Vietnam LBs

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#44)

I never did get to go to the toilet with Wine. (Or anywhere else with her either.)

So I had to be content with some other toilet stops.

I went with a gaggle of girls to eat shellfish at one of Saigon’s big streets for native shellfish eateries in District 5. I cannot recall why. Must have been somebody’s something or other.

The place was packed, as they always are. Interestingly you see foreigners in places like this with extreme rarity. I do not know why. The food is unvaryingly excellent, the outdoor footpath dining in that mix of fresh air and traffic fumes makes you feel so much part of the living breathing Saigon. Heinekens all round.

I went to the loo. Such a large joint was ill-equipped with only one stall and a two-man piss trough.

At the trough I stood beside a guy already commenced.

I was very drunk, as I had been partying for several hours already, wasn’t feeling horny, the last thing on my mind probably at that moment being sex. But I happened to glance sideways, as I always do when in company in pissoirs, just to see if I could get a peek at beautiful VNese cock.

As an aside, many VNese men are extremely shy about their cocks, and will turn away from you as they stand beside you, giving you cold shoulder, trying to cover up their shaft with hand and trousers. When you get one who stands square shouldered straight, is open and uncaring, you know you’re always a chance to see (and who knows what else?) something nice.

This young man, who had a very straight appearance, showed me plenty of his shaft, so I took advantage of that and had a good long look. Then I gave him a flirting squint. As our eyes met, he blew me a kiss. I was absolutely stunned as he did not look like a fellow traveler at all.

Our shoulders were about a foot apart, so I was easily able to lean sideways and lock a big smoush right on his smoocher. I shoved my tongue in as far as it would go. He melted under me, showing no resistance whatsoever.

As I broke off and took a breath, he stepped back, away from the trough and locked the toilet door. I went down immediately, taking his cock in my gob.

He had the thinnest dick I have ever sucked. Not short, but as slim as my thumb. It was so cute. Like sucking a baby carrot that’s been forgotten in your fridge crisper for a month.

There were something like a hundred drinkers and eaters in this place, at least half of them male. So my racing brain told me that before too long there would come a thumping at the door as some guy in urgent need of a piss found the place locked up. We had to move fast. As if he knew it too, he began wanking his shaft, me hoping he would quickly explode in my mouth.

I took over the wanking. A mistake I realised as soon as I’d done it, for I was, given my usual considerateness, too gentle. I should have left him to it, leaving him go as hard as he needed to.

Then the pressure got to us. Sans cum we had to call it off. When we opened the door there were three guys queued up waiting, their faces uncontaminated by friendly expressions.

I returned to table amid queries of what took you so long? I mumbled something about there only being one small cubicle for men and I had to wait. Nobody took any notice of my answer anyhow, and they gossiped on.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#45)

It’s time to say some more about auto sex. I’ve been a bit carried away with other tales of late, haven’t I, so pardon that Panting Reader. Here we cum again.

It all started through this increased sensitivity to what my rubber hose pipeline was up to. At that stage of my life I was more highly charged across my erotic nervous system than I ever was before or have been since. I cannot explain why.

During the sex events discussed here I was never drunk – well perhaps slightly occasionally – and most certainly never under the influence of any drug or medication. Nor hypnosis or any other form of psychiatric alteration or influence.

I have never talked about all this with anyone before, so forgive me Sympathetic Reader if I stumble a bit and take a roundabout sort of route to where we’re going. For I’m not familiar with the road. My vehicle for explanation splutters into start mode and lurches off on its journey.

Time to myself and an energized erotic nervous system. They’re the keys, I think.

Reading or mulling, or merely relaxing, or even at night in bed prior to sleeping, I became aware that the nerve endings in my dick were on fire. Chemicals were flying about like sky rockets on cracker night.

Note that never once in all the happenings I am trying to describe, did I have an erection. It was not that sort of erotic charge. (I still had erections and so-called normal sex throughout, but this was at different moments, alternative times, other contexts.)

To this day I do not know why, but I began to concentrate on what was happening in my hose. It was as though I could feel individual nerve impulses, chains of electrical movement, perhaps up the inside walls of my urethra, or out to the eye of my glans. I focused on mapping these, locating them on a mental map of the inside and outside of my cock.

Sometimes in these sex events I was horny at the outset, and began the whole thing sub-erect. If not, there occurred at about this time in proceedings, a definite shift from flaccid to sub-erect. Later I was to see that was another key, though I do not have the knowledge of physiology to explain why.

