KenW

I'm a bit slow Lefty. I did miss it back then, only seeing it yesterday.

Lefty, if that's not Breaker Morant, then someone stole the punchline from BM.

Love at first sight (#38) As a fellow Aussie, Walter Charles Hagen took a shine to me, and though we were the same age at the time (and I guess that means we still are), he was like the master to me the apprentice. For he knew everything good you needed to know about Vietnam, even if it was bad. He knew who was doing what to who, and who was getting what done to them by who. He knew that to get from A to B you had to go from A to M then to W then to P then to F then to G then to K then if you had played it right, to B. He had been coming here since Renovation opened the place up. Then in 1990 he moved here, setting up a permanent consulting service. He quickly became the go to man for any Australian companies, and many other international companies too, who wanted to get things done in the Vietnam scene. For example, at that time there was an Australian engineering firm who were in the tender mix to outfit the Vietnamese navy with new sonar and depth sounding hardware and software. That took Walter a year of serious negotiation, whereupon he worked his phone like you’ve never seen, then flew up to Hanoi about once every two weeks to see people face to face. He won the contract for them. He was a quiet man, and surprisingly once you got to know him, quite shy. He did not womanize, and the Vietnamese respected him for that (even though they themselves behaved like crazed Tom cats). He knew that one day one of the classiest women in Vietnam would come to him, of her own free will - if he so wanted. In the meantime he did not, in his words, mess with whores. He did not boast. He let his actions and his results do the talking. He did not like the expat business scene. When I used to ask him about them, he would mutter in his drink: they’re all fulla shit. One thing that impressed me, and impresses me to this very day, is that Walter Charles Hagen genuinely respected his Vietnamese counterparts. And I am sure they knew that. I have met very few expats who think like Mr Walter thought. Most dismiss VNese as mere nogs, as savages, as little boys, as the useless fathers of gorgeous fuckable girls, as the lackeys who get in the way and hold up contract deals, and throw red tape spanners in the works of the vast squillions the expats are trying to acquire without too much effort. But Mr Walter knew how it worked, knew how much power these Vietnamese officials had, knew they only had to pick up a phone to make magic things happen or, on the contra side, get you deported. Faceless men to most expats, many in high places considered Mr Walter a personal friend. But he also enjoyed them, drank regularly with high powered officials who would invite him to some secluded private party in a swish joint – never in public - to down brandy or scotch till they were all paralytic. (The drape-all-over-you gaggle of girls would have been there too.) Then the next day they would have him into their offices to tell him he had won another contract. I will never forget (till my brain pops with alcohol induced Alzheimer’s anyway) the look on his face the night he appeared at my elbow in a bar after hearing he had won the navy contract. You’d think he had just cleaned up at the Masters or the British Open. You could not have wiped the smile off his face with a thousand screwdrivers (his tipple of choice). His commission: a million bucks. (Not bad in the 1990s.) Walter always went better than par. He used to take my breath away when in a bar some boozy businessman would moan about some contract or issue and how he couldn’t make the fit, how he was wedged in a corner by red tape. Walter would take this frightening thing in hand, say wait a bit, push and prod dials and buttons, then place it to his ear. Then with the hello, his whole demeanor would change, his sparkling blue eyes light up, his whole lower face disappear in a huge smile, and he would begin to set out his problem. After about three or ten minutes – all done in English, he never spoke Vietnamese – he would hand the phone to this other grumpy guy, saying the Vice-Minister will talk to you. Walter, at nine o’clock at night, had just called one of the most powerful people in the government and the land at home in Hanoi, the capital. Yes Mr SoandSo, I think we can fix that for you. OK, no problem Mr SoandSo, any friend of Mr Walter is friend of me. Put the wedge back in the bag. Another expat sand trap successfully negotiated. I knew what Bee didn’t. Namely, that if I needed contacts for the model agency scene in Vietnam, and getting a brilliantly beautiful LB a contract, Mr Walter was the man to talk to. I’ll make you the next Elle Macpherson, I used to tease Bee when I was drunk. Give me money, he would sulkily reply.

I thought of some more dt. Put a beggar on horseback he'll flog it to death. (a favourite of my mother's) and (he's/it's) all over the place like a mad woman's poo (the second is probably politically incorrect these days) 2 new ones from the last 2 decades or so: he's all tip and no iceberg (this criticism/punishment) is like being flogged with a wet lettuce

Two of my old man's most commonly used ones: Give your arse a chance. (This would usually be prefaced by him admonishing my mother about talking too much or always having her gob open) From arsehole to breakfast time. (This was a measure of distance or time elapsed, ironically meant to mean it was a long way or a long time, but of course the play was on the fact that from arsehole to breakfast time was a mere inch or so by nose or tongue. My mother hated it vehemently when he'd use that in company) Other really common and quite ordinary Aussie ones include: (he's as) silly as a two bob watch (he's a) brick short of a load the lights are on but nobody's home (he's as) thick as a brick (she's as) thick as two short planks from here to Timbucktoo (he) couldn't organize a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fivers (she) wouldn't work in an iron lung (he's so silly) he'd buy the Sydney Harbour Bridge he went at it like a bull at a gate it's like showing a red rag to a bull as pissed as a fart as pissed as a newt as drunk as a skunk it's got as much chance as an ice cube in Hell you can bet London to a brick on it's Sydney or the bush i know SFA about that (SFA = Sweet Fuck All)

