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The Cozy Spot



53 posts categorized "everyday"

October 09, 2007

We're BaaAAccK

Rule numero uno: if you're on a good thing, stick to it. It's a common saying, one that's even appeared as part of a pest control campaign for fly spray here in Australia. It makes a lot of sense, and it became a lesson for me. Now I'm sounding like a problogger, but I have to say that you have to be careful when you forward domains to hosts, for them to point to your target.

In three days, I've realized that the host I forwarded my domain to didn't allow manual alterations to the CNAME records. So there I am publishing, republishing, trying this and that, and becoming more frazzled by the second, thinking terrific thoughts, such as, 'It'll never work. I'm fucking doomed!' Mind you, the host plan probably did allow for it, but I couldn't see it. It's not like I'm a techie whiz, but at the same time, I had to nut things out myself. The great thing is that the Typepad help/support team are fantastic, and it was one of their responses to my questions (as nonsensical as they probably seemed), that steered me in the right direction. And I'm back, or my domain is back.

It's a lesson. The thing is if everything is tied up to the domain, as things normally are for search engines, then things like feedburner feeds are stuffed. So now that I'm back up, I've had to resynch feedburner, ping Technorati once again; automation is good, otherwise people would kill me. "Who is this techno-illiterate biatch, driving us mad?"

It's all a learning curve, learning through mistakes. A lot like sex, relationships, and mating. Nothing new there, except that now I'm aware, it's less likely I'll make the same mistake, whereas in the other more human-mating realm, I'd relent or my 'heart' would get in the way. Funny that. Making decisions with the heart is not unlike thinking with the dick; both are devoid of brains.

Today I went through the usual rigmarole, something that I can't really escape from; the nine to five daily grind.It's not so much the routine, more the mentalities. I had my 'hours' tracked today. Something that has never happened, and I thought, "Hello, this is new!" Working in a corporation is like being in a relationship with a narcissist. There is never a day that goes by where someone (it could be any person) tries to lower the self esteem of another. It's the psychological mind game; keep a person in line - strip away the individual. I dislike it, and I keep on harping on at my son to study. In short, I've become my mother. A fat lot that'll do, considering she'd nag my arse off for me to wind up in Dullville office where there's at least one Vogon to bust your chops:

"Vogons are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy. Not evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters." - The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

~~~

Stay tuned. Now that I ironed this page out, I've got an ace sexual themed review lined up.

September 26, 2007

Bedtime Stories

I remember moving out on my own, and buying my own bed for the first time. Prior to that, I’d share housing, and make do with pre-loved (in more ways than one, something I didn’t want to think about at the time) beds.

Apart from sleep, the purchase of the first bed marks one’s sexual life or entry. It’s like treading into a new world, one that’s filled with excitement. I remember the day I walked into Holy Sheet and selected my bed. I’d just turned twenty-one, and I couldn’t get enough of the possibilities that whirled in my mind.

All the sex!

I made sure I chose one with a convenient bed head (one that could enable the occasional tie up), and after payment, I returned home to wait for my delivery, as eager as a kitten. When it arrived a few days after, I was thrilled. It didn’t matter that I had to figure out the vague instructions, I felt proud after I completed the task, lugging timber around, screwing in slats and bolts.

Continue reading "Bedtime Stories" »

September 16, 2007

Protocol

Today gave me pause for thought. The morning started off as usual; Sunday paper, coffee and stretching to get those joints in working order after a late night. I planned on assessing which area of the house I’d tackle first for the massive spring clean, and took my time, flicking through the newspaper (digging out the weekend magazine lift-out to read my Jonathon Cainer zodiac prediction for the week, and so on). Deep thought was not on the agenda.

It changed when housemate decided to make Sunday furniture shopping day. I tried to unravel all the skills I kept under my sleeve; taking Sydney public transport on a Sunday isn’t a big thrill for me.

“We can shop on Wednesday morning.”

“We have to get it delivered before the weekend,” his anxiety rose with his voice. I didn’t fancy making a two-hour trek, taking two buses to arrive at the mega furniture complex in Kensington, and gave him a brief run through, and the conversation reached flashpoint for various reasons, namely the reasons why I had to alter my plans this week.