(I emphasise yet again: never erect – in fact if I ever got an erection, which happened only once that I can recall, that was the end of it. The whole sex event collapsed. The tingles stopped, my intense concentration evaporated, all good feeling ceased, and I just wanted to go root someone.)

But sub-erect I was able to explore, to continue, to enjoy something amazingly new and to me, unheard of before from movies, from friends, from lovers, from books or magazines. I had never seen or heard this sort of thing mentioned. It was like – which of course I never believed – I was the only guy on the planet to experience it.

Let’s proceed.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#46)

Concentration at this stage was intense, as my mind became, like in meditation, totally set upon that one thing, the nervous action taking place, and all else fell out of my world, out of my focus, out of my attention span. The cock shaft was now moving, involuntarily, in the tiniest of little spasms, my breathing had become shallow and tending towards hyperventilation. No big out-breaths.

As my cock controlled everything, I found it demanded to hang free or perhaps lay unencumbered. So I had to adopt postures to accommodate this. The simplest was lying on my side. An alternative, even though it meant not hanging free, was laying on my back whereby the dick was still able to loll about as it saw fit.

Some months or so later I began to experiment with getting myself up on hands and knees, like in doggie pose, with the cock obviously hanging down free. But most commonly I merely lay on my side.

I found it mostly involved closing my eyes, as you do in meditation. Though never able to seriously achieve much in the way of meditation, I have no idea if what I am trying to describe goes anywhere close to that phenomenon or not.

By this time my cock was throbbing, literally, though if my eyes were opened as they sometimes were I could verify that I was still only sub-erect. Also it was easy to verify that – and be a bit surprised by – the shaft was not moving wildly about. The throbbing and rocking I was feeling on the scale of earth tremors, were operating inside the nerve chains themselves, not in the larger infrastructure of the sub-erect member.

Then the ante was upped by my control tower. Things were taking off. By staying in deep intense concentration on the nerves inside my dick, those hardly seen movements began to change into wild uncontrolled rollicking of my entire body. I began shaking as if suffering hypothermia, as a man experiencing terror trauma, or someone with whole-body Parkinson’s Disease.

My breathing had hit full-on hyperventilation, my heart was pounding through my chest, and because the shallowness of my breathing was gushing air in my gob – which now was locked open – and only returning tiny bits of exhale, I usually began to dribble out the corner of my mouth.

It was as if I was an old incontinent man, except that I was not about to piss or shit myself uncontrollably, but rather to dribble and ultimately to orgasm. But the latter was still minutes away.

Stillness was central at this stage. Though my body was throbbing and jerking wildly about, my hands and arms, my head position, my open lips, had to remain steadfastly still. If eyes were closed, keep them closed. If open, don’t close. No disruptions, no distractions. Fierce concentration.

I could feel – well, that’s what it seemed like anyhow – fluid motion in my balls, in my vasa deferentia, cum moving up into the shaft of my cock. As the rocking and rolling grew more pronounced so did that feeling that cum was creeping up the urethra, poised, waiting for itself to catch up to itself, ready to explode a bucket load.

You know, Sweating Readers, that moment when you’re fucking someone, and you are on the cusp of cumming. The greatest moment in sex. When you do cum the feeling is of finality and release. But that nanosecond before you do, that’s all about expectation, about anticipation, when chemical reactions are crashing gouging boring screaming their way through tissue, through linings, through fleshy walls, up and down blood canals, racing about in the entirety of your body and mind.

Well, in this kind of auto sex that nanosecond prior lasts about five minutes, or so I found. I often experienced a tendency to lapse in concentration at this time, feeling a bit sad that I was not going to cum (because the so-called nanosecond was taking so long). Concentrate.

But it was never that I was not going to cum. By now there was no danger of that. My dick had made itself get within an ace of cumming and nothing was now going to stop it. At this time my dick – in total control – was dishing out pleasure beyond belief to my whole body as well as my mind, sustaining the cusp of pre-orgasm for ages and ages and ages.

Then it gave and broke, and like a dam wall breached in an earthquake, my cock burst forth in throbbing cum.

Look Ma, no hands.

As I said earlier, you can have masturbation. It’s not for me. I had discovered instead a form of auto sex that gave erotic pleasure beyond belief, formed and facilitated by a sub-erect dick that transformed horniness into a consummation of Oneness, and gave new joy to the meaning of being alone with oneself.

I read once on a site I cannot again locate, that Buddhist monks have been known to do this, through a combination of meditation and hyper ventilation. The writer likened the experience to levitation. But as no search terms bring up that info again for me, perhaps it was just some errant bullshit. I’d love to know.

