KenW

Love at first sight (#21) Hilary Buxton burst into my office at 8 in the morning. I didn’t know whether she was going to attack me or attack me. Terrified of the former I looked about, making sure there were no sharp implements on my desk. She attacked me alright, in the latter manner, laying down a sex event that is ever memorable to me for its sheer audacity, its bizarre wantonness, its bravura brazenness. The interlude beneath Mr Buxton’s snoring, me kneetremblingbent pushing into the Suet Canal of a potential new middle eastern crisis, Buxton’s gooey sea lane sat upon a director’s chair, was to become my all time #2 Top sex event. So much fear inserted inside forbidden fruit. What I am about to describe, the follow up, was different altogether. Not a Top list event, but quite a one nevertheless, as it can also be characterized by the presence of two of those three most important attributes of Ken’s great sex events: fear & forbidden fruit. Now, it was in my office, at 8 in the morning Tut-tutting Reader, in a professional institution, a time when phones are ringing, fifty emails lay waiting to be answered, students and staff striding up and down corridor, busyness bustling, doors being knocked on. Hilary Buxton doesn’t care a hoot. It was you I wanted, she hissed as ruthlessly as if she had just told me she was about to kill me. All the time Burge was fucking me, she said, it was you I was thinking about, you I was wanting. Didn’t you see me looking at you? (During that event that evening I had purposely averted my gaze from Hilary’s as Burge fucked her, fearing that if we made eye contact, as she lost control close to or during orgasm she might yell out: Ken, o Ken!) Then she added: You feel it too, don’t you? Hilary, ah, … Before I could say anymore she had reached back, closed my office door, secured the lock, dropped to her knees on the carpet in front of me, undone my zipper and gone for my manikins. Hilary Buxton sucked me off and drank me down. Thankfully nobody knocked on my locked door. She stood up, gave me a huge slurpy post-cum kiss, opened my office door, then took off. It was 2-level forbidden fruit, this time not only because she was another man’s wife, but also, secondly, in this context, on this campus, in this office, she was a graduate student, a person for whom I held professional responsibility, over whom I was supposed to exercise duty of care. Instead of that there’s Ken the pentapod with his foot of brawn shoved well and truly down Hilary Buxton’s meat-craving throat. Jeezuz. That terrified me. Imagine had my Dean or some other Big Knob been trying to see me. I exaggerate a little, for it was reasonably well known around the building that my door closed meant I was not there, in a meeting, in class, whatever, for my door was always open when I was in the office. So in reality a dean or whoever would have gone away and returned later, or as is much more likely, phoned first to see if I was in. A student would have certainly gone away. But nevertheless, with the flurry of thoughts that shoot across your synapses at such times, often noisy signals that do not come down the line clearly, my fear was palpable that we would be sprung. That would mean me being called up before the honchos and carpeted, maybe even threatening my job. Fear, abject fear, of 2-level forbidden fruit.

I burp a lot, but as kids we were told that informed the cook the nosh was good. Besides, Vietnamese burp and fart all the time too, so I feel at home. (This thread is applicable to much more than just Thailand, but there's no other place to locate it.) I was in a lunch eatery last time I was in Pattaya, Second Road, eating alone. At the next table was an old falang, about my vintage. He spoke with the waitstaff in a heavily accented English that I would reckon meant he was from either Scandanavia or one of the other northern continental European areas. I took little notice. Finished my meal, I sipped on a chilled glass of white. Looking around, enjoying the cultural inputs and the waitstaff beauty, I was suddenly stunned to focus on what this guy was now doing. His meal finished also, he sat there, and using the knife he had attacked his food with, he began to clean the filth from under his fingernails. I thought jeezuz, that's the last lunch I eat here. Tomorrow I might have that very knife to stick into my chicken, garnished with Danish ex-fingernail muck. No thanks. For if the Thais are as haphazard as the Vietnamese when it comes to kitchen utensil cleanliness, who knows what I might be savoring as flavour. I have my disgisting little quirks. But I thought that one was sub-par.

