes, a side of Israeli Couscous, a side of white truffle Mac-N-Cheese, and to drink I have a watermelon and rosemary lemonade.  Pretty standard LA fare.

7:15pm and I receive a text from Monroe, which reads, “How’s 8 looking?”  Ah, I get it; I really was supposed to be waiting around all day for this chick, as if I don’t have anything better to do.  Actually, I don’t.  I have been drooling over this girl for months, and I spent the better half of today edging myself to guarantee a volcanic eruption of cum in which for her to later bathe.

That being said, I have just now made new arrangements with Becky.  My options here are binary, either I choose to spend time with one lucky lady and ultimately ditch the unfortunate loser, or attempt one of the greatest dating feats known to mankind: The Double Header. 

The plan is simple.  I am going to finish my meal, drive into the valley, dick and dash Monroe, drive into North-Hollywood, pick up Becky, bring her to my house, and violate her in the confines of my bedroom... 

* * *

I drive all the way into Woodland Hills where I meet Monroe at her apartment.  We exchange pleasantries and I play with her dogs for a moment.  I excuse myself and take a piss. I notice she has an unusually large collection of rubber duckies placed around the perimeter of her bathtub.  Strange fetish, I suppose. Upon my return she offers me a bottle of water and invites me upstairs to her bedroom. 

I ask her how exactly she would like to shoot this content and she slips off her sweatpants, picks up her I-Phone and tells me her client wants the video to start with her getting her ass eating out while being pressed up against the wall, so she assumes the position and I drop to my knees and worship her like a hungry dog.

I then stand up, put her onto her knees, unsheathe my sword and she slobbers all over my cock, passing the camera off to me to shoot the blowjob from my perspective.

I then press her back up against the wall and fuck her doggy-style.  After my cock is drenched she drops down to her knees and politely cleans off her pussy juices. 

I then throw her onto her back and pound her on the floor in missionary, passing the camera back and forth in the process. 

After a couple short minutes she crawls away and up to her bed where I join her and gag her with my cock once more before turning her around and maneuvering her ass to the edge of the bed, lowering her pussy and matching it to the height of my pulsating cock.  We fuck again in doggy-style and then I climb onto the bed, put Monroe onto her side, match our bodies together, and fuck her in spoon before she begs me to pull out and spray a load all over her stomach and tits, which she receives in spades due in part to my afternoon regimen. 

She cuts the camera.  We clean up and talk for a minute.  She tells me she is from Detroit and has been living in LA and working in porn for four years.   She promises to treat me to dinner sometime for taking the time out of my busy schedule to come over and fuck her.  We exchange goodbyes and she shows me the door…

 * * *

I jump in my car and race into No-Ho to pick up Becky who has been killing time drinking in a local bar neighboring her apartment complex.  I arrive outside “The Federal,” call Becky, and have her meet me in the adjacent alleyway.  She emerges and while walking towards me I take note of how especially sexy she looks tonight.  She is wearing diamond-studded high-heels, a shimmering and skintight pair of black elastic hot pants, and a black lace crop-top.  We drive back to my house and as per usual Becky does most of the talking.  She is a girl who really loves hearing the sound of her own voice.

We arrive at my apartment and quickly relegate ourselves to my bedroom where we sit on my patio and I watch her smoke a cigarette.  I feign interest as she incessantly babbles about the woes of being her.  We return back to my bedroom and lie on my bed as she continues on about how much she hates it when guys have wood troubles on set and how much she dislikes performing anal sex and how much food she hasn’t eaten all week and how confused she is by her ex-boyfriend and how one minute they are in love and the next they hate each others guts.  This sounds all too familiar and I don’t want to hear it anymore. 

I remember why she is here.  She came to get this annoying attitude of hers fucked right out of her bratty little holes.  I tell her these conversations are irritating me and I want her to stop.  Immediately after, I roll her onto her stomach; straddle her back, and being caressing her from behind, tugging at her hair and cupping her throat.  I slap her on the back between her shoulder blades and she lets out a sigh of relief.  She finds comfort in the pain.  In the pain all of her worries disappear and she forgets the pretty troubles of life.  In the pain she feels alive. 