[pacman]

Ken, I hope you are not waiting for encouragement from the FMs to continue.

I have been enjoying your beautifully written posts with your sharply drawn observations of your life & loves.

One reason I haven't wanted to act as a one man cheer leading team is I didn't want to spoil the ambiance of your thread.

But we all need a reason for living so I offer my support to you so you can find the willpower to post more.

Go Ken RAH RAH RAH... :goodjob:

[williethepimp]

I too am an avid reader,but usually don't comment because I have little of pertinance to say...i do however invariably give you a plus 1 for your great stories (and musings)....more please Ken

[Luung]

I think your the most interesting writer on the site mate!

Keep going man!

[KenW]

Thanks to pacman, willie & Lung. I appreciate those words.

Don't fear for the pause, it's the weekend here in VN - as I guess it is elsewhere - when I tend to get lazy and watch a bit of footy & current affairs on cable, don't get to write for the thread.

More on Monday morning.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#47)

A few weeks later, accidentally, I took it to another level again.

This time it was a vibrator.

Don’t ask, Eyebrow Raising Reader, suffice it to say that as a lifelong dedicated cock lover I spent a lot of time alone in those years in the company of a vibe.

So here I am, the sub-erect cock has the tingles, we’re away, up and running, motor ticking over, body just on the cusp of beginning to rock `n’ roll, and I get this wonderful insightful creative urge. I do not know where it came from, there can be no logic to it, it just happened. I had put dildos down my throat many a time, but this was the very first occasion when I had the two – vibe going down, body beginning to take the sub-erect delight path - in synergistic concerto.

And the music we made was as sweet as any symphony Mozart or Beethoven ever put up.

My body went completely out of control. Had World War III burst through my spare bedroom wall right then I would not have noticed being bombed shot bayoneted. Had a nuclear holocaust erupted from beneath my floor I would have carried on blissfully being radiation roasted. Had a fierce deranged tribe of wild bloodthirsty New York stockbrokers smashed their way through my locked door, scattering ticker tape asunder and kicking my computer to death, I would have failed to open my eyes to their clamor and cacophony.

It was another world where I was.

I have never experienced concentration like it. I can only guess it must be like being under the influence of hypnosis, or some powerful hallucinogenic, perhaps having that part of your brain taken over by an external force that can make your powers unlike you ever knew them to be. Or perhaps it was akin to giving birth, wanting to scream but in this case unable to as my throat was full to the larynx of plastic and Chinese latex.

Something was coming out of me, pushing its way to the forefront of my cerebral cortex, shooting potassium ions across my synapses like showers of skyrockets on Guy Fawkes night, driving my neurons nuts with a perverse pleasure that told me something bigger than big was about to leap off Everest, and like some great winged creature on skis land gently then slide all the way down Nepal, bounce across the Punjab and descend in heavenly quiescence - as though Siva had been softly sowing his seed - in a big dollop of seminal fluid on my belly.

I had cum.

Again, no hands.

I lay on my back, used vibe discarded at my side, exhausted, hoping like hell I wasn’t about to have a massive life-taking heart attack. Breathe deep.

This was, Anxious Reader, as good as it gets for me. It was the best sex ever. It does not list in my Top 5 (discussed elsewhere) because I restrict those 5 to the category: sex with other people. (I failed to tell you that earlier Recalling Reader, as I simply forgot, sorry.)

Also, I’m a bit too embarrassed to admit that the best sex I ever had was by myself. Most folks, on hearing that, would think I’m a nutter, or at very least, a pre-pubescent geriatric with some terrible mental and genital disease they shrink swiftly away from in the hope it doesn’t latch onto them. Maybe they’d be right.

[bumblebee]

Always an entertaining read Ken. Like the guys have said, many of us really enjoy this thread, keep up the great work, cheers.

[KenW]

Always an entertaining read Ken. Like the guys have said, many of us really enjoy this thread, keep up the great work, cheers.

Thanks Bb, I know it isn't spectacular like the lots-of-pix threads - including your own superb recent account. But, as they say, it has its faithful followers. Ha!

Thanx again.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#48)

Bee never wanted to be alone with himself. He always had to have a sidekick present.

And, he wanted me to buy him a motorbike.

I told him no, as he was doing nothing for me except treating me like shit. I qualified it, hoping to turn it into a morality lesson, saying that I was prepared to buy him a bike if and when we lived together, and that could only be when he was prepared to treat me nice. I sang to him:

Make me feel at home

If you really care

Scratch my back and run your pretty

Fingers through my hair

If you want a motorbike then take my advice

Treat me nice

He sulked.