Winston S. Churchill was at a state banquet, running off at the foul mouth as was his wont. A plum in mouth dowager half way down the table suddenly exclaimed: "Mr Churchill, I do believe you're drunk!" "That's correct madam" replied the ex-PM, "and you're ugly. But in the morning I'll be sober, while you'll still be ugly."

Love at first sight (#20) You are the most beautiful (Bee Yootiful) thing in the whole world, I said. I’m poor, said the most beautiful thing in the whole world, give me money. There has never been anyone to match your beauty. I gave money. Give me more money. I gave more money. Give my mother money. I gave mother money. Beauty took all this, pleased with itself, as beauty does. Charlie had by now forgiven Mabel for the fake farcical ST stopover at the mini hotel. We would, in those early days, meet up in an eatery, a bar or a streetside food stall, him always arriving in company, with another LB, a faggot gay boy or two. He would happily sit with me for an hour or so, eating drinking (his freeloading company doing likewise) at my expense. But then the pester would begin. I’m so poor. My mother poor, no have money. My mother owe money, must pay. You give me money. I would give him a small amount, whereupon he would abuse me like I was a pariah dog slinking to a nearby rat drain. I would give more. All smiles, he would then plant a big slurpy kiss on me and announce that he had to go now, as he had jobs to do for his mother. This behaviour pattern began to hurt me very quickly, leaving me vexed and sighing. I’m a bit slow, as thick as a painter’s plank, Judging Reader. But neither so slow nor so thick that I didn’t know well and truly what was going down here. Such is love’s transgression. “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears, What is it else? A madness most discreet…” That’s Romeo (Act I, Scene I) echoing exactly where I was and what I was going through, my state of mind and my state of heart. I have no doubt, Analytic Reader, that I was mad. (Maybe still am.) A madness not so discreet. I used to hear the eatery owner where we spent most of our time say to the boy in Vietnamese: the old foreigner loves you so much. (And she was only going on actions, not anything I had ever said to her.) The boy would just smile like a fisherman proud of his day’s catch. But such is love’s transgression that even though I knew full well what I was doing, and more importantly what he was doing and about to do further to me, I plummeted headlong at the speed of light along with it. Einstein on his beam. Talk about being conned by a LB. Tell me about it. But you have to understand my dilemma was, Nodding Reader, I was not being conned. I knew what was going on. My vision was 2020 in broad bright daylight. I was giving willingly. Well, not exactly willingly, as I was not pleased at giving so much and getting so little. But like Melville, I had seen into this boy’s soul and I knew goodness when I saw it. Albeit that this was warped goodness, a spirit bent and twisted by an evil mother who thought nothing of setting her baby to procuring, and caring not a fig how he came about the loot, as long as it got carried home to her. Caring not a fig who got trashed along the way. I hoped to change that. This, Cynical Reader, was my folly. Not that I was being conned (I wasn’t). Not that I was besotted (I was), not that I was giving lots for little (I was). My sheer utter helplessness was based around this hapless hope that I could change him, could make him see the way to goodness, to decency, to a certain morality we in many Western cultures take pride in, a morality based around honesty, honourableness and (dare I the heathen invoke the christian version) doing unto others. He had become my project. My work in progress. Despite being a grumpy old fart, people who know me well and have done so for decades or years assure me I am a gentle man, a kind man, a warm man, a considerate man, a generous man. To Vietnamese who see you coming along all that translates into is one word: sucker. That’s the kind of culture it is. I knew that. I’m supposed to be an expert. Ha, I would reply when folks would say that, an expert is when an ovary explodes. (And nongs like me who have their moosh too close end up with egg all over our faces.)

Well if there are gods, and they are of the Creator kind, we can thank them for: genital herpes Hodgkins lymphoma non-Hodgkins lymphoma mosquitoes tuberculosis Japanese B encephalitis meningitis acne eczema mesothelioma tsunamis soft tissue sarcoma colon cancer shaving volcanic eruptions ticks fleas midges mites Alzheimer's Parkinson's earthquakes tornados malignant melanoma pus hookworm toothache crosseyes flies schistosoma giardia box jellyfish Bubonic plague brain tumors tapeworm prostate cancer stonefish incontinence bad back tetanus testicular cancer malaria acute nephritis elephantiasis sinusitis the common cold ingrown toenails crocodiles freckles red hair buck teeth deafness snot conjunctivitis congenital blindness cleft palate shit dogshit cowshit bullshit baldness ageing dying ...etcetera, so sweet god were

Agree with that dt.

