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KenW

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Love at first sight (#27)

What ranks a sex event?

For Tulsa, aka slut, being tied to a coffee table with a vibe inserted, then flogged, rated as the best sex event ever. Sounds of Orgasm Incorporated. Climax Pty Ltd. D&S Inc.

I realised why that time in the director’s chair had made it into my short list of top sex events. Sex events have no intrinsic quality. They are of the form: foreplay act climax, and vary according to how subjectively good each of those components may feel at the time for the participant or participants plural multiple. If they involve more than one participant: how skilled is the partner, how well participants gel together, spark, the chemistry, how much one was or both or all were longing for the event, how much time had elapsed since the previous event, or elapsed waiting for an initial event, etcetera, it sex by score.

Or, secondly, how the gestalt event was represented in feelings, nerve endings, memory banks, because of whatever circumstances prevailed on the occasion, attached themselves to the event, its environment, etcetera, wet slit adore.

The character of the three stages can play some part in the feeling one has towards a particular sex event. For example, many people talk about foreplay as though it is something special and crucial to good sex. Participants in sex events often like to undertake long periods of slurping kissing slopping lapping licking holding squeezing fondling caressing rubbing sucking. Then they relate perceived quality of the event to this, or at least to this component as a critical part of the complete event.

I don’t care for foreplay. I am not of the above school. I liken it to savagery.

Buxton liked foreplay, foreplay done to her. But on foreplay she had to do, she was not so keen. She was fair as many are, at cock sucking, for example, but refused to do it - apart from that one outrageously daring time in my office - unless, upon her instruction, I entered her first, drove into her belly a few times, and withdrew. Then upon a member wet with her, tasting of her, adorned with her slime, she would suck. Is this ego? Self love? Or does it have a more mundane taste bud explanation?

Slimey Buxtongoo bleedin bloody flavour. Whichever, Buxton the savage would only slurp a dipstick oiled in her. She was like a dog that needed to piss on markers of its territory before doing anything else. Buxtondog would only suck what was hers.

Another example: most people treat the act itself as though it has some textbook definition involving two people, one male and one female, of legal consenting age, performing a heterosexual version of the act using what is termed missionary position.

This is barbarism.

Shani Quidnunc, another student I taught, found this method unrewarding unsatisfactory undoable. She never ever wanted to be penetrated in the normal way. It brought her no pleasure. That is, she never wanted missionary position. For the events I had with her she made me get behind her as she knelt forward, doggie fashion, on hands and knees, and penetrate her. But unlike Tulsa she did not need to masturbate by massaging her clitoris with the fingers of one hand as she took her forward weight through her extended shoulder arm hand. She came from cock alone. The first time she presented thus, I thought: what now? She showed me what now, right then and several more times. She made me call her bitch while I was humping her backwards. She came and came and came yelping and howling, loud and long.

Civilisation at last!

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Love at first sight (#28)

But those are particulars of form. For me they never constituted markers of significance. The kind of greatness I like to think about has nought to do with form, with things like how good was her foreplay, how well did she suck, how was doggie, how loud did she cum. It has to do with forbidden fruit.

Now, much earlier I talked about the key role played by fear in underpinning my all time top sex events. (I also touched on how sometimes not cumming plays an ancillary role.) Here I emphasise yet again the other important character in determining my favourite sex events.

This is when, just like in the Garden of Eden, a sex event contains some extra dimension, in the way space-time adds a time vector onto traditional Euclidean axes, some dimension that gives it a richer deeper value, where chemical pathways in a physiological system are raised to some higher plane of reward, where tingling excitement takes on a whole field of its own, as if generated not through the physical act of the usual form, but through some field forces from an entirely non-physical realm.

Forbidden fruit, as the orchard thieves found, is essentially a taboo category, a participant with whom, by the normal societal rules of propriety and custom, you are not supposed to have sex events. Example of forbidden fruit: somebody else’s wife.

Other examples of forbidden fruit: had Shani been a real doggie, or a real slut. Dogs and prostitutes. LBs. Gay boys. Etcetera, alt sex it are.