“I planned this week for two months and I have to fucking alter it just to please whomever!” As far as I could see, it was always about someone else. I have to rearrange the entire house, at a time I didn’t anticipate, nor plan and told him this, well I told him this in my own tetchy way:

“I’m fucking tired of putting myself second, and no I’m not going to fucking Kensington!” The use of the f word correlates with my irritation, and man was I irritated. I looked at the time, thinking that I hadn’t been out of bed an hour, and already he was busting my chops. Then he went to town.

“I’m moving out!” he yelled.

“Whatever,” I replied, scoping my online bank account to see if the Taxation Department deposited money that they owed me (which they haven’t; typical effing bureaucrats), and checking out the furniture company’s website to see if they had other, closer, outlets. I decided to call one up to ask about their delivery frequency, but housemate began banging doors and slamming drawers, so I told the nice person on the other side that I’d call again, apologizing for the background noise, hung up and went ballistic; “What the hell are you doing?”

Continue reading "Protocol" »

August 21, 2007

Brimstone & Buses

Today, I thought, could be classified as an angry sex day; the type of intimacy that depends on the ebullient well filled with brimstone, the type that demands nothing less than fiery intensity, which results in a few bruises and bites. Coupled to the fury, was its polar opposite, resourcefulness. It kicked in to balance the fury, the fervent bubble of irritation and incredulity that accompanies the most absurd, or pseudo thickheaded maneuvers that can come one’s way.

I’d like to think that I’ve grown up enough to appreciate simple errors, but I can’t fathom people who cannot accept their capacity for human error, who try to cover their fear with spite, shoveling shit your way, simply to annoy you, thinking that they’re the supreme sadist when they need an Oxford Dictionary to define the word.Ang

And so it was. I managed to distract myself by being acutely resourceful, so resourceful that I annoyed myself as each hour ticked by. I sat at my desk thinking anything but ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ A portion of my mind plunged into darkness; the other managed to sail the wave of diligence. A smile? There were none. The other, he cowered into an invisible corner, keeping out of the way; discomfort, a slathering of fear and uncertainty hovered about him; he averted my gaze a few times. Fear of the unknown; will I blow? Of course, I didn’t blow up or manage a squeak, but the sulfurous river flowed through my veins throughout, creating a piquant atmosphere of trepidation; that’s sadism, but not the theatrical kind that’s accompanied by absurdly embellished forms of address. No Sirs, or Masters, more like flowing with the tune of nature, or DNA; an inner knowledge that defies artificial controls, costumery and bullshit. You teeter on the edge, walk the razor, looking down at a red glowing furnace and almost feel the heat fanning your cheeks; flash point.

Nothing made me laugh earlier in the day; a few people prattling on about APEC (like its Cirque du Soleil) during my break didn't really amuse me, 'yeah, everything goes out of whack because of one idiot,' I said. "And freedom is beautiful and, uh, you know, it'll take time to restore chaos and order, uh, order out of chaos, but we will." I never thought I'd live to see the day a city 'locked down' because of one moron 'visiting' ("a fucking tourist" - as housemate says), at a multi-million dollar cost; I'm working so my small portion of taxed dollars (4 million dollars in total; 'donated' by every worker in the state) fund bullet proof vehicles for el Presidente (security for the 2000 Olympics cost less than the entire APEC security fund, and wouldn't it be funny, after all that security, for him to bite the dust on a toilet, in the middle of dropping the 'Big One'?), and I wouldn't mind if he didn't make so many verbal gaffs, but he can't get one phrase right, and it's not like he's a millennial sage or prophet; doomsayer, perhaps. So, it all added up in a piecemeal fashion, forming a blue flamed torch to propel me through the rest of the day.

Continue reading "Brimstone & Buses" »

August 07, 2007

Bus Stop

We did a little of ‘spot the cute guy’ this afternoon, but it didn’t work that well for me, primarily because one needs to be interested in that or on the lookout, and as I don’t fit into that category, I began to ponder what category I do fall into. It didn’t take me long. I fall into the thunderbolt category; something has to hit me like a bolt out of the blue, or a tsunami; a naturally overwhelming disaster that ruffles every nerve, ligament and muscle, the kind that disconnects the self from the present moment, like those where one’s tongue is dragging on the pavement, carpet or lawn without one realizing it until it’s pointed out. A mammalian grunt or pant; something along those lines would be ideal as I’m not into the type that ‘grows on you,’ like the saying. That phrase may as well describe a fungus or a fungal disease like thrush; grows on you. Pfft.