I wrap my hand around her throat and begin choking her as I bend her back toward me ultimately resting her forehead on my lips so I may stare into her eyes as I squeeze the life out of her.  I let go of her throat and before she can catch her breath I slap her across the face – shocking her senses.  She gasps and pants and I grab the lot of her hair and pull her face back towards me, this time matching her lips to mine and we kiss and suck face and slobber all over one another like sick and rabid animals. 

I then drag her to the floor and make her kneel in front of my full-length closet mirror.  I pull out my cock and grip her hair – keeping her hungry mouth out of reach from my visibly throbbing cock.  I jerk it a few times before I thrust it into her open mouth and face fuck her as I force her to watch her slutty actions in the reflection. 

I bend her over my bed and fuck her sopping pussy doggy-style as I stick both of my hands inside her mouth and fishhook her, pulling all of her weight onto my fuck sword. 

I lie on the floor and she rides me in cowgirl.  Then we move back to the bed and continue fucking while transitioning through a plethora of different missionary positions. 

Nearing critical mass I drag her back to the mirror and jerk myself to a colossal load which I spew all over it.  I keep her head just out of reach until I am completely drained, then I smear her face all over the dripping spunk and force her to lick the glass clean. 

Afterward, we recollect and go downstairs to smoke a bowl and watch Minority Report.  Later, we return upstairs and sleep  peacefully in the arms of one another. 

 * * *

Tonight I had a goal.  I set out to achieve it and I emerged victorious. I drove directly from one apartment to the other.  I didn’t change my clothes, I didn’t brush my teeth, I didn’t shower, and I didn’t even mouthwash.  On this night I pulled a beautiful double-header and am now officially a gross piece of shit.  

On The Road

On The Road.

I accompany my friend Bernie on his daily five-mile morning bike ride from little Armenia to the Grove for work.  En route we stop at a red light at the intersection of June and Melrose.  A man is standing on the sidewalk with his little daughter in his arms.  He calls out, “Hey, can you please help us?  My daughter dropped her ball in the street.”  He points to the median and we turn around to spot a small plush Dodgers baseball resting on the double yellow lines adjacent to a growing line of cars.  The opposing cross-light counter is dwindling indicating an imminent change of light so we act without thinking.  The light becomes green; I toss my bike over my shoulder and run to the middle of the road, grab the plush baseball and run to the sidewalk before an onslaught of cars pass. 

The man and is standing on the opposite side of the street from us so we patiently wait for the lights to yet again switch before we cross and return the ball, at which point the man cheerfully declares, “Look baby girl, he found your ball, God sent you an angel to return your ball.”  He expresses his gratitude once again before the light changes and we continue biking, leaving behind the thankful man and the little girl with her plush Dodgers baseball.   

Bernie heads into work and I continue biking to a local Jewish diner where I sit alone at the bar and order Corned beef hash and a side of fruit and cottage cheese. 

While Sipping coffee I reflect; the man actually referred to me as an angel.  In my lifetime only my mother has ever called me an angel and even then it was only during my young and pure adolescence.  Sure, this experience may in fact be trivial in the grand scheme of life, but I realize this event would have never occurred had I slept in an extra thirty minutes or had my supposed scene today not been cancelled.  I don’t know if I necessarily believe in fate but I most certainly believe that things tend to happen for a reason.  Today I did a good deed, I put forth positive energy into the world, and I made a child smile.  I was rewarded with a divine compliment and a new story to tell, not to mention it’s a Sunday, so that has to account for something, right? 

Later, My friend Hank invites me to accompany him on an extended bike ride along the coast of Huntington Beach and up toward Marina Del Ray. 

We plan to begin our journey Monday morning at 10am but have to make adjustments due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts, that is, I meet a new friend and this wonderful young lady is kind enough to spend the evening and sleepover.  In the morning I have to drive her home, well, back to her respective model house in the armpit of the valley, but for all intents and purposes, home.  This leads to Hank and I getting a slow start to the day and we end up leaving towards the shores at 1pm. 

We alter our plan accordingly.  I bike to his apartment in Hollywood but forget to pack my lights; together we bike back to my apartment and while there I realize I have some uneaten edibles so we both eat 10mg chocolate cookies.  Then we begin our sixteen-mile back-road trek using Bernie’s exact route to bring us through West Hollywood and further to the Santa Monica Pier all in mid-day traffic.  Needless to say we have our work cut out for us. 