Buxton was forbidden fruit, and sometimes on two fronts as wife and student. Forbidden fruit in turn brings with it a set of attributes that add value to any given sex event. Prime among these is the fear I talked about before. By this I mean, I could have undertaken a sex event with forbidden fruit Buxton at some neutral venue, a cozy hotel say, at a relatively trouble free time, when Burge Buxton was out of town on business, say. A fairly safe instance for all concerned. Free of fear. Or at least, fear minimised.

With forbidden fruit there will always be some fear, however minimal. The building could collapse, for example, and Buxton and I end up in adjacent beds in the hospital, witnesses asserting to the fact we were found in the same bed in the same hotel room at the time of the collapse. Mr Burge Buxton, on visiting the hospital ward, would then be entitled to demand: please explain.

There would be fear, especially had he carried a large knife in his briefcase, to the hospital, intent on gutting the presumably guilty Ken.

Any sex event with Buxton then, represented forbidden fruit, and as such it brought a clear degree of excitement. And probably, though I never asked her, to Buxton as well. Buxton was, after all, somebody else’s wife. She was cheating on her husband, playing up. Presumably she enjoyed that. She herself was partaking of what for her is a category of forbidden fruit: male partner outside her marriage.

But when the context is shifted to under Buxton’s house, with Mr Buxton snoring through the floor above, my fear is a living palpable thing. It is this fear that adds value in cascading logarithmic fashion to all dimensions of the event.

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Love at first sight (#29)

This analysis shows how Ken gets off in sex event situations where the forbidden fruit dimension entailed such fear, where what was happening was indeed so forbidden that the entire act was accompanied by fear palpable.

Burge Buxton snoring two metres above the director’s chair induced this kind of fear. Recall that upon completion of climax Ken pants: “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.”

It is fear, even after the event, that sharpens the image of the sex event. The fear is there during the foreplay act climax, but physiology drives the actors on through to the end, as if there is no fear, for during the phases of the event fear is sublimated to the more dominant sexual urge, but of course fear there is, throughout, and in the warm down of afterthought, post climax, the cold sweat of fear rises to the surface, is articulated.

Sex events rank relatively.

For everybody. From superb to bloody awful and many points in-between.

According to Ken, for a sex event to be tops, it has to involve forbidden fruit. In addition, superb sex events entail fear. You can correlate forbidden fruit and fear with a ranking of the greatness of sex events.

So we get a theory of the relative ranking of sex events, which is that the higher the fear factor attached to a forbidden fruit situation, the higher the sex event is ranked in Ken’s judgment. The closer to the edge he was able to go, riding on that beam of light, to the brink of disaster – “he’ll kill me… kill both of us maybe” – the more pronounced is the fear, the more value thus added, the more forbidden becomes the fruit, the higher the ranking of the sex event.

The theory of forbidden fruit accompanied by fear neatly explains why events such as Buxton in the director’s chair rank so very highly. And why doing doggie bumplough, however interesting and kinky, with Shani, don’t. Shani was a nice girl, a ready and available sex event partner. Full stop. Nothing forbidden, no fear. (She was a student, but by the time I began fucking her she was an ex-student of mine - though still enrolled in the department – making it somewhat closer to ethical and less forbidden.)

Buxton was something else, and so was the director’s chair.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t love Buxton, didn’t matter that I didn’t even like her all that much, didn’t matter that I thought she wasn’t all that specially skilled at sex event performance.

What mattered was that she was forbidden fruit, and partaking in that particular sex event under her house in the director’s chair was coupled with so much danger and hence so much fear that it nearly drove me crazy with rapid fire exploding nervous system eruptions lava flows.

Ganglia gone gaagaa, Lady. Synapses shooting stars. Hormones hootin hollerun.

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Love at first sight (#30)

To Bee or not to Bee? That was the question.