Then again…

The tortoise wins the race, whereas the hare is winded by the end of it, which is what the whiz-bang attractions (followed by the ‘you gotta have it’ rushed intimacy) can get me. I know this but do you think I seriously consider it? No. The afternoon was the polar opposite of morning; I gave up on the spot-the-cute-guy game and focused on my coffee instead.

This morning saw a rare moment; charisma wrapped around a female in her early twenties; her symmetrical features stunned me, a porcelain figurine; a pretty woman. It wasn’t a sexual reaction on my behalf, more wonderment. I recalled the old Hollywood stories that I’ve read over the years, where starlets were discovered in way off places like drug stores, and this moment was one of those. I asked myself why (oh why?) aren’t I working as an agent of some kind. Yes, it would help if I spent the better part of my adult life in that area, but I do have an eye. When that eye relates to attractive males, it gets me into trouble; logic flies out of the window faster than a crazed monkey in the Wizard of Oz. This girl had star quality. Her face, symmetry and posture blended together to form a package that would be snapped up in places like NIDA. She reminded me of the types of students that attend NIDA; most are striking. Famous former NIDA students include people like Mel Gibson (among others), for example, and I don’t think there are many who can argue against him embodying charisma; he can annoy the hell out of some people, but he only has to smile for it to be pushed in the backseat. Many women remain intrigued; some men want to be like him (despite his gaffs). The incident on the bus was so much more than the sex appeal. It contained that unspoken quantity that leaves one wondering, that inspires one to continually grasp a word, anything, to describe the presence. Ethereal, is a word.

She was the one person in the forty or so on the bus. That’s how I viewed it. She was the one in forty, a traffic stopper in a neat black straight skirt and red top. Elegance sans skank-a-porter: black stockings, matching pumps, she could have been a legal secretary, someone who worked it under the fluorescent lighting of Officeville. The other endearing aspect, she wasn’t wrapped up in herself. It was as though she was oblivious to her impact, and this added charisma bonus points, upped the stare factor by numerous points for me. The moment, although interesting, knocked a little wind out of me; the age crept up. I didn’t get misty eyed or anything but I soberly considered some things up until this moment, as the bus was heading down City Road. The what have I done with my life, moment, that crawls into one’s gut and settles in one of the larger intestines performing cartwheels until it has to be farted out; I held it in all day, until I felt like I had a pip the size of a pomegranate in my belly, for it to dissipate by the time I returned home but on the way home another thought arose, namely that I’ve been thinking of one person on a near daily basis. Yes, male. Yes, silly. Yes, insane. Illogical?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Everything else may as well be a diversion.

I awoke, prior to the bus and afternoon café jaunt, and knew that the person appeared in the final dream, the one that is interrupted by the goddamned alarm clock. As I washed, dressed and collected my purse, I tried to recall the bits and pieces of the dream. On failing, I embraced the idea, or inner knowledge that I dreamt about them, and along that thought, I tired to explore the reasons behind the frequent dreams. It’s not an obsession. More infatuation. A dear word, one associated with adolescence or early adulthood; infatuation is weird, produces impulses that veer away from all logic. It’s the type of emotion that can dissolve during the day, as routine tasks invade one’s thoughts, but returns later on, possibly in the evening, to wreak havoc or aid in producing a toe curling orgasm. Infatuations can grow on a person; the fungus of attraction and fondness wrapped by a bow of lust.

Observations, apart from being routine elements of everyday life, are life’s bus stops; they may not mean anything in the larger scope of everything, but they can brighten up the corners of the day in some way even if they don’t offer definitive destinations.

July 31, 2007

Microbes & Lozenges

It's the season of the bug here where I am. These bugs have featured on the news, and other media, and while I sit there and laugh with the seriousness of broadcasts charting the migratory path of each microbe, I wasn't too thrilled last night as my throat seized up, and swallowing became a nightmare. It became so because I was all out of lozenges, Panadol (paracetamol does zip against throat infections), and Cold & Flu remedies, so I moaned and groaned for the wrong reasons, and saw the sun creeping through the curtain.

This made me feel worse, because I knew I couldn't function without sleep and sandpaper down my throat.

It's only Tuesday, but I can't wait for the end of the week :)

So until then, I'm going to be snuggling under covers and popping anti-biotics. Normal posting will continue after this fucker of a throat infection goes away. Until then, there's a category cloud to the right that contains posts by category, and if that's not enough...

tough titties.

:)

July 14, 2007

Sexual Selections & Other Songs

The University of California has an interesting short page on Sexual Selection. Sexual selection, as a choice, is slightly more complex in the human sphere.