Love at first sight (#37) I told Ruth about Elle Macpherson. Elle aka "The Body" Elle in global brand mode As a teenager the Aussie kid named Eleanor was holidaying with family on the ski slopes of Aspen or somewhere similar, Colorado anyhow. You can imagine: sixteen years old, 6 foot tall, lank straw hair, gawky, skinny, probably pestering her oldies with questions like: Why do I have to be the one who’s 6 feet tall? Why can’t I be normal? I don’t like basketball. What’s going to become of me? Some dude who worked for some kind of agency saw something he liked, introduced himself and handed over his card. I can make you a star. You might just be the next super model. The rest, as they say, was history. Elle becomes a global brand. Had that chance meeting on the ski slopes not taken place, our Elle would probably have gone home, back to studies, graduated, had men at the beach ogle her for a few years, got pregnant to one of them, married him, and today be living a quiet suburban life in her native Sydney. There you go. I flirted with the idea of Bee as a global brand. He liked that, but of course being as insular as any other Vietnamese, had never heard of Elle. So my story didn’t resonate as fully as it should. But he listened. Unlike the dude in Aspen, I said, I’m not in the industry, and don’t have contacts. Well, I had contacts, but not in that line. But, as I assured him, Saigon is such a small place, and I know people in the right roles who will know the things I do not know and the people I do not yet know. Confused Reader, be patient with me. It seems ridiculous of me does it not, to claim a teeming metropolis of at that time, some 6 or 7 million inhabitants, where traffic in the mornings and late afternoons resembled bees (no pun) at the entrance to the hive, all trying to get to the one place by jamming together wing to tail and making it impossible for anyone to move. Where living density is as high as anywhere in the so-called third world, where you can guarantee that on any given day hundreds of people will walk or drive their motorbikes or bicycles past your front door – in a quiet street back from the drag where traffic is not relatively busy, who you have never seen before or will never see again. It does at first take seem a bit much to make a claim that it was a small place. But you had to live there and know it, to see that immediately. Let me explain. Back in those days foreign business was essentially run out of District 1, the CBD, and District 3, to its immediate north. And only in the key heart locales of both those precincts. I knew a group of expat businessmen, key players, who knew everything and everyone they needed to know to do their business, both other foreigners and Vietnamese, especially government officials. Par for the course. I drank and socialized a lot with a couple of these guys. One especially, who I’ll call Walter Charles Hagen, owned the first mobile phone I had ever seen, and one of the first on the market. It was as big as an old fashioned military walkie talkie, a foot long, with a telescopic antenna another foot long, and weighed as much as a railroad iron. Walter didn’t travel far from where he lived (downtown) to where he spent his days negotiating (downtown) and his evenings drinking (downtown). You’d be in a CBD restaurant having lunch and see Walter go stalking by, furiously intense focus on his face, both the morning paper, folded, and this outrageous communications device clutched in his fist, the latter like some giant detached member he had recently ripped from a spark spewing Goliath in a struggle to the death. Walter was not a man to be interrupted. He was busy doing business, or more correctly, as he told me several times: doing politics. During that era he would set me chuckling at his wonderful forthright honesty, telling me that business bored him. Politics was what it was all about. The Vietnamese, he assured me, loved politics, lived for it, and he loved it too, got off on watching them work their wiles, learning the nuances, the traps, the pitfalls. That’s why, he added, most of the expat businessmen were full of shit. They had never twigged that Vietnam was about politics, not just waltzing in here for five minutes and hustling your way to becoming a millionaire. Walter Charles Hagen never wanted to be a millionaire. He just wanted to live like one. All the expats gravitated to Walter and liked to drink with him, joke with him and keep him onside. For they feared him, and knew he had the best Vietnamese connections in the business.