Omelette chose To. I told Bee so as well. I said words much like the following:

My beloved Bay Bee, you are young and I am old. You are Bee Yootiful, while I am ugly. You are poor, but I am (in Vietnamese terms anyhow) rich. You can go nowhere, I can take you places.

We were in the familiar eatery. He had brought along the usual sidekick, this time a LB I had not met before. I will call her Wine. She was a year older than my boy and while nowhere near as beautiful, she had a compelling attraction for me. Good looking in fact, and well built, small torso with flat chest under one of those almost cupless pubescent’s bras, she passed for ten minutes or so, me thinking dumbly she must be Bee’s sister. Then when she spoke for the first time it hit me. LB, wow. Nice quiet kid. Top body, nice hair, slut silver painted toenails.

To this day – long after it’s all over and done in the ditch, flies buzzing around its eyes, gone the way of all dead relationships – I regret I did not make a move on Wine. Especially when my Bee was doing nasty immature things like rolling away from me in bed claiming a sudden and unexplained illness or weariness (sick & tired of me actually – but not my largesse), whacking me and carrying on.

I think Wine would have snapped onto me like a sprung trap onto a rat’s neck. For she turned out to be a polite lonely youngster, who looked and acted hungry for male company, but not pushy at all like so many of them are. Also, unlike some of Bee’s other friends (e.g. Bee#2), she didn’t come onto me, merely quietly sat back, waited and watched. I could see she was capable of maturing like a good vintage. How I desired to drink her down. But foolishly, stupidly, I had even greater desire during that time to show my LB I was prepared to spread my cloak over him, to be faithful, forever if need Bee.

I came to know Wine over quite some time and unlike my Bee and several others in his crowd, I never saw her dressed, at any time of day or night, as other than a girl, that is, as a LB. I liked that.

Bee demanded they be fed. So from the menu we ordered.

Ken lucky tried chicken. Finger lickun good.

Bee & Wine unlucky went seafood. Out came the raw prawn.

Replenished, and another Heineken ordered, I said more things.

If you want, if you so choose, if you desire, I will love you forever. But there is one caveat: be nice to me. If you go on hurting me, this will not work. I am the one who can support you and your family, who can make life good for you, who can give you things you never dreamed of, and some you have, like a job at Tiffany’s.

(He had already heard of LB Reviews and yearned to be a flashy well paid famous dancer at one of the big LB stage shows in Thailand.)

I can take you there, I told him. Get you an audition. Support you, grease whatever palms we need to. Also, I can set you up in modeling, get your perfect face with its huge cock sucking lips and wicked eyes on the cover of magazines. I can get you in In Flight magazines selling rings or finger nail polish for those perfect nails fingers hands. Or watches and perfume. Why would any sensible advertising agency want Federer or Beckham when they can have face features fingers like yours? (Were F & B around at that time? Possibly. But whoever was their equivalent back then anyhow.)

Then she dressed up. A ladyboy who told me her name was Ruth. (Funny: the VNese, like the Germans, can’t pronounce the final English th consonant, so it comes out as Root.) My Rootie Root, my LB.

One evening for a clandestine pre-arranged meeting in a beer stall, there she was: kohl eyeliner, blue mascara, lippie, falsies, a tiny top, a crotch length black skirt, stilettos. I was beside myself. Here was the living breathing Miss Vietnam, Miss World, Miss Universe. I had never conceived there could be such human perfection. My boy metamorphosed into Amazing Grace, the living breathing Quite-Divine.

Wine was there too, looking good as usual, together with three or four others.

This is how these boys like Bee (squared) (for the other Bee did it too, apart from his daytime hairdressing) and Wine made their living: performance artists luring the likes of Ken into their lairs. My himherlet, amid mobs of money boys, hors concours.

Love at nth sight. You are sooo beautiful, I echoed and reechoed.

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I agree with Willie, your writing is excellent. Though I haven't figured out if you are writing in the 3rd person or about another Ken.

I will go back & start from the beginning to find out myself. Please continue. And +1 from me too. A good story well told is such a pleasure.