Male peacocks may maintain elaborate tails that they display in season, and male tomcats can sniff out a female cat at distance humans find perplexing. Human sexual selection takes on different forms, and when the vast sexual spectrum is entertained, can take on many forms or be based on various aspects; kink, sexual orientation, and socio-economic status.

One area that has always intrigued me is sexual selection based on culture and/or genetics (only because I think ‘racial’ is a stupid term that has gone beyond its use by date with our knowledge of DNA). These differences can be termed ethnic, but on closer inspection they’re genetic. A group of people adapt to an environment, over centuries and develop physical characteristics that is, on some level, reflective of the locale. David Suzuki, in one of his essays, used his eyes as an example to illustrate the fact that there are higher fat deposits behind his eyelids , which reflect a need for the body to adapt to extreme temperatures, ie cold. I remember reading an article in a fashionable women’s magazine years ago that illustrated the variations of female beauty from one society to the next and in certain tribes, beauty standards are salient, if not confronting, which is why the mainstream end of the sea is quite calm in comparison. Female beauty, on the western scale, can be viewed as being moderate but at the same time, it’s generic.

Open up a copy of Vogue (French, US, Australian, UK, etc) and you’ll see the same products being advertised, and you’ll see similar palettes being used to decorate a woman’s face. With the exception of seasonal apparel variation, everything else falls into a steady current of convention. One could be fooled into thinking that beauty is ‘standard’ or sexual selection is standardized in some way, but there’s the other, the type of sexual selection that also includes the genetic aspect, or the type that considers cultural origin. Using the smallest example I can find, but one that is a frequent example or salient enough to sit global bookshelves, the common romance (erotic, or otherwise) that always ensures that two people originate from the same (or similar) genetic phylum (for want of another term); it’s always a case of characters having the same complexion. You can have a scene incorporating bondage, golden showers or reaming, but the two consenting adults are always white (for some reason) within a city (Paris, London, New York) that features significant cultural variance. Nine out of 10 erotic stories are like this. In fact, most Black Lace (one example of a publishing imprint) erotic novels are like this and I doubt that all the readers are Anglo. I sometimes call it the homogenous aspect of sex, and despite all the different preferences that are out there, many stories gravitate toward the same thing; black on black, or white on white, but it’s almost always a case of white dominating. I read my fair share of romantic fiction while growing up, and I dabbled a little as I got older, and I can’t remember ever seeing any variation. The Sixties, Seventies and to some extent, Eighties, saw a lot of migrations across the world. The Sixties heralded sexual change, however the mainstream continued to maintain a generic stance where relationships, sexual or otherwise, were concerned, and to some extent it still does. For example, there are never any articles in magazines that discuss the impact of cultural or religious differences on the relationship front. Maybe it’s considered controversial, or politically incorrect, but it’s something that thousands of people confront at one point or another; on a large or small scale.

As recently as yesterday, my cultural origin was queried, by a frisky waiter who turns it on for every female that comes his way (I’m no special case), or passes by the brasserie (as I’ve witnessed over the months), and I wasn’t sure what to make of it, whether to link it to the global attitude on a select culture or religion. As is obvious, I’m not blue eyed and I don’t have a lily-white complexion. In the pre 911 world that was, cab drivers would often begin conversations in Arabic, thinking I could follow for me to interrupt them and politely inform them that I had no clue what they were talking about, to which they’d exclaim ‘but aren’t you (insert any culture)?’ So in the post 911 world, and everything that’s flowered since, it’s become an interesting social experience for me, like yesterday. He needed a verbal confirmation, and posed his verbal hypothesis as I paid for my lunch, as in ‘you’re nationality X aren’t you?’

No, I'm not, I replied.

‘Oh,’ and then his attitude did a three sixty, for me to think ‘what a dickhead,’ for the tete a tete to transform into a one sided come on from his end. He’d returned from Rome, as did his attitude, coloured with the view that it was perfectly okay to cast verbal bait to every woman in passing, like an expert angler; cast the bait, and see how many fish bite.

Continue reading "Sexual Selections & Other Songs" »

July 08, 2007

The Great Procrastinator

I sat facing the monitor, researching to my heart’s content and I’m not fond of research. It’s a must for stories that are set in a particular timeframe, if only to fill in tiny bits and pieces, much like filling potholes on the road; stories need to be smooth, flow along a certain line. Too many bumps, and readers think, ‘what the fuck, this doesn’t make any sense?’ and this is a writer’s nightmare, no?