I live in Vietnam, and have done so full time for the past 7 years. Before that I lived here on and off through the decade 1994 - 2004. I would not at this stage consider living in Thailand, even if I did briefly tinker with the idea prior to my second trip to Pattaya last year. That second trip sealed the decision, probably forever: no. (Or at least definite no to Pattaya.) However, there are many similarities between Vietnam and Thailand. Hence my few feeble thoughts about my life here in VN may have some comparative relevance for folks contemplating this question of living in Thailand. For example, to tell you a bit about cracking eggs, both are vibrant southeast Asian cultures with booming economies and open welcoming palms for tourist dollars. Both are high density excitingly populated places (Thailand about 40 million citizens, VN about eighty million). Both are rich in culture and history. Both are centered, for foreigners at least, on a large metropolis or two, with a few beach resorts and many small country towns. Climates are almost identical. Costs of living are relatively cheap in both countries. Certain rules pertaining to foreigners are similar also. For example, shortish visas for tourist visitors. Three monthly visa renewal for long term expats. In neither country can foreigners own land (exceptions are some foreign companies who get long terms leases). In Thailand expats can own condos, in Vietnam not so. In neither can you own a house. In Vietnam foreigners can invest in house, land, apartments, but the deed documents must always be in a Vietnamese name. I don’t know whether something similar applies in Thailand. Both countries have human morphologies that I personally consider among the most elegantly gorgeous and sexually attracting on the planet. Whether your interests be girls, ladyboys, femboys, boys or flat chested back bowed grandmothers, there is much of beauty available and on offer. So, as I said, here are some comparative thoughts, not about Thailand, but which may let you see some issues that might be relevant to Thailand. Why would you consider living full time in southeast Asia? For me that comes down to three things: cost of living, lifestyle, and what you’re prepared to give up. Cost of living, as I said is relatively cheap. Relative to the first world that is. Rossco says in an above post he thinks you can live in Thailand for about (in my rough equivalence to his TB) 2300 USD per month. I was a bit shocked at how expensive that might be for some. Especially as he made the specific point that he was not talking about holidaying, but about permanent dwelling. I maintain a household in Vietnam on about 800 USD a month, which includes a full time live-in maid on wage and full keep, all local market as well as supermarket costs, plus my drinking bill. That budget amount also allows me about 3 or sometimes 4 evenings in what I would call good, but not flash restaurants. Occasionally, if I’m hosting visitors say, I get out the Visa card and take them to a flash joint downtown. Rossco also said rentals varied from about 450 USD on up, depending on what sort of luxury you were after. I don’t pay rent, so that is a save for me. But rents here in VN for expats start at about 400 USD a month, and go up with size and swank. So on Rossco’s evidence that’s similar to Thailand. I gather from expats I have talked to that you can buy a fairly normal condo for about 50,000 to 60,000 USD (correct me if that’s wrong, I’m merely reporting what I was told). In VN you can also get an apartment, two bedroom, for about that same sum. Difference being in VN you cannot own it, but have to have a Vietnamese signatory on all deed documents. In VN provided you have that signatory, you can almost own anything. Well, not own obviously, but sink the funds into. If you have someone you trust (or as many expats do, have a wife or long term partner) you can buy a house in VN, as I did 7 years ago. I purchased land and had a 3 storey 4 bedroom townhouse with full length roof deck built. Cost all up for land and construction: 100,000 USD. To put that in context, I sold my Australian suburban house back then for about 400,000 USD. In this monthly budget context it is necessary to know that since the Global Financial Crisis or a bit after, global food prices have skyrocketed. Here in VN I was paying at that time about 150 USD on local market costs for food, but now pay about 400. Accordingly, water, electricity, gas, petrol, and other prices have begun to creep up in response. Now, none of us know what is going to happen to food prices and consequent costs of living. It is unclear whether this is an upward trend, whether it will begin to bobble about, cycle, drop back down or whatever. So if pondering a move, don’t forget to take such things into account. They are not minor. Secondly, lifestyle. Anyone who reads these forums knows about the Asian lifestyle. Not much more to say really, but for me it is a key factor in determining where I am now located. I am in my regular daily life a rather boring chap, a bit of a recluse, too old now to be bothered carousing or seeking a hedonistic orgy based nightlife. But I still appreciate beauty, and still seek my quiet share of good times. VN is not what it once was, though of course Thailand still is and more. VN was in the 1990s headed down the Thai track. But the government reined that in, said whoa, and pulled out all stops to “prevent VN becoming another Thailand” in the repeated media pronouncements of political spruikers. If however, you learn the subtlety and appreciate it, you can still find in VN pretty much what you want. VN is no longer in your face the way places like BKK and Pattaya are. But if you sniff about, peek under the protective skirts of apparent plainness, the familiar stench is there. I live in the southern suburbs of Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), some 