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I love your writing Ken....another plus1 for you-you have just passed the 1000 views on this thread -keep it coming,im an avid reader

I agree with Willie, your writing is excellent. Though I haven't figured out if you are writing in the 3rd person or about another Ken.

I will go back & start from the beginning to find out myself. Please continue. And +1 from me too. A good story well told is such a pleasure.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

post-244-028636000 1305766088.jpg

And this is kneel position being put into action

post-244-045917400 1305766214.jpg

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.

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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.

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Love at first sight (#37)

I told Ruth about Elle Macpherson.

Elle aka "The Body"

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Elle in global brand mode

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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.

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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.

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Love at first sight (#39)

The week or so after Walter won the VN navy deal for his host company I had to go up to Hanoi on some business. I told him, whereupon he said that coincidentally he would be in the capital then too. Let’s catch up, he offered. On such&such an evening I am meeting up with a bunch of Aussies from RMIT University (in Melbourne) at the Sofitel Metropole Hotel, in their front bar dining room. In those days prior to the advent of the Hanoi Hilton – ha, the hospitable one - this was the swankiest joint in Hanoi, a four star old colonial setup. Be there.

I went.

There he was with these four heavy bureaucrats from Australia. Introductions. Mr Ken is an academic by trade too. Actually none of them were academics anyhow. They were project managers, site engineers, planning officers and the like.

They went on to say that their institution was submitting an application to be the first foreign university allowed to open doors in VN. Mr Walter was to be their go-between consultant, walking the bid through the various stages of application and levels of government. They knew Walter Charles Hagen’s credentials. His reputation charged ahead of him, like the lead tanks of a Panzer division.

To cut a long story short Tiring Reader, as I write, RMIT University Vietnam was the first and is still the only foreign owned university operating in VN. It opened its doors around the turn of the millennium, and continues to do good business selling TAFE type courses in IT, Business and things like that. Mr Walter got them the licence. Another year or so of negotiations.

As we drank on, eventually heading to another bar they wanted to see, one of their number pulled me aside and told me quietly: your friend Walter is a most impressive man. I felt like replying: tell me something I don’t know, but remained silent.

This afternoon, he continued, we had an appointment with the Vice-Minister for Education. Here we are, all done up in our Sunday best suits, briefcases with papers and plans, gifts in hand, waiting in the ante room, when these rich old mahogany doors open and a young secretary announces that the Vice-Minister will see you now. All five of us troop in, Walter at our rear. Hands get shaken and smiles exchanged, as the team leader names each of us in turn, his colleagues. Then, he said, pausing to draw breath, he came to Walter. Mr Walter, the Vice-Minister smiled, taking WCH by the hand, my friend, how are you? Mr Walter my very good friend, the V-M told us, he is very best business friend of Vietnam. This guy, I’m told one of the most powerful honchos around the Hanoi scene, stands there for the next fifteen minutes, arm in arm with Walter like they were long lost brothers, one of them just back from the Front, telling us in his quite good English, what great comrades they were. Then we were shown to chairs, the interpreters and other staff took their seats and the meeting went ahead. I think it looks good for us.

I merely nodded, and wished them good luck.

I never saw those guys again, though one did ring me up one time, back in Oz, to tell me Mr WCH sends me his best. But as I said above, Mr Walter got them a done deal.

I know this man, I said to my LB Ruth – we were openly speaking in Vietnamese by this time, me having long declared my language ability – who will know people who can make you famous like Elle Macpherson.

Do it, he replied in VNese. (Gratitude he did not know; bullying he did.)

I will do it when and if you start to be nice to me, I told him.

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Love at first sight (#40)

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder’s cock. It is therefore seen to be a subjective phenomenon. What is beautiful for you, may not be for me, Handsome Reader. What is beautiful for me, may not be for you.

Which prompts the next question: can there be objective beauty?

Where we have to define objective I suppose in some kind of populist fashion. I can’t think of any other way to do it. Let me try to explain Learned Reader, with what may seem a complicated comparison. This gets a bit technical for a couple of paragraphs, sorry.

