Gay Bar, Fat Chick, and Limp Dick

The title of this post lends itself to much interpretation, but it isn't hard to see how, for a straight male, a gay bar and a fat chick would lead to his having a limp dick.  It's a forgone and natural conclusion, right?  The obvious thing.

But have you ever been to a gay bar?  Have you ever stepped inside to see same-gender couples, or women you can actually talk to about pussy and sex and "hey-she's-hot-over-there"?  Have you ever seen the aggression at a bar more sexual?  To put it in the words of a friend of mine, the place had a "vibe", a good atmosphere.  There was no hostility, no peacocking.  Again, to paraphrase my friend, everyone just wanted to be "accepted".  All in all, a cool time. (Though the meat-gazing in the bathroom, I could've done without; fuck it anyway.)

Perhaps it is because this place is all about getting laid that I found it so amusing, not in a demeaning manner, but in terms of entertainment.  You might get this: At a bar, a "straight" bar, a "normal" bar, people go there for any number of reasons: to get laid (yeah, you can just about say that about any gratuitous excursion: that getting laid is paramount!), to hang out with friends, to drink, to watch the game or smoke a stogie or play pool or... well, you get it.

The thing about a gay bar is, you could go there to do any of those things, of course... but the fact that the place caters specifically to a segment of the population based solely on their sexual orientation automatically lends itself to sexuality.  If you're gay, you could still go to a straight bar (does a strictly straight bar even exist?) to do any of the aforementioned activities... but you go to the gay bar to meet up with like-folks.  GAY folks.  And good on ya, too: If they had a bar that solely targetted hot nymphomaniacs (a strictly female condition; in men, it's satyriasis) for customers, you bet I'd be a member.  Hell, I'd be a barstool in a place like that.

In any case, if my friends and I were in this place, then it obviously stands to reason that we weren't the only straight ones there; I'd bet that an easy third of the people there were straight.  Maybe they went with their gay friends, maybe they wanted a night away from their normal scene... maybe they'd even realized the tendency for sexual openness in a place like this (i.e., that tailors to a group based on their sexuality) and went for the potential of really getting some fuck going. (That's why I was there, after all.)

Though I'm not gay, even I could cut the sex in the air with a blunt dildo.  Everyone was doing something.  Those brutish men, one shirtless with the camo pants and combat boots, the other bearing a likeness to Michaelangelo's David, of about 6'5", mugging down in the bathroom. (A bit of a trainwreck to my straight self, I must admit, but nevertheless, interesting to see in its foreignness to me.) The six or so gay Asian guys, all grabbing one another's asses as if trying to determine which canteloupe to buy based on ripeness.  The four cute lesbians - though, in fairness, only the one that approached us had the telltale haircut of the butch - asking us to please let them closer to the stage (there was a show going on) because they were shorter than us. (I use the term "butch" reluctantly, because she really was cute, sort of like a shorter, slimmer Matt Damon with breasts and freckles. (Sorry: I'm an Affleck guy. (Well... no, I'm not... but it just seemed funny to say.)))

The show itself catered to the crowd - it was rife with sexual innuendo and in-jokes, some reference humor that only frequent clientele, dirty minds, or the gay would understand - and that was the main focus, the attraction, on the lower level; the bar on the other side of the first floor was only that: a bar, merely a place to get your drinks and move on.  Norm and Cliff can go to the speak-easy down the street; THIS place was for standing, bullshitting, and trying to fuck (or get fucked), not for talking about your day's work or discussing trite philosophy.  Bacchus would enjoy this place, for the sex and liquor were both readily available.

After being there for a bit, I noticed something about other bars: When a dude at any other bar bumped into me, the feral hostility was abundant; there was no guesswork that said fellow was wanting to fight or otherwise attempt to assert dominance. (Now, I'm no fighter.  I can fight, and have, but, as a rule, there isn't a whole lot that's worth fighting about at a bar - not politics, pussy, or religion - particularly when a jail cell might be at the conclusion of the evening.) At other bars, this bumping gesture, combined with a glare or some shit-talking, was no mystery.  Here, though, the chest-bump or shoulder-nudge came with none of the normally accompanying hostility.  I sat down at the mini-bar just after the cute lesbos asked us tall guys to get out of their way and struck up a conversation with a timid-looking gay guy, and asked him about this oddity in my life, this "harmless" chest bumping, curious if this was part of the gays' mating ritual.  "Sometimes," he said, a friendly and not-at-all flirtatious smile crossing his face; he could tell I was straight, even with my five-day moustache and soul patch.