15 minutes by taxi from the centre of town. In a 1 kilometre radius of my house there are roughly 40 large Vietnamese eateries (combo bar and restaurant), 4 massage parlours (big 4 or 5 storey affairs), 20 hairdressers with aircon (a euphemism for small massage parlour with 4 or 5 girls working), and 4 hotels of >6 storeys (the best index of P4P sex in VN, which almost always - 90% anyhow - takes place in hotels). Girls everywhere, about 1,000 I would estimate working in that 1 km radius. Not so much LBs these days. But somewhere near where I live (no-one knows exactly where – we think it’s a state secret) there’s a factory that keeps churning out on a production line wall to wall beauty with pretty petite bumlets, long slim legs, tiny titlets, flashing blue shiny hair, and big cock sucking lips. And a large percentage of them are for sale. Well, that’s drifted me off into sex hasn’t it. Lifestyle is of course about much more than that. There’s beach, there’s mountains, there’s boat rides, there’s motor biking, and all sorts of things readily and cheaply available. For an old codger like me there is also a weird combination, hard to describe to you, of hum and quiet. My place is peaceful, my street more often than not, without noise. But I am only 50m from a main drag where most of the action is. So in a short walk I can get the best of both worlds. I can spend the day quietly reading and writing in my study, then drift out at night to a vibrancy the likes of which I never encountered in my previous life in Australia. And then it is a case of you never know your luck in the big city. Or if I stay home, as I mostly do, I retire to my roof deck with a cask of cheap vin ordinaire, look at the stars or clouds, hunker under the roofed part if it’s raining, taking in the city lights, the sturm und drang of the summer lightning, or merely enjoy the calm mayhem of the busy littleness of the world below. This may sound a bit eccentric, but another lifestyle plus for me is the continual presence of street vendors. So many small things for sale come past my place, household goods from waste bins to brooms, a locksmith’s keys and locks, foodstuffs from rice gruel soup to fresh fruit of all sorts to ice cream to hot corn cobs, the straw mat man, pillows, towels, baby clothes, it just goes on and on. Then there are the re-cyclers who will buy our leftovers and broken junk. In the Sahara Desert that was almost any Australian suburb I lived in, you would have had a heart attack had you ever been interrupted by the sound of a daily vendor going by at three in the afternoon shouting (in VNese) “cabbage, carrots and cauliflower”. You can’t buy that kind of life experience. It’s magic. I eat VNese nosh almost every day, for lunch (their main meal), but in the evenings, unless I’m going out, I eat Aussie/Caucasian dishes, Italian, Indian, Thai (maid taught to prepare all these). In the street my lifestyle means I mostly eat VNese when out, but make sure I get my share of Indian, French, Italian restaurants as well. Finally, what you’re prepared to give up. Well, I enjoyed my career, had a job in Australia that I would not have given up other than to take a better one in the same field at a better institution. That didn’t happen, and in fact, the opposite did. A series of government budget cuts and appalling local management decisions made the area I worked in almost untenable, and while I wasn’t made redundant, many were. I saw the writing on the wall and took early retirement. I decided it was time to live in Asia. So I did give up a job, but in a sense I wasn’t giving up anything in that line for my job was not what it had once been, was no longer enjoyable. But I can well understand anyone with a good job, a good income, being reluctant to pass that by just to move to Ladyboyland. Western lifestyles appeal to many, and I’ve read on the boards about FMs who like life in the UK, the USA, and other places. Fair enough. I lived (permanently) in Australia all my life, so going to live for the long haul somewhere new was exciting and a completely adventurous experience for me. I left Australia with no patriotic regrets. It’s the small things I miss. While the booze and the food here are good and cheap (although food not as it once was), I do miss some things. Examples include roast dinners of chicken lamb pork, good sausages, real hams, chips (here 90% of the time you only get served despicable greasey tasteless French Fries – thanks to both French & American historical influences), especially as genuine Aussie fish & chips, and Aussie meat pies (with peas) and sausage rolls. I have an oven and have taught my maid to grill and roast chicken and pork, but it just isn’t the same somehow. I can’t explain it. I also eat grilled sausages once a week, but the quality here is pathetic compared to real locally made Western butcher’s snags. I miss high quality cheap Australian wine. I drink wine here that is cheap, but it’s mostly rubbish. The import duties on things like wine are in the hundreds of percent, so an el cheapo bottle of low grade Aussie or New Zealand wine, back there 10 bucks, will dint your wallet by perhaps 30 bucks here. Forget it. For that same 30 bucks I can and do get 10 litres of local plonk. I desperately miss a good library. I have a largeish private collection, and spend lots of time reading on the internet, but it’s not the same as venturing into a massive high quality library, sequestered and cool, ancient and modern, and roaming the stacks, choosing unread or favourite things to browse or borrow. So would I move to live permanently in Asia (Thailand in the case of this thread)? No, not Thailand at this stage. Perhaps, after my most recent visit to Pattaya, not ever. But I did once move to VN. Will I stay on? I’m not sure, as things here are not as attractive to me as they once were. But would I want to go back to Australia? No, definitely not.