Normally in philosophy and science we think of objective as simply meaning real, that which is, that which exists. For example, we know the moon is there. Yes in the old days of different cultural attempts to explain natural phenomena, we (I mean the global we: all sorts of cultures in all sorts of places in all sorts of time periods) concocted all sorts of stories about the moon (and other things like the moon) and why it was there (they were there), why it rose and set, etcetera, moon set o’er dere.

However, Enlightenment discoveries and scholarship have shown what the moon is, where it is, how it travels, why it is locked to us here on Earth, why it sets and rises. The moon just is. It exists. The moon’s objectivity is not defined in some populist fashion. It’s objective status as an Earth satellite does not depend upon how many people believe in it, nor does its behaviour depend on how many of us know or have heard of Newton’s laws.

Even if every FM on this site was to rise up and say bullshit! Ken is talking crap! I don’t believe in this science nonsense! That would not change the moon’s objective status as a well known and well defined space object whose shape we know, whose geography we know, whose weight we know, whose speed and path of travel we know, one iota.

When it comes to beauty however, we have no such hard and fast measures to guide us. If I say Elle Macpherson is drop dead gorgeous, every FM here might rightfully disagree with me. And that’s fair enough. Unlike Cynthia and her silver shine, Elle’s status as a beauty alters with every opinion. It is not objective, it is not given by real hard evidence, it just does not exist out there independent of us.

Elle as my claim for drop dead gorgeous

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Only one of Newton’s laws applies to her, the third one: to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. (Examples: Elle takes her shirt off, I put mine back on. Elle lies down, my cock jumps up.)

However, philosophers sometimes in fraught situations like this are forced to take the populist idea of objectivity. If, let’s say, out of any given 400 FMs, 300 said Elle is beautiful. Then such a populist stance would say, OK that’s cool, Elle can be considered objectively beautiful.

I do not have pix of the boy. I cannot show you his sexy mug on a magazine cover. I cannot upload an image of Ruth as a Tiffany’s pinup. So I cannot put her up for such a populist straw poll.

But I know one thing. As I said much earlier, the night she first dressed up as a girl for me was nothing short of a revelation. The most beautiful sight I have ever seen on Earth, or could imagine anywhere else. I would bet money – which I would have to borrow – that she would win the populist objective status, in the same manner as some of the girls on deepthroat’s Top 20 Thai gals thread were universally acclaimed. Objective beauty of sorts.

Enough. This is meant to be erotica not a lecture. Next time back to the boy who was glans and shoulders above the rest.

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Love at first sight (#41)

We go dancing club, the boy announced. For wedding party.

Whose wedding, I asked. You me, was the answer. We get married.

She took me to meet her friends, the gayboy sidekicks and some other ladyboys, then we all went to this disco. There was one girl, a GG, who introduced herself as the boygirl’s friend, five years older than him. About ten people in all. Ruth announced to the bartenders that she and the foreigner have wedding. Some broken English for my benefit, and some Vietnamese.

One of our number arrived with a big iced sponge cake with candles. On it a cake icer had squeezed out of her icing tube: Ruth ♥ Ken. Only later did I notice (was allowed to notice when it was turned around) there was a second wish on the cake: Happy Birthday (friend’s name).

Ruth ordered a bottle of brandy and half a dozen cans of coke, drinks all round, in handle glasses with ice. Some fruit and nibbles. They danced and drank. In conversation with this five years older friend, I was informed by this innocent thing that it was her birthday. Yes, she said, Bee had organised it all for her. How nice.

And of course, one person was picking up the tab: the Aussie sucker who supposedly have wedding. How nice indeed.

Later. How could you do that to me, I demanded angrily incredulously. I knew of course that such a nonsensical affair could never be anything like a real wedding, but I had wanted to play along to see what was going down. Well, a friend’s birthday was going down. You just lied to me, deceived me into paying for your friend’s birthday party, I growled. Calling it a wedding. What bullshit. You’re just full of shit.