Upon reaching the sand we ride leisurely along the bike path taking in the near setting sun before getting a table at a respectable restaurant where we can have an indulgent meal.  We settle on Barney’s Beanery in the promenade so we can have a couple beers and watch the first quarter of the Eagles game while eating Reuben sandwiches and Mac N’ Cheese bites. 

After, we are homeward bound.  We decide to alter the route back in favor of a more direct approach.  Biking Wilshire is akin to riding alongside the shoulder of a gridlocked highway; we are weaving in and out of four lanes of standstill traffic.  We turn left onto Veteran and it then I discover my headlight has burned out; meanwhile Veteran turns out to be a three-mile long pothole ridden hill cast in complete darkness. 

We turn right on Sunset.  West of Beverly Hills Sunset Boulevard becomes a Hot Wheels racetrack.  We fight and pedal like beasts up and down winding roads and unrelenting inclines.  I can’t even see twenty feet in front of my face but I continue wrapping around the bends. 

Ten miles later and we find ourselves in the heart of the design district of West Hollywood with flooding memories of the previous year. 

Five miles to go and the rest is a cakewalk; I bike this neighborhood on an almost daily basis, in fact this is Bernie’s work route, from here on in the remainder of the journey is mere muscle memory. 

East on Beverly then north on Fairfax then east on Oakwood then north on Orange then east on Rosewood then north on June then east on Melrose then South on Wilcox then heading east on Clinton we come to an intersection where the adjacent street has a stop-sign but Clinton does not.  I am leading and as I pass through the intersection so does an oncoming van without turn signals.  In a split second I saw the blinding headlights turn into me and I heard Hank scream, “Yo!”  The van and I simultaneously slam our brakes – theirs creates an ear-piercing screech and mine sends my bike into a nose wheelie.  Then we kiss.  My front tire gingerly bounces against the van’s front bumper in a gloriously anti-climatic fashion.  Recollect, Deep breath, crisis averted.  The driver and I lock eyes – he is pleading, “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” In complete shock stare at him and utter, “You are so fucking lucky.”  Then we part ways.  The van disappears into the night and we continue biking; traffic resumes, business as usual.  Shortly thereafter Hank and I say our goodbyes and go our separate ways.  

I return home and recollect. I honestly can’t believe I survived tonight.  Head on collision aside, the second half of this trip was not meant to be biked, we were not supposed to be on these roads in the dark.  We should have quit and we should have submitted, but we didn’t, we kept pushing forward until there was no other option but to succeed and we preserved through it like men. 

I like to think on this night I looked death right in the face and with a shit-eating grin I commanded, “Suck my dick.”

Or maybe that’s just my arrogance, my human condition, and my hubris talking.  Maybe I am the one who is really fucking lucky and somebody was out there tonight watching over me, for whatever reason I can't even begin to imagine but you just never know...stranger things have happened.  

Jon Favreau Comes to Weho.

Jon Favreau Comes to Weho.

I am sitting stoned on my wooden fold out picnic table on the upstairs patio one afternoon reading, “Less Than Zero,” listening to Circa Survive radio on Spotify and observing the few pedestrians who walk past on the road beneath me. 

I watch an immaculate 1950’s white convertible Thunderbird pull up and idle in front of the apartment complex adjacent to my own.  From where I am sitting I have a near perfect view of the back half of the car. 

Driving is a man wearing a fitted white t-shirt, black wristwatch, and dark sunglasses – I can’t determine the respective brands but given the car he is driving I assume they aren’t cheap.  I notice the man clenching his jaw incessantly like he’s nervously chewing a big wad of gum; he can’t seem to sit still and he keeps checking his presumably expensive watch and his rear-view mirror.  He must be tense. 

I observe his passenger; a caramel skinned female with long curly brown hair also sporting dark sunglasses and a white top – I see spaghetti straps and I imagine her to be wearing a form fitting white sundress but, alas, I can’t see that far to confirm.  I can’t quite make out the details of her face but once again, given the quality of the car, I gather she is expensive as well. 