Thanx Bb, glad you're enjoying it.

Love at first sight (#36) Masturbation never did it for me. Unlike Tulsa who loved it, and depended on it daily. Even as pre- or post-pubescent I always felt it a poor substitute for whatever it was that was the Big Deal. At school we sniggered about the Big Deal that some kids had done while others like to claim they had. Knowing fuckall I kept quiet. I still jerked off of course. Often. Not as often as Tulsa, but I did it enough. I have no idea what was normal because at school we were never able to talk about it. Shy types like me were too shy, the addicts too addickted, the bold types were too bold, merely dismissing it as kid’s stuff. Sometimes I did it so much that I brought myself damage, leaving my poor much loved manikins pink red blistered and subsequently bruised. What have I done, I squealed silently in alarm. But I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t lay on my back in bed for the sheet hurt my wounded rod too much. Ouch! My school pants hurt too. Once at university a fellow student, equally overladen with hormones, enthusiasm and girl naiveté, left my cock in the same state. Except that the blister burst and I retain a small scar on my shaft to this very day. Then in Vietnam five or six years ago an over-enthusiastic gay neighbour came into my kitchen one day when everybody else was out and went home leaving my dick in that same bloated burgundy knackwurst state once more. How, I wondered in anger, can a gay man, who has supposedly cared for cock all his life, behave so carelessly, so ignorantly, leaving a Holy Pole damaged like that? Masturbation – you can have it. During my late thirties and forties I spent a lot of time alone. I was a busy professional, as were most of the people closest to me. Sure we came together for bilateral agreements, even traded in an occasional multi-lateral agreement, but a lot of lone time – even though I was married - was available to me. On the professional side I used this fruitfully for reading, writing, data gathering, thinking. Then I also had free time to myself where I could indulge a due amount of physicality. I found myself, left to my own devices much of the time, really enjoying, for the first time since I was ten or eleven, the fluctuations, moods, alterations, movements and communications of my own dick. Especially did I learn to enjoy and savor the sub-erect state, where my sweet potato seemed to have a special way of always reminding me that he was down there, lolling about, shifting this way and that, tingling, letting little drops of fluid run down the urethra, and even sometimes, though rarely, out into my undies. I still enjoyed rooting immensely, as we all do. But much of it had become mechanical by that age. On the other hand, this business of just enjoying your small man, having his own mind made up about things, doing it his way, gave a satisfying sense of conspiracy in what I began to refer to as auto-sex. No, nothing to do with the back seats of cars. Auto sex is having fun with oneself. Normally when we think of sex with oneself we are meaning masturbation. Yet that is but one component of a whole range of other much more subtle and pleasurable activities you can achieve in your own company. I’ll say some more about this in a future post.

Love at first sight (#35) One of Tulsa’s central pleasures was masturbation. She told me she usually did it at least twice per day every day. Once before going to sleep at night and then another time squeezed in when she could, during the day, fitted around work and daughter commitments. To move this along, while introducing her to more discipline, I initiated a nightly ritual for her. Take an old plastic cup that is no longer used or required in the kitchen. Keep it in your bedroom or toilet where daughter won’t unwittingly go to drink from it. This is your pee cup. Each night on showering and preparing for bed, toilet, keeping a small amount of your piss in the cup. Start with very small amount; we can grow the volume over time. Then kneel in the classic submissive position (we had already discussed poses and body positions, which a trained slut is to move to upon command). This is the kneel position And this is kneel position being put into action You will spend about fifteen minutes each evening in this position, naked, beside your bed or some other comfortable private place, where you will put all else out of your mind except slut sex. I told her I did not care what she thought about for those 15 minutes, but it had to be sexual, and the dirtier and the more it used her and even violated her, the better. Almost a salacious meditation of sorts. Time up, she was to drink the piss. At first this was just a mouthwash to get used to the warmth and the taste. Then when you feel you can add a gargle, do a full deep throat gargle. Finally, when you can, drink it down. Then go to bed. Stay naked. (We had agreed to re-negotiate her clothing and her nakedness come winter.) In your mind ask me, Master may slut cum? Imagine me acceding (as I give slut blanket permission to cum every night). Thank you Master. Then masturbate. Thank you Master, again, for having slut cum. Then sleep. A nice easy ritual, which she put in place eagerly. Over time she told me of some of the fantasies she thought about during the 15 mins. Interesting. Also, at whatever other time of day she masturbated, she was to do the seeking permission, thanking, niceties. She was gradually being culturally constructed as a slut, and loving it. Having no knickers along with a shaved twat, she found she was that little bit extra horny, gusts of air wafting up against her cunt flaps keeping her fully aware of her naked vulnerability down there. She even commenced masturbating at work sometimes, in private moments, or in the loo. Gradually we built it up to where she was masturbating 3, 4, even 5 times a day. While all this was happening we worked on other aspects of her submission as well. For example, I had begun to issue orders about what clothes she was to wear. She would forewarn me if she was due for some travel or high powered meeting that necessitated certain clothing. But other than that it became my call, and I laid out my desires for the following few days, a couple of times a week. She obeyed. So it went. She stayed the course for months, getting sluttier and sluttier, and loving it.

Yes Lefty, Hunter S. Thompson dedicated The Great Shark Hunt to Richard Milhous Nixon "who never let me down". Exactly Right (ha good pun I didn't intend): Republicans will never let you down. Full of anti everything we all want and think of as normal, yet so sanctimonious, stinking god damm hypocrites full on.