Then he said: OK, we live together.

I had and still have a strict rule whereby not one of my Vietnamese lovers ever gets to know where I live. Phone is alright, but address is always something I have denied them, often blatantly lying to them if they insist on knowing.

So, if I was going to conduct an experiment of living with him, it could not be at my house. I had to move out. Any such decisions were going against all that I said before about only doing this if and when he treats me nice. I was so foolish and mad, Strict Reader, that I gave in on that demand, thinking (incorrectly) that if we lived in the one bed under the same roof, I may have control over him and eventually earn his genuine affection and nice treatment.

The idiot Ken

Blowing every time I move my mouth

Blowing down the backroads headun south

You’re the idiot Ken

It’s a wonder that you still can move that pen.

The next time we met he took me to see an apartment block not far from his mother’s house. I didn’t like it, but it was cheap, and I figured it was better for him being close to evil mother. So I agreed. It was unfurnished apart from a bed and a dining table. A couple of hangers-on accompanied us, a male and female aged about forty. I have no idea who they were, perhaps an aunt and uncle, perhaps friends. No friends of mine that’s for sure. Anyhow, Bee demanded I pay them 20 bucks equivalent for “helping us”. These two spoke occasionally to him in VNese. Never said a word to me, never once smiled. Punch and Judy scowled downright sinister in fact. I witnessed no help. But I was looking behind me for a crocodile, a string of sausages or indeed a noose. While they carried no slapsticks I still decided the “help” might be in facilitating retention of my facial shape intact without them seeing need to alter it violently. I protested meekly, but as the only hints of reply were decidedly unfriendly stares and mean grimaces, decided it was probably wiser to just hand over the loot.

Bee & Me went shopping for rice cooker, crockery, bedding, the lot. Borrowed a couple of chairs. Later the next day we moved into our cosy little love nest. You know, I told him, this is now really akin to marriage, and you know what married couples do on their first night together: they usually fuck five or six times. He looked at me as though I had suggested we bathe in the sewer.

The idiot Ken.

[pacman]

Ken, there's a lesson to be learnt here but I suspect you have already learnt it.

No one can ever buy love. And the saddest thing I ever see is old guys trying to.

The contempt your friend had for you is palpable. The behaviour is deplorable & you must have felt it despite every fibre of your being wanting this to be true love.

It sounds like the friend who wants the motorbike is the real boyfriend & the couple who facilitated the rent deal are related somewhere.

What a horrible scenario you paint & how you could bring yourself to entertain that snarling couple says volumes about where your head was at that day.

I am curious as to why you didn't walk out on the whole bullshit situation. Were you so blinded by love? I guess you must have been.

Thank you for sharing such a personal situation & being so honest about your feelings in the whole thing. It is a rare post indeed that offers such insight into the mind of someone caught up in the moment.

I hope every other male over retirement age reads this & learns that they will be told anything they want to hear if it means they can be parted from their money. Western males simply have no defence from such subterfuge....

[Jimslim]

The idiot Ken

Blowing every time I move my mouth

Blowing down the backroads headun south

You’re the idiot Ken

It’s a wonder that you still can move that pen.

The idiot Ken.

Great quote Ken I'm surprised brother Lefty didn't get it .

They say I shot a man named Grey

And took his wife to Italy

She inherited a million bucks

And when she died they came to me

I can't help it if I'm lucky ...............

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#49)

Tomorrow you buy me motorbike, he growled. When I agreed he doled out one mouthful of cum for me. That was it for my wedding night ration. He proceeded to wrap himself in the quilt, rolled up like a sausage in a pancake, me the bunny without a rug alone on my side of the bed.

Tomorrow I went to the ATM and drew the loot to buy a second hand bike. I figured we needed a bike to get around anyhow, and it wasn’t such a big deal. By mid-afternoon he proudly brought it home. We went to market and some other places where he could show it off to his sidekicks.

I am a glutton for punishment.

Now and then, there’s a fool such as I am.

Coming up with another ploy whose consequences I intended to help draw us closer together, as well as stop him pestering me for money, I suggested to him that now we were living together I would give him an allowance each month. One set amount – not much – but sufficient to terminate this continual whinging at me for handouts. He was delighted.

Later that same afternoon – the day of his first allowance payment – he returned to the flat with all sorts of new clothes, shoes, trinkets, cosmetics. He laid them out and began trying them on. There was the de rigueur sidekick there to comment, poonce and praise. He informed me carelessly that he had used 60% of the money to buy his mother a washing machine, then spent the rest on this junk.