I return my gaze to the driver and observe his face or at least what details of it I can make.  I surmise he looks an awful lot like Corbin Bernsen, no, Jon Favreau.  I notice the Thunderbird’s license plate reads, “New York.”  I realize Jon Favreau is a New York Native now living in Los Angeles as one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, furthermore I am currently living in a rather affluent part of West Hollywood on the cusp of Beverly Hills; its not entirely improbable to imagine Jon Favreau driving through this neighborhood to perhaps drop off his “girlfriend,” or pick up a new friend, or meet a friend, or do just about anything.  The point is that it could happen and I think it is happening right here before my very eyes so I remain tuned in.  From my perched and elevated recon position I act as the hawk and watch them with strong intent. 

I see Jon Favreau’s mistress equip her cell phone, answer an incoming call, and exchange a short and unintelligible dialogue before promptly hanging up while simultaneously another car, a non-descript, nothing special, pseudo gold but more of a spicy brown mustard colored SUV, pull up and park maybe twenty feet behind the thunderbird.  Out of the mustard mobile walks an average white guy, mid-late thirties, pasty skin, slightly overweight, sporting presumably cheap sunglasses, a faded blue t-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.  The average white guy walks to Jon Favreau’s mistress’s side of the immaculate thunderbird and without making eye contact with one another they share a very simple exchange of greetings where I notice the average white guy reaching his hand into the car and along the interior side of the passenger door.  He quickly retracts his hand and without any exchange of goodbyes he walks back to his nothing-special mustard car and drives away.  Then Jon Favreau and his mistress peel out like outlaws and the Thunderbird effectively disappears from view.        

I excitedly run downstairs, wake up my roommate Johnny who is napping on the couch, and exclaim, “I just witnessed a drug deal!”  I recount the entire occurrence with great detail, highlighting the beauty of the immaculate Thunderbird, the driver’s uncanny likeness to Jon Favreau, and how this drug deal, while occurring on a backstreet of a rather prosperous neighborhood where every other car is a BMW and the average female resident is a certifiable dime piece, is the most blatant and stereotypical drug deal I could have ever witnessed. 

I then toast myself a bagel, slather it in cream cheese, take a big rip of weed from my steamroller, and return upstairs to my wooden fold out picnic table on the patio where I dive back into the dejected and disaffected lives of young Angelinos in Bret Easton Ellis’, “Less Than Zero.”

One Night Stand.

One Night Stand.

I attended a house party hosted by my friend’s friend; her name was Alexa.  

Alexa and I hit if off almost immediately.  In fact, less than five minutes after shaking hands with her, she took me into her bedroom to show me her proud but admittedly minimal dildo collection. 

One drink later, she was lamenting her disappointment the previous morning where she woke up a lover (one of many?) with a blowjob only to find him rather ungrateful and turned off by the notion.  She said he wasn’t “too happy” about it, whatever that meant.  Curious.  Perhaps she just wasn’t too apt in the oral department?   

Around 12:30 the party cleared out to continue drinking at a local sports bar.  My pals Johnny, Budd, and I followed suit.

At the bar,  Alexa and I played a game of air hockey because what respectable bar these days doesn’t have an in-house arcade.  The game was short and I emerged victorious.  Alexa sauntered over to my side of the table and crossed me to enter an adjacent photo-booth.  She sat inside of it, looked up toward me and softly asked, “Should we do it?”  I noticed a sign pinned on the outside of the booth and responded, “it’s out of order.”  

We shared a quiet laugh and she slowly stood and leaned (stumbled) toward me, I held my position and our bodies lightly touched, our faces came together and I raised my hand to caress her abdomen.  She leaned closer and we shared a slow and impromptu kiss.  

Sharing a first kiss while pressed against a broken down photo booth in the middle of an arcade on a Friday night.  I mean come on, that’s a ’90’s kid’s wet dream.    

We kissed and caressed one another for a few more seconds before Alexa stopped and mumbled something along the lines of, “This is a secret, no one can know,” as if we weren’t just making out in the middle of a bar surrounded by thirty of her party guests and close friends.  

Apparently the ungrateful gentlemen from her earlier story was more like her boyfriend, or as she referred to him, “somebody I am hooking up with.”  She said they weren’t dating, but “it’s serious.”  

Yeah, sure, it’s none of my business anyway.  I didn’t really want to make a big deal about it.  So with the alleged boyfriend in mind, I backed off and kept the kiss in my pocket as Alexa and I meandered about the bar, going our separate ways. 