The boygirl scattered her clothes all over the guesthouse room, preened around naked. She liked to be looked at. Took toilet with the door open. Seeing the bra there, I thought about putting it on, to see how it felt, how it looked in the mirror. But I decided against it, feeling that it was rather a silly idea. Much more was I attracted to the idea of seeing someone else put it on, watching him transform from boy to girl. It drove me to tingling wildness. I waited for him to finish in the toilet, then sat on the bed and drooled as he himmed to her. Then jellyfished one last lingering slushyslurp on those voluptuous beestungs.

My mother no have money, very poor, give me money. I gave generously. Tell your mother, I said, and your father too, that if you treat me nice, I’ll give you money forever. I’ll look after you. (My anger had melted away upon seeing him dress.)

In the hotel room she picked my pocket, relieving me of my small change. Light Fingers. This disappointed me, and I admonished her. I give you so much money, I said, upset, so much, and then you sneak off with my small change. The boy threw it down on the bed. Sulked.

I’m so poor, he repeated, my mother no have money.

I give you heaps for your mother. Don’t treat me bad. Don’t steal. I hoped a message had been got across. Next time in the hotel The Dip. Fail, Ken.

I hoped the boy could learn, adopt some decency, some morals, so that he appreciated what I was doing for him and his family, and to be true and nice, not to steal. Give me money, was the mantra. Giving was my folly.

I want to meet your mother and father, I said, and tell them about us, and how if you treat me nice, I’ll take you with me forever, to Thailand, to Australia even.

The boy took me to meet his mother.

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Love at first sight (#42)

Father no can, he said. Father no live here. Have two wives. Not live with mother.

OK, so I was willing to meet mother.

What you give mother, the boy queried on the way to mother’s house.

I don’t know, I replied, maybe some fruit.

You give money, said he, fruit no good. Not nice. Money.

OK, I’ll give your mother this, I said, showing the boy a note.

No. More. That not do. More.

This, I asked, showing another.

OK.

Boy, they don’t come cheap, I thought to myself. But then, I reassured myself, it is forbidden fruit after all, and that must cost.

Mother looked like a snarling cat that had its jaws wired together into a grimacing smile just for my visit. I envisaged her scratching my eyes out (then pawing over the wounded blinded Samson searching for my wallet).

When I handed over the loot he demanded I give her, she at least had the grace to say thank you (in VNese of course). There we were in the parlour of their small house, Bee, me, his mother, his young sister and the perpetual two or three sidekicks. Local kids gathered outside the front door to ogle the foreigner.

I was not invited to drink tea or eat. Someone brought me a glass of room temperature water which I feigned to sip then ignored. They nattered in language with lots of immature giggling and teasing. Every so often Bee would ask me in VNese: do you love me? Or: who do you love? My straightforward answers brought more giggles and guffaws.

Eventually after about half an hour of this, sick of being the monkey in the zoo cage, being poked and prodded, I said let’s go. There was obviously never going to be an adult conversation with his mother about us, the future, nice treatment or anything else.

It did cost. For the next however many months every time I had free time I met the boy, and gave and gave and gave. This only amounted to two days every week or so, but because all the happiness and angst and willingness and grumpiness inside me were moving so fast, time slowed down and I seemed to have been involved forever.

Every time we met, it was give give give. The demands were incessant.

I’m so sad. My mother no have.

Yet I could not help myself.

Hapless as iron filings, I was caught up in a magnetic field. From the outset, bonded at the hip. Rusted on.

I bought the boy an expensive gold ring, showed him which finger to wear it on, left, three, and announced that I wanted the boy to think of himself as my wife, and me as his husband – as he had been calling me from the outset. It was an unsubtle attempt on my part to embarrass him into a form of monogamy. That wearing such an expensive item how could he not feel bad offering his cock to others?

I also wanted to emphasise that I was contemptuous of his foolish make-believe wedding fronting for the birthday party at the disco. This happened, with the boy announcing once again to friends, and even to his mother, that the Uc dai loi was now his husband.