If our Ken could delight His LBs would cum faster than light He'd suck cock on one day In a relative way And swallow the previous night

Love at first sight (#34) As Jay Wiseman says in SM101, “a pervert is anyone kinkier than you are.” But what he also writes over and over, all that goes down and comes up has to be consensual. So the details were worked out between Tulsa and I, making sure that she was in a larger comfort zone while at the same time trying creatively to push the boundaries of her detail comfort zone. So, some kinky detail was to follow. If she saw me as a pervert, so be it. Example. I asked for an inventory of her current clothes, daily professional wear, home relaxing wear, social life wear, sleep wear. I had decided to take over her daily apparel decisions, to which she had agreed readily. Example. I knew she wore the choker (see an earlier post), and wanted her to maintain that. As did she. Example. I gave her 2 -3 days at period time to wear knickers each month, but apart from that she was to abandon them. She eagerly responded that she often went knickerless, by her own choice, as it turned her on greatly. Bingo! It was looking like we were on a wavelength. Example. I ordered her to shave her muff. We talked about her hair growth rates, and decided on frequency of shaves to keep her hairless down there. (I forget now how often, but I know from other similar GGs it would need to be at least every other day.) Example. As she was a professional person working around other high powered professionals we could get away with Knickerless Knickerbe, but no amount of Dickensian prose could justify to her colleagues her being braless. They would simply think her an unworthy hussey, Michael. She just had to wear a bra to work. A compromise was to abandon it any time she could, like going shopping alone at the local, or to the movies. Example. As long as the weather was suitable, she was to be naked any time she was at home alone. I knew she could not do this with daughter around, but when she could she was to do it. Example. Did she paint her nails? Sometimes. I wanted her to look more like a slut, while maintaining her balance as a professional. Could she do this? She thought she could. OK, a trial run, of painting her toenails all the time, but keeping them freshly done and looking good, not slovenly neglected. I preferred harsh tones like slut pillar box red or slut flat white, none of this soft gentle pastel coloured stuff or clear wash. As a professional as well as a slut, no finger nail paint, toes only. She thought that sounded good. I was beginning to get her physically as I desired a slut to be.

Love at first sight (#33) I learned as a young scientist from the late great Stephen Jay Gould that the key to being on top of your field was attention to detail. You could have all the high flying ideas under the sun (and youngsters have a few, I can tell you), but what brought you the best results and the cleanest most accurate picture of the world was detail. Gould’s own hero was the one and only Charles Darwin whose magnum opus The Origin of Species is probably the quintessential text for seeing respect for detail put to work in the progress of important and great ideas. So what Tulsa and I were beginning was a form of discipline – for that’s what domination and submission are about - bound up in attention to detail. Like I said in previous posts I am not going into vast tales of this; I will merely give some examples, Anticipating Reader, so you get an idea of what went down. She was to submit to me a list of her desires, what turned her on most, what she responded to, what she wanted. For example, I knew already from her story about her main man she met as a teenager, the one who tied her to the coffee table, two things: i) that she needed to be called slut; and ii) that she did not respond all that well to being fucked via the cunt, but preferred it up the arse, especially if she was able to masturbate herself concurrently. (A corollary was that she very enjoyed masturbation.) As we were working online we started there. She was to give me a daily email report of how she had carried out her wishes and my instructions. We would also chat on any evenings available to both of us. In all email traffic and chat messages she was to be ultra polite to me, showing respect, by referring to me as Sir (with capital S) after which, whenever she felt comfortable and ready, she would graduate to referring to me as Master (with capital M). She was to refer to herself and be called by me slut (with lower case s). These style choices symbolized both my dominance and her lowly state. She was to eliminate personal pronouns from her speech to me. So from that time on, when talking with me, she was not to use I me my or mine, but rather something impersonal such as it or its (or slut’s). This removal of first person pronouns from submissives is standard text book convention, symbolizing the loss by the submissive of personal status, and injecting a feel of object-ness. In fact I would quite freely make mention of her slut status as a sex object for me, hence I never referred to her as you or yours either, but slut, and slut’s or its when referring to anything she owned or used. I also forewarned Tulsa that certain polite conventions were being abandoned regarding body parts and bodily functions. Delicate terms such as vagina, anus, breasts, sexual intercourse, urination were taboo. She was to use at all times, as would I, the grubby standards of rough talk: cunt, fuck, tit, cock, piss, etcetera, so wude we were. A quick and eager learner, Tulsa took to all this like a dick to whoreter. Her emails began to express delight and satisfaction with how things were going.

Me too. I thought it was a town in Western Australia.

It may be from Japan, I don't know. I just stumbled across it unsourced.

Ah, the Monty Hall problem. This one I can't reply to Tomcat for I know it and its solution well. However, I have to say that I remain among the sceptics (and there are many of us) concerning the standard solution. I have read elegant proofs and understand them. But have yet to see someone explain why the posterior probability relating to door C can change (after the goat has been revealed by Monty behind door but the same cannot be said for option A. Why is posterior probability necessarily a non-democratic property? If it were democratic then as prob C changes then so is prob A allowed to change. That is, as the sceptics avow, as prob C changes from 1/3 then so may prob A change from 1/3. Each to a half in this case. Which leaves us with posterior probabilities, given a goat behind B, in each case (A & C) of 1/2. O well, the argument goes on and on...