Upstairs was a whole different scene, and might as well have been an entirely different bar: It was a dance club, complete with strobe lights, techno music, and the gay leprechaun with glow sticks in his grill.  Everyone was fucking dancing. (And I use "fucking" as a modifier, not an adverb that implies people were fucking to a beat. (Can you imagine "fuck dancing"?  It would blow the Waltz, the Macarena, and the Boogaloo all to Hell; of course, the birthrate would soar, but fuck it!  We's FUCK-DANCING!)

After standing around for a bit, wondering where we fit into this crowd of dancing, maniacal swingers, lust and sweat oozing from their pores, I noticed a cute but chunky - how chunky was beyond my ability to determine, imbibed on Jagermeister and beer and this miscellaneous shot as I was - girl eyeing me.  So drunk was I on not merely booze but also on the openness of sex in this place, I couldn't see the harm in dancing with this female; in fact, she was more my type than 90% of the place's clientele (1/2 of which was male (gay or not, males are not my type), and the majority of the other half being lesbian, unattractive, or morbidly obese).

So: we danced.  And have you ever been dancing with someone and they never quite matched your rhythm, or you theirs, and you felt as though it was somehow your fault?  That was me.  Now, I'm not a terrible dancer: I have rhythm, endurance, and I'm more or less fit.  I'm good-looking.  Armed with this last fact, I got somewhat tired of dancing off-step with this girl.  After the obligatory common chit-chat (e.g., "My name is this....", "How old are you...", etc.) and some more dancing, getting ever closer to one another, my hands attempting to manipulate her clitoris through the jeans she had on, I finally just asked her: "Would you like to go someplace and fuck?"

Now, this may very well seem like a rude or churlish, impatient, perhaps, and quite simply vulgar.  But I protest: I actually work well with people, not squarely in professional tripe, but also in banter that skirts the Outer Limits of conversation.  Ergo, I would not have asked the question if, given the circumstances (as (1) she was primed for it, and (2) I was getting quite randy, feeling ornery), it was inappropriate. (That's not to say I won't do or say inappropriate things; what I mean is that, when I do these improprieties, it shouldn't really be all that surprising, given that a drunk me is churlish and vulgar.)

She grabbed my hand and escorted me off of the floor, taking me to an o so romantic shitter, a single with a toilet and a sink.  She promptly locked the door and, in my confusion, thinking that she was drunk - evidently not drunk enough, since she had locked the door correctly - I unlocked it erroneously.  It didn't take long - seconds, maybe - before passerby started to open the door; she was deft in her re-locking it, and I apologized profusely - if a proper apology can be issued while fumbling a cock out of one's pants while simultaneously undoing her belt and pants to submerge said cock into her pelvis' center.

You're probably expecting some sad tale where I get this girl to the bathroom only to realize (too late) that she's actually a HE.  This was not the case: She was female, alright, with the titties and the pussy to prove it.

Damn, was she wet.  Damn, did her ass look okay in the bent-over position.  Nice: I was going to fuck in the restroom of a gay b-

Damn, did her asshole stink.  The odor of shit hit my nose, though in fairness it could have been exacerbated by the copious cups of body sweat she produced.  Yech.  What a turnoff.... which should have been impossible, as aroused as I was by the prospect of fucking in a bar.  But, yep!  She did it.

Honestly, I did try to recapture the moment by choking my limp fucker like I was trying to squeeze a hot dog in half, (I'll call it "manual vasocongestion") hoping that the blood captured in my dick's head would make the slick pussy more tantalizing as I rubbed my cock up against it... but, to my chagrin, this didn't work.  Nothing worked.

Somewhere between the shit-smell, my being tired from a three-hour workout, and my drinking myself halfway to silly Bacchus-style, my pecker failed me.  I've bagged hotties and rotties around the world; my dick has fought through the most adverse of conditions.  But here, maybe not when I needed it most, but when it sure as shit would've come in handy, my cock was as useful as a rubber filled - and not full - with cottage cheese.