Then within a week, wife sold the husband’s expensive ring. When I inquired as to its whereabouts, why Ruth wasn’t wearing it: mother very poor, have no money, mother sell. La dame deregle sans merci.

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Love at first sight (#43)

But ring or no ring, we had already had our wedding (joke) at the dancing club.

The disco, or dancing club as they called it, was in District 8 where her family lived. It had a reputation as one of the seedier parts of Saigon.

It was a small pokey place in a nondescript suburban street. Amazing how at night these joints, which are bare spare and minimalist really, with a few strobe lights, dark curtains and spotlights, look big and showy. A pokey hole with a dance floor surrounded on one side by stage, one side by bar and the other sides by seating booths each with two vinyl covered forms set each side of a coffee table. The place looked packed with forty people inside.

Our booth had a floating population of about eight people: Ruth, me, Wine, and four or five others. Ruth was quickly flirting with every male in sight, on the dance floor, in the adjoining booth, and who knows where else. She would come over to rest, flop down beside me, take a drink, then give me a big slurpy kiss. Then after about five minutes of sitting together she’d be up and at it again.

Most of the evening she spent dancing by herself just a metre or so out from our booth, not quite on the dance floor proper. She was performing, always looking around to see who was looking.

I was looking. I couldn’t take my eyes off her except when my eyes were on Wine.

Wine wore a pair of half heel girl’s sandals, long trousers and a tight top. Her hair was done up nicely and her nails painted in slut silver. She looked good. I yearned tragically for her shaft against my tonsils.

When Ruth pouted at me sulkily I thought: Don’t push me too far sonny boy, there’s another girl down the end of the vinyl here who’s looking hot and has got my attention. But of course it was only bravado thinking, for I was hooked like a fish on a line, truly besotted. If I could have had them both, well and good, but Ruth would never, despite the shit way she was treating me, have agreed to that. And I would not risk going behind her back, as I was the one trying to improve her morals, a task not to be achieved by me showing how lackadaisical my own were.

So apart from a couple of nods to Wine, as she drew a cancerous future into her lungs from her cigarette, I kept my thoughts to myself. The thoughts I kept to myself included: I want you to go to the toilet with me Wine, where, while this fancy arse is prancing around the place showing off and flirting, I will suck your cock and drink you down. I will lick your perfect fawn glans till it shudders of its own free will and drives you wild with the throbbing. I will muzzle the musty smell of your crotch, that staleness of sweat and dick dribble that makes for the most exhilarating perfumed nuance on the planet. I will nibble the scrotum skin that tastes so sour, then gobble your ball into my gob like a black #8 disappearing down a hole to signal a pool table triumph. Then I will emerge from the toilet insolently wearing your soiled knickers like a bandito’s mask, slung across my lower face from ear to ear. But I said and did nothing.

Then Ruth and one or two of the others disappeared.

I sipped my drink and got bored with the noise, while being frustrated I could not have Wine, yet was being kept in the dark by a mystery game going on. Then the mystery game and its entourage reappeared. She had changed her gear, into a slinky white pants suit. The jig and the jive continued, punctuated by an occasional slurpy kiss for me.

Where you been, I asked, suspecting.

Home, she replied, change clothes. Her mother’s house was only a block away.

Forty minutes later she disappeared again. I thought, now last time she away fifteen minutes or so, is that enough time for me to seduce Wine and suck her off?

No, I replied to my own crazy idea. For one thing this time I do not know she’s gone home to change again. Second, Wine may be a loyal friend, and merely report on me, after turning down my offer, when the mug lair returns. Sure enough the new return brought another change of gear, this time presenting as a boy in T shirt and shorts as I mostly saw him dressed during daytime. He was obviously signaling that this dancing part of the evening was over.

Everybody wished the birthday girl happy birthday, I paid the bill and we filed out of the disco.

We went on a fleet of motorbikes to an all night eatery in District 5, one of many in an all night street I had been to quite a few times. We ate, I paid. A couple of us drank beers.

Then we went home at 4 a.m. or so.

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