Love at first sight (#32) Exegetical Reader, as we saw at the end of last week, so central was Ruth to me back then that I had even begun to dream about my Bay Bee LB. The Book of Ruth clunked across my Barnes Auto synapses (“we never sleep”) in all its skeletal core cameos of chapter and verse, up to its gumboots in godfaring goodness, and as happens in all dreams, it was accompanied by a weird jumble of assorted bits and pieces that look like they’d been dragged home by a cultural towtruck. According to that Old Testament text link the LB loved me and would have followed me anywhere, died when I died. Ha! No wonder they say: in ya dreams. Tulsa meanwhile, online in the chat room, asked me to run her avatar’s sex life for her. She never talked love, but was much more promising, and not in dreams either. I realize I am running a risk here taking you on this slight detour Devouring Reader, for it is most certainly not everybody’s cup of pee. But then I have never been that physical, even in my younger days. And as many of you now know, my accounts on these LB sites are not heavily reflective of the non-stop pounding pumping cunt-conquering or bumhole bonking genre typical of many other TRs. O that stuff’s there, but other activities capers nuances rate higher for me. A man of my type is easily attracted to mind games. I enjoy these situations vastly, getting inside someone else’s neurons so you can eventually get inside their panties. To push someone beyond their limits, making them do things they would otherwise never do or think of doing. But which, once done bring immeasurable pleasure to them and to all concerned. I have never yet found a LB willing to play these games (except First from Pook Buakhao in Pattaya – see my 2nd TR - who, in liking the whip showed promise). But there are sure to be some out there. However, there are lots and lots of GGs, like Tulsa, who just love it and, what’s more, need it. Often, from the apparently straight images they show to society, you’d never guess. Until you haul back the hem of the sweetness they wear like a skirt that is, whence from underneath wafts a familiar yet surprising stench of a weariness with stale innocence, an aroma that signals avid willingness, excitement and determination. For those who do not know, I must insist at the outset that you never assume submissive girls (or any gender for that matter) like Tulsa are somehow wimpy, immature, know-nothing people with a craving to be bullied by any agro ill-bred yobbo with hairs flaring from his nostrils and other parts of his pimply pudge, who just happens to stumble along wearing, like Auntie Jack, a boot ready to be sunk in. Quite the opposite is true. Tulsa was an articulate strong young woman who knew clearly what she wanted. She was as sexually adventurous as anyone I have never met. And she had the quick wit and intelligence to make it happen in interesting ways. It was simply that what she wanted was to be a sexual submissive. I was up for helping her with that. However, I will not even attempt to go into all the details of what happened between us. For there are doubtless BMs and FMs who know about this stuff, have tried it themselves. Then there are other BMs and FMs who will not be remotely interested. But I’ll gamble, and hope, Favourite Readers, that there are a few of you who might find it alternative enough, new enough, to accept a few details to at least titillate and captivate for a short while. Essentially what Tulsa and I were embarking upon was a relationship – and keep in mind always that it was only online, no more – that involved four key interlocking and mutually dependent properties. The first and most important was obedience. It meant Tulsa setting out limits within which she was prepared to be obedient to me. Linked to this in obvious but crucial ways was power. Within those same limits she had to be prepared to hand me the power over decision making in certain areas of her life, areas designated by her. The third and fourth were interlinked also, and crucial for the other two. These were respect and trust. We had to respect each other. She to show it to me as the controller of her actions, me to not treat her in any way detrimentally. And we had to trust each other to ensure all this would happen in an ethical and enjoyable way. I had a duty of care to ensure she was not hurt or harmed. Now that all sounds easy and straightforward. But I can tell you it took a couple of months of serious getting to know one another, gaining confidence, particularly her becoming confident in my abilities and my character, as well as my agenda (which was all the while to have sexual enjoyment by providing maximum sexual enjoyment for her). Trust in all contexts takes time to build. So we took our time. We actually talked several times about one or both of us flying to the other’s city in order to meet in the flesh. But it didn’t work out, as you can imagine for two committed professionally employed people with busy lives. Tulsa was always polite, for she had come onto me remember, and was keen to once again have a power broker controlling her avatar’s life.

I haven't come across it before Tomcat, but the logic you refer to seems to rely on your initial statement that it is a long run process. That is, any switch after looking will yield, as you say, the punter 1.25 of the hidden purse over the long run. Proved by your initial statements, if A = a, then the switch is either 2a or a/2. Long run average = 1.25a. (Given your initial amount of a = 10). But you also seem to imply the punter is only offered one punt. Whereby surely the one-off punter will not win in this way, but only 50% of the time. For them it does seem indeed more sensible to stop after 1 punt when the other amount is unknown (20 or 5), and cannot be hunted long run. However, as you also seem to be talking long run, if the punter switches without looking, there is no initial amount (10,000), and the punter, once switched, gets from B an amount, let's say b which is over the long run n X b, which if in any state where b > a, must over the long haul be larger than n X a. But, if b < a, ... That's a bit muddled, I know. Please post the proof (eventually after enough replies). +1 for a top idea for a thread.