There are days I don’t particularly care about research. You can’t start a story based on research; it’s secondary to the story, a lot like Poly Filler. Today I thought of taking the bus down to Gould’s. It’s a bibliophile’s orgasm; you’re there, surrounded with musty books. It has books, vinyls, cassettes (remember those?) magazines, and many vintage Playboys. There are piles and piles of books, sometimes you have to negotiate your way through an aisle, and if you can’t find a book you have your heart set on, you just ask Senor Gould, and he’ll know where the book is situated.

It happened to me one afternoon. I’d previously borrowed a book from Ashfield local library, only to return it months prior, a momentary lapse on my behalf; I usually keep every book that comes my way, library copy or not. So I decided to buy the book, except I found that it had been out of print at the time, and so I gave up my search until I walked into Gould’s and it sparked up within my thoughts. It’s possible, I thought as I glanced at the two-tiered store, so I made my way to the biography section. It wasn’t an essential book, just one of those biographical books that serve as general knowledge.

Continue reading "The Great Procrastinator" »

June 28, 2007

The Wheelbarrow of Existential Shite

The low follows the high; the see-saw of life is a never ending mind bending wheelbarrow of existential shit that can astound.

“Some men today, can be so fucking rude,” I first thought, and this followed an incident that perplexed me; there was no need for rudeness. The first thought was closely followed by the second:

“You’re an animal,” except I didn’t express this sentiment aloud. It’s not due to any submission on my behalf, but it’s difficult to throttle an asshole outside of your work building. I kept it in. I'm not so sure what it is, whether my emotional innards are influenced by some Freudian whatever, but I find that I can be incredibly wounded in such circumstances; abusive men repel and wound. Whether that's all tied up in my view of masculinity, or today's version of it, is any one's guess. All I know is that it takes me a while to digest male aggression (verbal, body language, etc) toward women. It doesn't matter what form it is, it's perplexing in any form.

It all unfolded earlier in the day, a day that descended into a shit-pile; piecemeal.

One needs to have a license to fart in this nouveau politically-polite correct world. A world that is being shaped to accommodate the ‘sensitive.’

“You’re committing a violation!” the asshole yelled, followed by a few other rude words that made me see blood crimson. Of course I did something wrong; I happened to stand out in the OPEN AIR, and have a cigarette on a work break. It’s such a crime.

Why not just hand out a license for me to fart, and be done with it. This incident reminds me of the time my step sister in law’s friend whined about having asthma, in the open air, and of ‘people smoking’ affecting her - in the open air. Not a closed environment. Open air. Then they tell you you’re living in a god damned democracy and you should be thankful! A really great example of political correctness gone abso-fucking-lutely insane is when a child can't play dress ups without seeking approval from the 'sensitive' people, the 'meek', and if you don't believe me, then read about Rosie O'Donnell receiving flak for her daughter dressing up as a soldier.

Democracy my butt.

It’s not a democracy when every psychotic asshole feels the need to stalk, yes stalk, because he was watching me throughout my break, and lash out; yeah I’m really sympathetic to your cause mate, why don’t you go and play on the Sydney City Rail Railway tracks!

It could only get better; it’s always nice when you put in 90% effort (the run-around) and receive little credit. Not even a thank you, which added up to the remaining four hours of my day.

It was a real ‘male centric’ day, where I thought ‘oh my god, I’m happy to remain single for-fucking-ever,’ and I meant it, anything but to get too close to that type of shite. Then I arrived home, sat down, requested not to be spoken to simply to mentally unwind, lit one up, to wait for the silent glares, and shot a thought back as I drew in a gale of unhealthy, disgusting, noxious, (add whatever turns you on) smoke:

Don’t talk to me.

That’s what I thought.

I don’t even want to know the probability of death, and all that. I don't live my life based on mathematical theories.

I stepped back into time; six months ago.

Six months ago I lost someone, and that someone - it’s so ironic now that I think of it - was continuously lectured (at the pre-party) by his mother:

‘I hope you don’t smoke,’ she said, to him.

He teased her, and eyed me.

‘Hey man, don’t look at me. I’m not giving you a smoke.’

We all laughed about it. He’d recovered from a non related infection he contracted at this hospital he worked, and they took every single precaution, except that the next day he dropped. Collapsed, and died - without touching a noxious smoke.

So fuck it all.

The reaper will come to claim you, regardless of the trendy measures (new age, and whatever else, colonic irrigation inclusive) taken to elongate life.