To say I was pissed off was putting it mildly Unforgiving Reader.

It meant that one day into his 30 day allowance he had blown the lot. To follow would be 29 more days of whining about being poor his mother poor that I had deliberately set out to put an end to. The idiot Ken. It’s a wonder you can even feed yourself.

I held firm and gave him no more money, but of course I was still handing out for nosh and household bills. And the whingeing I had to cop.

We went out to eat occasionally, but we also fell into a pattern of going to market in the morning then him cooking a VNese lunch at home for us. That was nice. But those times, and sleeping, apart, I hardly ever had him alone. When we were freed up and I figured I had time to enjoy his body, his mother called or texted on cue. Then he was off in a flash to her house.

When he returned he would invariably have a sidekick in tow, or at times two or three of them. At least one of these slimey little arseholes tried – as was their wont – to play up to me on the sly, groping me and telling me the day I got sick of Bee, he was willing to move in with me.

I bet, I replied.

Bee never brought Wine around, causing me to wonder if he had read the meaning in my eyes when I looked at her. By that stage I would have readily traded her for him. I was vastly fed up. I had coped with and copped this living together shit for only a month, but the signs were no good, and consequently I decided enough was too much already.

What took you so fucking long Ken, you dolt? (I can hear Stunned Readers exclaiming.)

Each day I vowed was to be the last, that each time he did me down, stole my small change, picked my pockets, neglected me, put on a sob story for why we could not have sex, why he had to take food and money, clothes and trinkets, to mother, I decided that was the last straw.

But I wanted to give it one more chance. Tomorrow I’ll leave, I told myself. Or the day after.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#50)

His life at fifteen years of age. Tough rough care strewn. Police. Trouble. Nobody knows trouble we seen.

Enter the famous bushranger Mr Harry Power. Enter the bed of Mrs Ellen Kelly the famous bushranger Mr Harry Power.

The boy Ned, the eldest, and lots of littleuns. The family in dires. Men they came and men they went. All they brought was trouble and pregnancy. Life in the dirt. Split timber shacks in woop woop country. Country they now call Kelly Country. Relatives on the outside of the law. An uncle to go under the rope.

The famous bushranger Harry Power who, Peter Carey tells us, favoured lamb pink and tender. Tree felling. Hard hands. Blisters to corns to rough tough leathery skin that was not like skin at all. The famous bushranger Harry Power whose feet stuck out the end of Mrs Ellen Kelly’s bed.

A deal done.

Mrs Ellen Kelly and Mr Harry Power traded in son and apprentice. A boy’s life taken away at fifteen. Sold in effect, for sold is not too strong a word, into a weird sort of apprenticeship so that Mrs Ellen Kelly the mother might have some brief financial reprieve.

Childhood sold. Mother’s love manifested as mother’s pragmatism, a deal is a deal, and a son is what for, well, whatever for, whatever it takes, this way he’s some use to both, useful to the big bushman and for the coin that he is rendered worth, useful to his ma.

Ned Kelly the boy is cast out. Ned Kelly the boy becomes Ned Kelly the apprentice bushranger. Indentured to Mr Harry Power, bushranger.

It is only nine years from there to the gallows. Nine years is not much of a lifetime. Set to a life beyond the law, to a life beyond all hope, to the death of himself, for the deaths of others, would he eventually go swinging, but for now he had nine years, an old weary eyed dog’s lot, nine miserable years, nine unforgiving years, sent down by his ma, sold out by his ma, forsaken by his ma, rendered a commodity, brought into the world of objects, to be bought and sold, as one such as Mrs Kelly does treat her flesh and blood, her oldest son, her stock, her scion.

No life did she give him save that one that squawked briefly upon emerging sealsliding from between her thighs, no life other than that did she ever allow, was she ever up for as mother, but send him down, make him a criminal before you make him a child, deploy him for venal gain, render his life over before it has but begun, destroy any childhood he might have held out faint hope for.

Ned Kelly, Australia’s iconic bushranger, was hung for murder at old Melbourne Gaol on the 11th of November 1880. (His mother Ellen was in prison at the time of his execution.)

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#51)

The boygirl had never been allowed to experience childhood.

He did none of the activities one would expect of a normal healthy teenager, coming from a decent home. He did not play games. He had never set foot in a library. He did not lounge around with school friends. He had never been infatuated with another of his own age or vintage. He had never been allowed to swim. He had been driven onto the streets to find for mother.

Streetwise he was, but wise in the ways of procuring, picking pocket, picking up whatever was not nailed down. Taking it home. None of it was spent on himself. Mother took. Yet there in this boy was goodness.