Nice pix Bb. Som is good fun. A big lump of a girl but a laugh a minute. I'd like to go with her sometime just to see what damage she'd do me. Apple is a lovely quiet kid, or she was when I met her anyhow. I'd like to go with her too, for completely different reasons. Seemed like a real sweetie. Don't know the other two.

Thanx Sam & Larry. All sounds good.

And, I suppose I have to ask don't I? Lin! Who is that nurse with the perfect feet?

Well it's whatever turns us on. And here's a weirdo confession if ever there was one: forget the costumes, any will do, what turns me on most in this thread so far is that left foot of the nurse in the second pic of Lin's photo sequence. Genetically perfect. I do adore a great slut foot. Oops...embarrassment

I've only been twice so no authority, but for my tastes Sally's is the best LB place I have sat in and enjoyed in the Pattaya Jomtien complex. Now to hear about another top LB bar in Jomtien adds to the magnetic pull of that area.

Love at first sight (#19) We had been out, a bunch of us from the department, staff and graduate school. Dining, wining, who knows what, I cannot recall. But whatever, we ended up back at the flat of one of our number, who I’ll call Margaret. Today I can name 6 of us present, but have no idea who the others were, damaged brain cells, about 8 or 10 in all. More strong drink. It is the wee hours. I don’t know why but suddenly I found need to assert my authority (at that time I functioned, Scholastic Reader, as titular head of department). I was ensconced in an arm chair at one end of the small room. I want to see Hilary Buxton fucked, I growled sternly. That was a conversation killer. The sound system thumped on, but from those in attendance suddenly not a sound, all silent expectant eyes now on me. I think everybody present should fuck Hilary Buxton, I continued, right now, right here on Margaret’s carpet. Then when we’ve all had a go, and she still wants more, I’ll find some beer bottles, table legs or whatever that we can continue with. Much grinning and chatter. People sitting crossed legged on carpet came up with cacophonous cackles, made multifarious moanings with nodding nudges noting dumbstruck state of Burge Buxton’s staring shell shocked eyes that somehow failed to match the leering lecherous leaning lower lip of his wife. Yea, go Hilary, they cried. Let’s do it. Etcetera, up for sex we were. Ten minutes of drunken heavy deliberation negotiation followed. Buxton as I remember, held no major objection (she most certainly would have wanted me inside her again), but Mr Burge Buxton played the role of party pooper, whistle willy wet blanket. Perhaps he suspected something. Being a territorial dog. Maybe he was just jealous. A compromise was reached. Burge would fuck Hilary Buxton, while we all watched. Jeezuz, I complained, where’s the fun in that? You can do that any old time. (I was tossing out bravado, being a git, for I’m a voyeur and the act of watching other people fuck has always been high on my list of likes.) So they strip off and Burge the macho man makes sure all the women present get a good 360 degree view of his body and his bone as he struts around prior. Buxton merely lays on her back legs open waiting. Then he fucks her. Plain old missionary pumping pounding. Cums quick. Much yahooing guffawing and caterwauling from the audience. Maybe an odd boo. Clapping at climax. Buxton red faced. Hilary Buxton fucked by her husband, in public, well, not exactly in public, but with 6 or 8 folks watching anyhow. An ordinary sex event in The Remotes.

A report in today's Sydney Morning Herald http://www.smh.com.au/travel/travel-incidents/thai-mystery-seven-tourists-die-after-falling-ill-20110426-1duee.html tells of 1 Thai local and 7 tourists dying this year of a mystery illness, thought to be poisoning. I think 6 of them (or 5) were staying in the Downtown Inn. Local authorities in denial.

Thanx Larry, I know and have used your helpful Thai and Indonesian lists and the links there. I have also used Search & Advanced Search before, but didn't think to try the kind of URLs you provide in those links. Thanx again. (My hopeless Search terms produced nothing) I had never seen the Home button. My computer skills are pretty ordinary, below passing grade. But your Help skills are excellent and much appreciated.