How sad for me.  How fucking morose I became.

"Is it the people knocking on the door?" She asked.  God bless her for giving me an out, as saying that she didn't wipe her ass very well probably would have offended her.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I think so."

So, out we went, released back into the gay bar, where I found my friends before hitting the urinal one last time.  A gay black dude with a smart-ass fedora (think, "Cedric the Entertainer meets Queer Eye") meat-gazed me, and I laughed: "You don't want any of this, man; it's been up in a girl that stunk bad."  He concurred: He did not want any of that.

On the way out, my buddy and his wife asked me where I'd gone and what I did.  I lied, saying I got her pants down and fulled around with her, but didn't fuck her. (I still consider my strangled dick's head going into her as having fucked her; penetration - not deep penetration, but penetration, still - did occur, and at enough of a depth that any father, boyfriend, or husband would've been upset.  That, and she was retard-moaning like a fireplug was going into her as I held her head down over the sink, trying desperately to engorge.)

I felt bad that my ill repute was to be known by my pal's wife: I liked to keep that stuff away from the women, for fear that they'll castrate their husbands for hanging out with me.  However, she's Russian, he later told me, and considers it men's behavior to do such things; they're supposed to act as I did. (Next wife's gonna be Russian, I decided.)





Times in the past that my cock disobeyed my direct order to "Stand at attention!":

(1) It was December 2002; I was getting ready to fuck this girl that later became lesbian (in fact, she was performing at the gay bar the night I wrote about above!) when she made a joke about having syphilis.  Dick didn't come out to play that night.

(2) It was October 2003; I was getting ready to fuck this black girl in Roswell, NM, on the floor of some old redneck's bathroom.  I had whiskey dick bad. (What?  Of COURSE I was drinking!  Why else would I be fucking on the floor of a redneck's bathroom?) Of course, her friend knocking on the door, mad that I wasn't fucking her, didn't help matters.

(3) October (or so) 1997: My dick did get hard this time, after a four-hour make-out session with a beautiful, big-breasted bitch that I'd been fooling around with (in three- and four-hour increments at a time, sans sex) for about a month. (Don't worry about me: I had some side-things going.) I was reluctant to take off my underpants because it was part of my game to get her to take them off; she obviously didn't know the rules.  In any case, do you know how raw dry-humping actually makes a dick?  So, I finally get my cock in and, after four hours of essentially dry-humping, (I was an idiot: I should've lost the jockeys and been fucking in ten minutes) I'm about to blast some violent seed into her.  Ever the gentleman, I ask, "Where do you want me to come?" "I don't care," she replies, but I was already laying every last sperm cell - I think my dick might've even called for reinforcements - into her.  After that, my dick resumed it's normal rest period, just "hangin' out", good for nothing other than a Christmas tree ornament.



Times that other shit has ruined my sex:

(1) In June 2013: I tried to fuck another large woman, and at a church campout, of all places.  Same thing: She bent over, and shit ruined my hard-on.  'Fuck this,' my little Benedickt Arnold the Traitor said, 'I didn't sign on for this.'  If it wouldn't have seemed weird, I would've cursed it: 'Fuck you, penis!  Now be a trooper and fuck this puddle of goo; she's even trying to blow you awake!'  Just so I could at least let her leave with a party favor, I fingered her to orgasm.  But I have to ask: Do large women have a hard time wiping their assholes?  Are their arms too short (and not slender enough, giving up precious inches of reach) to reach around their magnificent asses to clean their anuses?  If so, it seems that patenting an apparatus that could reach their asses for the sake of cleanliness, hygience, and fucking them from the rear, would be a wise investment to make. (I'll take royalties, you idea-stealing fucks.)




So why share this sorry little story with you?  Why make you part of my pain, shame, and embarassment?  Why, indeed.  I'll tell you: Because it's funny.  It's just that simple: humor.  If I wrote a story about me knocking the bottom out of some hot girl's ass (which I swear I've done), you'd probably consider it porn, and possibly bullshit.  But, in either case, it probably wouldn't make you snicker; it probably wouldn't be memorable in the same way that a self-deprecating story about failed sex would be, either.

So there.

Fin

The Miracle of Life... can still be mocked.