His life has come down to finding money, jewellery, goods, for mother, so mother will reward him with the affection and love he so craves.

That’s a good boy, mother tells him when he brings home stolen small change and gives it to her. Mother wants. Mother gets. Mother is pleased. Boy brings. Boy gives. Boy is rewarded with affection.

Mother cares not one trifle where and how the boy came by what he brings home to her. Boy learns quickly that morals are relative. To take or not to take, that is to say, to steal or not to steal, is not to do right or wrong, but to give to mother, is always to do right, to do good.

No childhood for this working Bee. No childhood for this working girl Ruth. This girl boy, this ladyboy, whose childhood has been excavated from beneath him, surgically removed from within him, historically erased from the past of him, morally undermined from developing inside him.

His life at fifteen years of age. Vietnamese poverty. Pleasure he seeks in the company of fellow faggot children, as dressing up, dancing they go.

Then some time later: Ken comes waltzing along, Matilda.

Do you think I’m beautiful, can I go with you?

As children, sent to the streets by their mothers, not doting mothers like the do-gooder textbooks talk about in glowing terms, but mothers schooled in the hard knocks of hard life, steeped in pragmatism, knowing money talks, and it alone speaks the language of everyday Vietnam. Learn to speak that language like a native, give me, get for me, take for me, hand over to me, again, and again, do it, get out there and do it, what’s a faggot son good for, good for one thing that’s for sure, make it good sonny boy, sonny girl, make it good, bring it to me, bring it to mother.

Life sacrificed to mother, as though he were but a mere extension of her, an appropriating appendage extending from her body, a robot child functioning as gatherer in her daily grubbing, give her this day her daily grub, forage this day her Brechtian das Fressen, cast unto her soul this denied life of a son, and reflect from it the unhappiness that he can only be allowed to procure through what can be got on the street, and given, with his childhood, to the cause of mother.

Ned Kelly and Bay Bee Ruth, quite a couple, deprived of childhoods by wicked willful mothers ancient and modern.

Can you see the parallel Discerning Reader?

[kelly2]

Quite superb, Ken!

Please keep it coming.

[seanbeag7]

Well done Ken with this thread,

please keep it going.

[KenW]

Ken, there's a lesson to be learnt here but I suspect you have already learnt it.

I am curious as to why you didn't walk out on the whole bullshit situation. Were you so blinded by love? I guess you must have been.

Thank you for sharing such a personal situation & being so honest about your feelings in the whole thing. It is a rare post indeed that offers such insight into the mind of someone caught up in the moment.

I hope every other male over retirement age reads this & learns that they will be told anything they want to hear if it means they can be parted from their money. Western males simply have no defence from such subterfuge....

The funny thing was pacman, I knew the lesson even before I went into it. Call me weird, but for so long I wouldn't let myself give up on this one and just walk out. As you'll see soon, I had to eventually. But yes, I was blinded deafened and senseless.

Great quote Ken.

They say I shot a man named Grey

And took his wife to Italy

She inherited a million bucks

And when she died they came to me

I can't help it if I'm lucky ...............

An old favourite song of mine Jim, that I've bastardised a bit here.

Quite superb, Ken!

Please keep it coming.

Thank you kelly.

Well done Ken with this thread,

please keep it going.

And thank you too sean.

[Jimslim]

An old favourite song of mine Jim, that I've bastardised a bit here.

A great song from an even greater album , a genius at work .

Great thread Ken , very honest and interesting too read .

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#52)

Erste kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral (Brecht).

Could I, especially in the face of that woman, the mother, ever retrieve this boy? Ever make him understand simple plain human decency?

So what of this soul that we can’t hide? Is Melville right? This boy revealed a soul of warmth, of honesty, of decency, yet here he turns out to be a petty thief, a cheat, a liar. Sells me down the drain. Seeds of uncertainty bloom in Ken. Yet Ken is sure that he is not mistaken.

The boy is good and bad, like fruit, and I was right and wrong. He is a cheat and a liar and a petty thief. Yet he is also decent, or more correctly, would be, if allowed. Upbringing has moulded this boy into what he is, just as it moulds all of us, within our family surrounds, in our own worlds of relatives.

The boy’s mother is worthy of study, for she has been extremely subtle yet without subtlety in creating this person, her ladyboy son. She has dished out love and affection guardedly, as reward, for each time her son returns things to her, money, jewellery. Otherwise, no. She has treated him harshly, as has the absent father, physically hitting him at times, emotionally charging him with responsibilities way beyond his years, demanding of him things a family provider should normally be expected to provide, making him, the child, play the role of provider for years now, while mother the should-be protector and provider, is receiver.