I came across this novel way to ensure handwash in bars, restaurants, etcetera, it cute pissoir. It struck me straight away that it might be a method for old lag LoS FMs with time on their hands or others who want to migrate and set up in business, to make a quid or a buck. A bit of investment, not too much I would think, would see tool up, ingredients, labour, all sorted out. Then moulds could be set, plastic or fibre glass items sent out for sale in their squillions. As shown in the pic for GG bars and straight restaurants, or a slightly different model with a pound of brawn between the legs for LB bars. Punters would be lining up for handwash. Businesses would be lining up to buy the product. how to ensure hand wash.bmp

I've given quite a few minutes over the past 24 hours to mulling this post azza (I'm a slow thinker), tossing up between how damn good the advice is and how much daring do I have, ie can I hold my nerve for 6 months with only one leg booked, waiting for another sale opportunity, or will I wimp out, give in and book expensive? I'll mull some more as I've got 24 more hours before sale closes, but for now it's +1 from me. The kind of advice you just can't buy at a travel agent or online, so bold but so crystal clear. Can I hold my nerve but ...?

Chiedo scusa PANICOS! Non prendertela, era solo uno scherzo. I already said no offence to PANICOS in English. It was just a joke - I can't help myself. I typed "tryping era" for "typing error" not only to make folks laugh but to show we are all capable of typos. But as usual the joke appears to have gone over like a lead balloon. Anyhow, not being in the Old Boys' Club, how am I to know anyone's Italian if you don't tell me? Io sto imparanado. I'ho non sentito dalla sua viva voce.

Bad Moon Rising, Fortunate Son, Travellin Band, Proud Mary, Green River... o god it just goes on and on and on. I loved that band. I had them on vinyl - you know, those round plastic black things that made sound when you spun them around, back in the Pleistocene - yes I am an aged gent - and one record had a version of Born on the Bayou that went for something like 17 minutes. My goodness that was Superb. But don't be too quick to dismiss the later Fogerty work lads. I thought Centrefield was good as anything he'd ever done, a cluster of wonderful and - as always - politically acute songs. Mr Greed, Rock n Roll Girls, I Caint Helpa Myself... He was nearly 50 years old when he wrote and performed all that. Being neither American nor a baseballophile didn't stop me thinking the title track was bloody marvellous, singing along with it late at night at the top of my (squeaky) voice when drunk. Roundun third and headun for home He's a brown eyed handsome man... Put me in coach I'm ready to play today Put me in coach I'm ready to play today Look at me, I can be Centrefield

Love at first sight (#31) Naomi, she said to me, I’m too love you. Ruth, my beautiful Ruth, I replied. Are you really the ancestor of Jesus? I’m everything to you, Ruth said. You sure are baby, and I will love you till I die, and then if it’s possible to love after that, I will love you forever. You are the light of my life, the fire that burns in my heart and my loins. You are the centerpiece of any great art I aspire to make, now and in the future. You are the holy pinnacle of my aims and desires, the anchor that keeps me moored to this weary frustrating existence, chained to the dock of a frenzied craven creativity, you are the sea change that has brought freshness into my life, a new current of viable hopeful energized capacity washing all over me. When there was famine in the land and in my life, when things were as barren as they could be, when I was forced to emigrate to overcome burdens and hurdles, pits of snakes and ponds full of crocodiles, there you were Ruth, in my life. I’m love you too, Ruth billed and cooed, kissing me gently. But I’m marry Marlon Brando. I’ll still love you Ruth, I cried. Even if you Sayonara. Where’s Wally? But Marlon die, mumbled Ruth through shuddering cock suckers. I thought she was going to cry. I’m going back to Casablanca, I added, here’s lookun at you kid. Ruth pledged: Wherever you go, I go. Wherever you live, I live. When you die, I die. Back home I hit the barley. Half drunk most times, all drunk the rest. Then Papa Boas offered me a job at Columbia. But it’s my Rootie Root who’s really big, I answered. Help me make her a star, set her on the right path to culture and personality. You fool, he admonished, get thee hence, to Samoa or some shithole like New Guinea. Start yourself an argument, throw out some crap about +1s. Papa, I exclaimed and felt suddenly empty, as if my Reputation had vanished. Who are you, Boas asked. I’m Ruth, Ruth replied. Then marry me, Boas ordered. Shocked, I got out of bed, walked next door to the bathroom, looked in the mirror. Martin Luther King stared back at me. I have a dream, he intoned.

Thanx again to willie, and thanx also to pacman. I switch between first person "I" and third person "Ken" quite a bit don't I? Just my style I guess. Hope you can cope.