Love at first sight (#18) I was to sweat over Buxton on more occasions before she was finished with me. Mostly in her children’s bedrooms, once in my spare bedroom (yes, the same spot where Lee’s wonderful cock was unveiled), but one memorable time underneath her house (Top sex event #2). This was at the culmination of a margaritas and bullshit party, blithering and reveling, after husband Burge got a late night call from his boss to say that something urgent was wanted by the Minister, and he, Burge, and he the boss, would have to prepare it early in the morning as the M wanted it by nine o’clock. I know it’s a big night, I know it’s the weekend, I know you’re partying, I’m dining out too. Just get to bed and get in here early, OK. O shit, OK will do, if we must, bloody hell. A night of confusion and errors. So Burge goes to bed and snores through the wooden floorboards directly above the tequila and lime drinkers’ heads. The grog and the bullshit take their toll, and revelers drift off home, leaving the drunk and horny Buxton and the drunk and horny Ken, sipping and making eyes, Ken’s big glowing brown, Buxton’s deadsea bluegrey, below the snoring eyesclosed Mr Buxton, to live through the consequences of the dynamism of opposing forces, every reaction being to an action, each mass having a force of its own, propelling Ken at an inclination towards the seated Buxton, knees up against her shoulders, tits under her chin, barefeet spread on the edge of the canvas director’s chair she was inhabiting like a wolf its lair, angle of the dangle, when Galilei rolled his balls down an inclined plane, Buxton, by putting down her margarita flute, slips her red dress up around her hips and flips her knickers away onto the cement underhouse floor, black curly triangle like a pirate’s patch, covers an eye slit that winks at Ken, Ken winks back, winker and winkee, allies in cahoots, I know the next step in this twostep is mine, my glass goes down carefully, along with trousers, something else comes up carefully, and kneetremblingbent insertion of solid into fluid medium fills Buxton up with the salty cocktail she has desired all night long, and makes her face red, makes her feel equally hot and good all over, according to Pascal’s principle, as they go at it, Ken & WWW, tremble tremble, slushy slurpy, paw paw, craw craw, more more, snore snore, pistons pump in time with Mr Buxton, engines hum, ooo nooo, moo moo, aaa maaa, moans groaned in time with pistons with red faced pressure according to Pascal, and according to Mr Buxton, inhaling exhaling, snore gnore, creak creak, canvas and wooden frame of director’s chair nearly give, but don’t, just, hold till done. She redfaced, gasping hasping, fish on the bank, mouth open, gills flapping, speechless, eyes wide, he jellylegged, exhausted, sober now, confronting his night of errors, terrified that Mr Burge Buxton is either a) awake and has heard it all while pretending to snore, and is about to emerge from upstairs with a carving knife with which to gut Ken, or has just woken up, suspicious of a dream he just had whereby his wife and some guy were fucking while he was sleeping, and will emerge from upstairs with a carving knife with which to gut Ken, or c) one of the boys has woken up and is just telling Daddy that Mummy’s crying moaning groaning downstairs somebody must be hurting her, and Mr Burge will emerge from upstairs with a carving knife with which to gut Ken, or d) all of the above. I have to go, that was so dangerous, I could be killed, I’m risking my life, I just risked my life, get to bed, I gotta get outa here. Don’t go, redfaced wants more, you felt it didn’t you, one more, I need more of you in me, more, redface is out of control, in the grip of chemical release, addictive chemical release, the vessel walls where an equal effect was everywhere felt, wants more, is crazy. You crazy, I have to go, he’ll kill me. You feel it don’t you? Kill both of us maybe, seeya I peck her red cheek and run, literally run, off down the road to safety and sleep.

Thanx Larry. I've sent IM and email, but it's only been two girls I've tried to contact thus far. On a related issue to that, I cannot find a way to access their profiles from inside the site; that is, once I'm signed in. Ordinary member profiles yes, from the members button. But those special LB profiles, no. I can of course get to them from the front page before I sign in.