Mother commands and dishes out affection or anger, love or disregard. Mother the teacher. Boy the pupil. When wounded in boyhood accidents mother has done nothing, has not patched up his wounds, allowed them to heal with pain, scarring him physically and emotionally. He has fallen from a cart, badly gashing a kneecap. He is sent to bed, and crying in pain, falls asleep. He is attacked with broken glass in a schoolboy piece of angst, and has a tendon above his little finger cut so badly that he is left with a permanent cicatrice on his hand and limited movement in that finger. Not only is he not taken to a medical practitioner, but he is again left to sleep alone with his wound. And so it goes. I was horrified, despite the beauty, seeing the scars on his body.

All this has made the boy totally responsive, like a trained animal, to the mother’s needs. His life has come down to finding money, goods, for mother, so mother will reward him with the affection and love he so craves. He wants to be a good boy, longs to be a good boy, where in his small world of relatives, good is defined by mother.

That’s a good boy, mother tells him when he brings home stolen small change and gives it to her. What a clever boy, mother embraces him, when he brings home a gold ring to sell. Mother never asks where did you get this?

The moral issue is: giving to mother is good, regardless. Where it came from and how it was procured, do not lie within the moral landscape. Mother wants. Mother gets. Mother is pleased. Boy brings. Boy gives. Boy is rewarded with affection.

Belly first, then ethics, to paraphrase the great Brecht.

Mother cares not one trifle where and how the boy came by what he brings home to her. I emphasise Patient Reader, what I said in a previous post: boy learns quickly that morals are relative. To take or not to take, that is to say, to steal or not to steal, is not to do right or wrong. But to give to mother, is always to do right, to do good.

When days pass without money the boy is vituperated, chastised, as being lazy, lacking thought for his poor mother, careless of his family. Not to give to mother is to do wrong, to do bad. Such does one learn from one’s relatives what is good and what is not good, Phaedrus. Such does morality enter one’s soul.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#53)

In the bathroom together.

The boy standing upright, naked, began to urinate. I turned, dropped to a crouch, right in front of him, taking the golden stream of urine in my mouth.

The boy smacked the back of his hand against my cheek, forcing me off balance and clearing me away from the stream.

Dirty. He said the word in Vietnamese, not English. I stood up.

I want to drink your piss. What’s wrong with that?

You crazy, the boy said in English, walking away.

Under my breath I agreed that I was crazy. But there was something about my Bay Bee urinating, the sight of a boy peeing, that moved me like I had never been moved before. I always liked piss and pissing, from as early as I could remember. Even in my pants. In the bath.

I liked to piss in tandem (is that why I now like public pissoirs and leering at nearby shafts and glans?).

When I was a small boy I liked to hear the sound, through the wall, of my old man pissing in the chamber pot after he had finished servicing Mother.

But I was moved to search inside myself for why this was different from those other experiences, ones I liked and enjoyed, but not like this, not at this level of feeling, of emotion.

This was something akin to motherhood. Articulating that makes me feel a bit silly, but it was truly like motherhood. As if I wanted to take this boy as my own, not just as my ladyboy lover, but as my son, my ward, my baby, my offspring, my progeny, my line, my future, my inheritor, as if the stream of urine carried along with it, like an electromagnetic wave, its own force field that enveloped me, wrapped me in bonds unseen that traversed time and space and portrayed themselves in another universe of their own making, that of mother and baby, creating an umbilical cord from giver to receiver, protector and protectee, carer and cared.

This was a mouthful from a source inside himself, from the genesis of the boy, from the genius of the boy, a deep meaningful place located at the very heart of where relationships stem from, where a boy like this can give himself to a mother figure like me, bringing with its own liquid warmth, the life giving ecstasy of insight into how our future might be, could possibly be, the taste of life, the need for life, the boy with his little boy’s, my baby with his baby’s, the love of my life with the love of his life.

You crazy, the boy said once more.

[pacman]

Ken, this beautifully written reflection on your life is sometimes hard to read but I suspect you are doing it as much for yourself as for your "dear readers".

In everyone's heart is the desire to understand ourselves & with understanding comes acceptance. I apologise for writing such cliches. And as to your issues, please continue, this is riveting.

And what a remarkable tale you spin, never in my dreams did I imagine getting an insight into someone's psyche on such an intimate level.