Dear ‘Violation Man’

I realise my cigarette offended you, but the last time I looked I lived within a democracy and am, therefore, part of the Demos. Ergo, I have choices, as do you. In future, don’t approach someone like me (you fucking masochist) as I’m inhaling noxious smoke. You have the option of taking any direction imaginable, but like others, prefer to whine and carry on. After all we live in a large city, you imbecilic politically correct automaton walking cadaver.

Yours truly,

The filthy smoker biatch near Hyde Park.

June 17, 2007

A Mini Break

I'm freezing my tits off, the weather has declined and miracle of miracles, albeit highly controversial and politically incorrect, housemate relented (just for today) so I could have a smoke indoors; rain has impregnated the roof, and we've sprung a leak in the middle of the living room, no less. New South Wales has experienced a deluge over the passing week, and I'm glad I live in an above ground metro area otherwise I'd be mopping. On a more serious level, this weather has led to a tragic road toll, with floods and road collapses.

I've been doing little at home, but huddle under blankets watching films in my bedroom, and play around with the new love of my life (well, I haven't had any luck with the male population this year).This upcoming week I'll be racing around at work, doing additional things in order to finish up with a restful state of mind as something unexpected cropped up - yet another job interview. I also turn another year older at the close of the week and hope to have less occupational baggage (wishful thinking) so I can enjoy stepping over the mid-thirties mark (translation: buy a good bottle of red, or two, and get pissed to the eyeballs, to eradicate the digits from my mind).

Before introducing a suggested list of posts, I'd like to say a big thank you to those who have commented below; I'll be back to reply, just not over the next couple of days.

I rounded up a few posts, some are ancient as they date back from when I began on Blogger, 2005. Some of the older posts were manually transferred to Typepad, as I had too many to condense at the time, so a few comments may be missing.

The 'in absentia' reading list, below:

In the realm of pornographic moments in everyday life, there's my post 'Everyone Needs a Porno Moment,' where I recall interesting series of interludes. There's a cross cultural interlude.

There's a short tribute to the older man, and one of my favorite early posts detailing, among other things, my first glimpses of cock, titled The Killer Genitals from Planet Sexorama.

In the realm of sex filled fictional pieces (the remainder are in parts, and can be located in the Erotica section), there's Lunar Rising,As the Music Played,Love Like Blood, Change in the Weather, Sunflowers.   

Into the controversial stream of things, Behind the Veil, put a couple of noses out of joint; if a woman wants to wear a hijab, burqa, or whatever she desires (due to her cultural or religious leanings), then that's her choice as well; feminism is also about exercising that choice, whatever that choice may be, but there are a few who forget this. That's my view, and I stand by it. When I posted this one, I had an anonymous commenter/troll posing the 'how dare I?' question: how dare I question the western way of exposing everything, dwindling mystery until there is no mystery, and so on. How dare I voice my frustration with the way women are expected to display their bodies? Well, you know what? I couldn't give a shit as to what other opinions are, but this form of attire does have its perks, a woman controls it, and she controls who pervs at her but the common acceptable notion, is to strip naked and display everything there is to display, just because I'm a 'western' woman. Well fuck that. Sometimes I don't like the way some men look at me. I'm not in the mood 24/7. But, at the core of it all, I think this post/the anonymous reaction, pretty much displays the Utopian ideology of freedom of expresson (on the web, or anywhere really).

Speaking of controversy, there's my little saucy piece titled The Secretary, which was inspired by Condoleeza. There's the nuclear equivalent of 'my dick is bigger than your dick,' piece titled The Cock Fight to End all Cock Fights.

There is my tale of sexual revenge, or my personal experience with a male gigolo, which could have another sub-title of 'you may be a sex worker, but that doesn't mean you own it, baby.'

On pussy related musings: WPD Punani and Twilight Zone Pussy.

If you want to have a glimpse at how easy it can be to fake porno cum shots, then have no fear, you can have the pleasure of watching this music clip, while watching a favorite MILF (male I'd like to fuck) of mine, Till Linderman display this on stage, thus ending the mystery behind the elongated porno cum shot scene. We're talkin' bout fountains of make believe semen here.

This post is a little like This is Your Life, eh?

It's an eclectic selection. The tip of the iceberge that's stored on this page. I'm amazed I've stuck it out so long, but it doesn't seem like a lot when I'm exploring it in words.

Have a good week.

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