Thirty minutes later I was sitting on a leather couch in between my friends Budd and Johnny.  To my left, Budd was playing the game with some cutie who I think earlier told me she was a lesbian.  To my right, Johnny was slack-jawed and swaying back and forth.  He was struggling to keep his eyes open--the tell-tale sign of a man who had exceeded his limit. 

Alexa resurfaced and challenged me to a rematch.  Longing for some more excitement, I quickly accepted her invitation and we excused ourselves from the boys.  

We walked back into the arcade.  As I walked over to the coin machine to exchange my cash for arcade tokens, I checked my wallet to find that I only had a ten dollar bill in my possession.  I contemplated.  That’s an awful lot of tokens, but, who knew, maybe we’d play a few games and make a little tournament out of it. In my mind, I declared, “fuck it,” and broke the ten dollar bill anyway. 

I returned to the table and the game began.  It didn’t take long for me to score twice on her.  

Abruptly, a hyperventilating Budd approached the table and through labored breaths he uttered, “We…have to leave…Johnny just got thrown out.”  Goddamnit.  

With nine dollars worth of arcade tokens shoved in the pockets of my skinny jeans, the three of us hurried outside to find an aloof Johnny wandering up and down the sidewalk completely oblivious to the events that just transpired.  

According to Budd, the sole eyewitness of the event, Johnny had been  falling asleep on the leather couch when a bouncer approached and told Johnny to either wake up or go home.  At this point the belligerent drunk felt compelled to throw his empty glass toward the bouncer where it thankfully missed, but instead hit the wall behind him and shattered into a million pieces.  

With prejudice, Johnny was immediately escorted outside to the gutter which was exactly where we currently found ourselves.

While waiting for a taxi, Alexa and I sat close to one another and continued our earlier flirtation.  She asked if she could come back to my place.  I said, “That’s cool.”  She said she liked me because I was “interesting,” whatever that meant.  

She then asked if it was cool if we slept together but she did not want to have sex with me.  Okay, I enjoyed her company enough and could respect her decision, I guess.  not to mention I tend to sleep much more peacefully when I have a partner by my side, so I was content with having a cuddle buddy for the night.   

“That’s cool,” I said.  

The taxi arrived.  Budd and I hoisted Johnny into the backseat.  Budd lived only a few blocks away from the bar, so we said our goodbyes.  As a trio, Johnny, Alexa, and I taxied back to my apartment.  Immediately upon arrival Johnny passed out on my couch.  

Alexa and I relocated to my bedroom.  Our flirtation naturally evolved into more kissing, which evolved into more caressing, which itself evolved into groping, which culminated in dry-humping.  

It was there we plateaued.  There we treaded water for about twenty minutes before we decided we were both tired and wanted to sleep.

I stripped down to my boxer-briefs.  Alexa decided to keep on the entirety of her outfit, which to me resembled a modern and form fitting mu-mu, but I would later learn this type of outfit to be called a Romper.  In either case,  She looked damn good in it, but I just couldn’t imagine what possessed her to wear it while she slept. 

We fell asleep in each other’s arms and awoke peacefully in the early morning.  Upon waking, Alexa and I momentarily continued our teenage rollicking.  

Eventually we (I) got dressed and together we went into the living room to find Johnny awake and sprawled on the couch reading Raymond Carver while the morning sun cascaded through the arched living room window.    

Johnny and I decided to walk to a nearby cafe to get a quick breakfast.  

Alexa said she was  going to hang back and order a taxi in a few minutes to take her home, but I told her the coffee shop was less than five minutes away and convinced her to hang out until we returned. 

Johnny and I took our walk.  We ordered black coffees and everything bagels with cream cheese.  Less than ten minutes later we returned to my place 

The second we walked through the door we realized something was amiss.  Alex was nowhere to be found.  She had left with no text, phone call, or even a little note left behind.  She simply disappeared without so much as a goodbye.  I didn’t even get her phone number.  

Now, I’ve had one-night stands in the past, and usually a clean-cut departure is ideal, but never before had I experienced such a blue-ball inducing one-night cuddle stand.  

I suppose they can’t all be home runs.

"Kiss Me Under The Water."

“Kiss Me Under the Water.”

I can pinpoint the exact moment I witnessed a woman use sex as a tool of manipulation. I was a small child, probably no older than ten years. This moment was a scene from the TV show Baywatch. The episode was titled, “If Looks Could Kill.”