Boo hoo. I cry for you Agent Tina (code name ...) :rolleyes:

LB Central sounds like my go. Is that why you refer to your town as CMX: Chiang Mai Xcellent? I'm into anonymity. Except where it concerns alcohol. What's the opposite of Alcoholics Anonymous, by the way, is it Alcoholics Anthusiastic Alcoholics Aupublique Alcoholics Alfresco Alcoholics Amundo ...?

They might be cute but they're also silent. None of them reply to my messages or emails. Is it me? O dear...

Love at first sight (#17) I said I would not burden you Poor Reader, with all of my Top 5 sex events, and I won’t. But over recent days it has increasingly itched at me to tell you about #2, for it is now, to me, in hindsight of the years gone by, the most amusing, while being the most crazy interlude I have ever been involved in. And it concerns a GG. Or more correctly a WWW, a wild willful woman. This happened around about the same time as my top night with Lee the Aussie LB, give or take a year or two. I was working in a small department in a small regional university in smalltown Australia. Apart from my research and regular teaching commitments, I supervised a team of graduate students doing their own advanced research projects on track for doctoral or master’s degrees. The WWW, who I’ll call Hilary Buxton, was one of these graduate students. She was in her early to mid thirties at the time, a mother of two, with a husband who was a medium shot public servant. She had a sexual appetite befitting a Rottweiler awaiting callers. It is fair to say she devoured. In the old days, when they made movies, the bloke running the show, the director, used to have a chair on the set specially reserved for him. It was a foldup folddown carryaround chair, with a light unpainted wooden frame held together by riveted bits of metal that overlapped on their rivet axis when the frame was folded, and expanded and clicked into alignment when the frame was opened. Strung across the frame was a strip of canvas which functioned as the seat. And strung across the back posts of the frame, was another strip of canvas that provided back support. On this was usually stenciled in large capital letters: DIRECTOR. Hence this style of chair, which has become vastly popular in Australia for outdoor living, around the pool, in barbecue areas, downstairs, in gardens, or for taking in the car to set up and watch cricket, have a picnic, or camping trip, has taken the name: director’s chair. As we’ll see the director’s chair was to have a place of central significance in my history of Top & laughable sex events. Hilary Buxton’s husband, Burge, a mid-ranking public servant, with degrees in mathematics and economics, handsome, charming, a smooth talker, internationally experienced, liked to mix with folks Buxton told him were good to mix with. Husband and wife had travelled a lot, and considered themselves good company, as well as urbane witty intellectual hosts. When Buxton got the hots for some boy, she would take him home, make out like he was some new interesting toy that husband and wife should charm and be charmed by, share margaritas with, travel stories with, big ideas with, barbecue with, and ultimately, Buxton would share her ample brown bosom and Suet Canal with. Happily and willingly I got caught up in this circle. We would sit around on Saturday nights eating barbie nosh and drinking margaritas, talking bullshit. In director’s chairs under Buxton’s high blocked suburban house. You feel it too, don’t you, she queried. I was mystified, feeling like I’d missed the first part of the conversation. You feel it too, don’t you, she inquired every time we were alone. Eventually Buxton took me home, mid-afternoon, weekday, into her son’s bedroom, and had me sideways on the child’s bed. I was terrified. Buxton told me I was the next big thing in her life. You feel it too, don’t you? She was tired of her husband and wanted to move on. O he’s a nice guy and all that, but I’m bored. She saw the future involving her and me. The Dynamic Duo, Fatman & Nobbun. What if your husband comes home from work, I retorted, returning to the prosaic. What if the neighbours saw us arrive and tell your husband? What if your boys come home from school? Buxton was cool as the cucumber that was me entering her. I came quick, then left. Boy, was I sweating.

That's excellent Lung. Thank you. Much appreciated. Yeh, I think it would be fun to head up there knowing I don't have to watch my behaviour like on those olden day trips, can relax, sniff out a LB or five. (Are there that many in CM?)

I would prefer January or February - not fussy about exact date therein.

I voted for # 15 Pookie. She looks nice, and I'm a sucker for spectacles - the librarian look.