I am utterly fascinated by the frankness of your confessions. The way you relate your latest peccadillo, I was too intrigued to be appalled. You make it sound perfectly valid.

No mean feat in a single post, taking the subject of piss drinking & making it sound almost respectable. OK, not quite respectable but I have never shared an insight on the matter from the other side of the fence before.

You haven't convinced me to try it but I admire your frankness in sharing your story. And like the proverbial moth to the flame, despite whatever shocking subject matter you have in store, I keep being drawn back here for more.

[KenW]

Ken, this beautifully written reflection on your life is sometimes hard to read but I suspect you are doing it as much for yourself as for your "dear readers".

And as to your issues, please continue, this is riveting.

And what a remarkable tale you spin, never in my dreams did I imagine getting an insight into someone's psyche on such an intimate level.

I am utterly fascinated by the frankness of your confessions. The way you relate your latest peccadillo, I was too intrigued to be appalled. You make it sound perfectly valid.

No mean feat in a single post, taking the subject of piss drinking & making it sound almost respectable.

And like the proverbial moth to the flame, despite whatever shocking subject matter you have in store, I keep being drawn back here for more.

Cheers pacman, readers like your noble self are very important to me. After about the first fifteen or so episodes of this tale I began - your insight is spot on - to realise I was indeed writing it for myself. I know that sounds selfish, but getting it all down on hard drive, seeing it out there on screen, up in a post each working day, was like a cleansing of my tortured soul, a good old fashioned visit to rehab, or the change that as they say, is as good as a whore a day.

I wondered back then, and still do, whether my psyche was damaged beyond repair. To go through all that sentient of the fact that any normal mentally healthy person would not tolerate such a state of affairs, was potentially deeply harmful to me. But as you can, or will see, I survived to tell the tale.

I am tickled by the way you describe it as confessions. I guess that's it.

Anyway, thanks again, for while it has been about me, and largely for me, as I said above, readers like yourself are deeply important to me too.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#54)

There is a scene from a Kristen Bjorn movie – I forget which one - showing a country mansion at dawn, where amid lavish colonnades and courtyards, cloistered verandahs, there is a full size swimming pool.

A naked boy appears and walks down the concourse of tiles, beside the pool, away from the camera, into a misty sunrise. Halfway along the pool, the boy pauses, and turns side on to the camera revealing a full but suberect member, horizontal, now pointed, by its own suberectness, at the pool.

Hands free, he suddenly pisses into the water. A long full healthy stream. That is such an erotic scene, so unexpected, the erotic perhaps stemming from this unexpectedness, but also definitely related to the action itself, shot from an unheld barrel. Look Mother, no hands.

Typical Kristen Bjorn flick

Another one

Watching Bee stream, my mind jumped wildly about, and remained for a time thereafter, tingling, as if with its own memories. Hands free. Freedom of giving forth, bringing forth. Uninhibited urination. Morning micturation glory.

I had seen into the boy’s soul, and it was as if this stream of urine was emanating thence, with a glistening message that all could be well in such a relationship, that all promise could be satiated, that petty theft and lies were relative, relative to a larger scheme dictated by much more meaningful forces, ones that made me responsible in a way that mothers normally are, that gave to me the responsibility to say to a void, I will fill you up, I will be your mother, I will take you from where criminal negligence has abandoned you, I will provide for you, where selfish greed has merely used you, I will give you knowledge and learning and morality, where before you have only experienced abuse, I will love you till I die, for you are of me, we have become one, you are my flesh and blood, you are my urine and my shit, you are my cum my jizz my spunk, you are my all and my onlyness. I will love you till I die.

You are so beautiful, I spoke out loud. I will love you till I die.

The boy continued examining his nose in the bathroom mirror.

I was a sucker who just happened to be coming along at the right time. That’s all. For them, especially that mother, I was just another one for a working boy to cope with, to lure, to haul in, and to fleece for whatever they could get.

Well done my good boy, she glowed, dishing out her affection judiciously. Working boy must always work hard to support mother, to care for mother, to bring home everything to mother.

I want you to stop going with other guys, I told him. I’ll provide all the money you need, but just be good to me, treat me nice, don’t go around looking for trade. Stay home with me. Tell your mother I don’t want you working.

My mother say I have to work, was the reply. I’m working boy.

You break my heart, I said, you make me jealous. I give you more than enough money. You don’t need more. I know how much ordinary Vietnamese need. Your family isn’t special, you don’t need that much more than others need.

My mother need money, the boy said for the thousandth time.

Yeh, I bet, answered a disconsolate Ken. She needs the Earth. I needed an unbroken heart.