On the screen I witnessed a couple having a romantic evening in a private swimming pool. While embracing one another, the woman seductively whispers, “Kiss me under the water.” The man eagerly obliges and proceeds to make-out with his love below the surface.

What occurred next has scarred me for life, in fact, it was the exact moment I knew sex was potentially dangerous and both men and women can and will use sex as an act of manipulation to get what they want.

While kissing, the woman covertly unsheathes a pair of handcuffs and proceeds to trap the man under water by latching his wrist to the bottom rung of the pool ladder. The woman then exits the pool and coldly watches the man panic and struggle for his life before ultimately succumbing to his inevitable death.

Watching this as a kid terrified me. This is one of the first instances where I see “love-making” displayed on television and it ends in a horrific death. To this day, this scene haunts me. I don’t know the specifics of their relationship – perhaps, you know, he was a bad man and he deserved what he got or maybe he was just an unlucky bastard after all.

Either way, fuck this woman in particular for being so manipulative and fuck her for scaring me half to death and disturbing me at such a tender age in my life.

Only The Wealthy Are Immaculate.

Only the Wealthy are Immaculate.

The Three were searching for hope. They were longing for a way out, a new beginning and a chance for a better life, but above all else, they were fighting  for freedom.

But with any reward comes risk, and in this game the stakes were high; a loss in the real world is just another excuse to find something new to pass the time with, but in here a loss could cost a man his life. To play this game once must be willing to pay the ultimate price.

Dupree Black called the room to attention. Dupree was a burly fellow, big and meaner than a rabid dog. His yellow jaundiced eyes cast a bleak scowl into the crowd and his midnight complexion strung uneasy tension across each man looking in his direction. Peering out far beyond any man he declared:

“The pit is for fighters only. Spectators leave now while you still can. All new fighters step forward and present yourselves.”

The Three emerged from the crowd of fellow freedom fighters, their skin intact and their nails clean; no bruises and no limps in their step. Their clothes were relatively clean and untattered, but everyone’s clothes in this town expressed at least a modicum of dirt. In poverty one find comfort living within a certain amount of filth. Only the wealthy are immaculate.

The Three approached the statuesque Dupree whose eyes never shifted as if he was staring at all three of them simultaneously and with equal intent.

“Gentlemen, from this point forward everything you’ve come to understand about life disappears along with your names, but don’t be afraid. You are not alone; you are one of many.”

Dupree signaled with his hands for the militia of the men to approach. Soon the crowd of fighters surrounded The Three where they assimilated into the horde. All individuality subsided and soon their faces were indiscernible from the rest.

Everyone eagerly stared upward toward the master. His yellow eyes gleamed and he flashed a smile of broken teeth to the adoring crowd.

“Gentlemen, tonight we make history. Let the games begin!”An electric charge surged through the masses; adrenaline pumped through every man’s heart and dripped off his tongue. The fighters were seething.

The ceremony ceased and they were hungry. They were starved for blood, for pain and suffering, all in the name of the greater common good. These men were not alone in their plight, they fought side by side with the likeminded; gang mentality superseded all.

Chanting to themselves and flexing every muscle in their bodies like hungry dogs, the fighters stood their positions in front of the giant titanium shutter doors ready for war.

Suddenly the doors burst open and sunlight flooded the eyes of the fighters momentarily blinding them and further fueling their collective rage. Like a hungry pack of wild banshees the fighters charged out of the gate spitting and cursing and screaming their way unto an unsuspecting world.

This city has had it coming for years. It’s about time a real fury came to clean this city of the filth and waste. This city will burn from the fire swelling within the hearts of these men. Nobody will be spared, the vagrant, the meek, the vile, the weak; all will suffer the same grotesque fate.

The fighters ferociously attacked the streets with the passion of one thousand dead souls. On this day those souls will finally receive retribution, these men will be the vessel for their message. This will be the day of reckoning.

Dupree watched as his creations pillaged and burned and scorned and raped and killed their way to freedom. He watched contended knowing this moment in time would never be forgotten. His men will sacrifice themselves for something much greater than they could possibly comprehend, Dupree’s legacy. He will be remembered forever and he will achieve the truest and most pure form of freedom. He will become immortalized.