Search Engine Cues

I was originally just going to type a bunch of words (like "vaginal warts" and "Mississippi Handbag") in a string so that, no matter what some twat waffle troglodyte typed in on Google or Yahoo!, they might stumble across my uncle-fucking page.  However, I thought better of it, realizing that, if the first thing the internet astronaut finds is a list of profanities, vulgarities, blasphemies, and obscurities, they might never read on, cuntily (i.e., in the fashion or manner of a cunt) dismissing my page as balderdash, poppycock, bollocks, bullshit, or ballyhoo, and missing over some truly insightful (or unsightly) shit; see, this shit on my blog is for the truly intelligent fetishist, and while the smegma that I've splattered on here doesn't quite have the same level of all-media art as "The Best Page in the Universe" by Maddox or the same amount of amusing and more-than-moderately misogynistic anecdotes as Tucker Max's site (www.tuckermax.com), (although, trust me, I've got my tales, too) I do think that you, dear reader, would do well to read on, and so I've put the words that I would have simply listed here into a monologue so that you would perhaps read on and be entertained.

I put the words "twat waffle" in that paragraph above for that very reason.  Please do not believe that I'm some sort of daft cunt that would ever say that, at least in earnestness.  I was merely hoping that some poor bastard - or a monosyllabic twat, or douche, or shit-eater, or priest rapist - would get the yearning to look up "twat waffle" at two in the morning and come across this site, reading some blogs and recommending it to all of his assfuck nigger faggot cuntworm Jew Spic friends. (Of course, I could put in words like "friendship" or "petunia" or "nostalgia", for surely some of that is covered here, and in seriousness... but that's not necessarily the clientele that would also want to read about a dickless Jack the Ripper or gay marriage or full frontal nudity in a public place, and so I went for the dregs of society - the perverts, the cretins, the sorry sons-of-bitches and saps that would read this sort of bullshit, hoping that I could pick up one or two intellects for every hundred degenerates.  After all, there are many more lowlifes on the planet.)

Please do not make the mistake that I'm dumb or ignorant.  I'm just a vulgar motherfucker, and I'm trying to indulge myself - a mind exhibitionist - by exposing myself (anonymously, of course) to those fucking voyeurs out there who would find some of my stuff interesting.  There is insight here, I promise; moreover, and more importantly, there is entertainment here, too.  Some have said that vulgarity is entertaining for small, uncreative minds.  I say, the Victorian Era is over; the second Medieval Age has begun, and, this time, we've got electricity.  We've got the World Wide Web.  And we've got very, very poor impulse control.

So, do you want to find "homes for sale", "baby names", or help on your taxes?  Do you want free money from the government, or do you want to discuss the homeless, the economy, the illegal aliens gun control NORML marijuana legalization abortion presidential elections?  Well, hopefully, if you do, you typed one of these terms into a search engine and stumbled across my page.

If you want - if you really want - football statistics or Superbowl tickets, free sports clothing, Final Four seats or to win the lottery, by all means, go right fucking after that, or all of them... but enjoy my page.  Tell what few or as many friends as you have about Gentleman Dick's blog.

If you want to jerk off to thoughts of a ménage à trois of Kristen Bell, Lady Gaga, or the strumpet in the Brangelina Dynamic Duo, Angelina Jolie (if you can stand the callogen, that is), you are more than within your rights to do so, fuckhead: But tell your fucking bottom-feeder friends about this page.

If you want to see Rosie O'Donnell fat, puckering asshole swallow a cucumber, a zucchini, or a squash, please: Get help; I almost wouldn't fuck her, and that is saying quite a bit.  But tell your friends about this blog.

Tell your wife.  Tell your kids.  Tell the nun that used to suck dick and the priest whose dick you used to suck.  Tell them all, shit-for-brains.  Tell them all.

A Moment of the Real, December 4, 2011

"The only constant is change."

Heh.  Ain't that the truth.

When I was a kid, sixteen, seventeen years old, I thought it would be great, GREAT, if I could somehow buy a mansion with hundreds of rooms, one for each friend of mine, or person that had made an impact, or even just those I enjoyed partying with; great conversations and memories and times.  I would gladly have somehow supported them so that they could stay with me and I wouldn't have to look back on the memories of my life, but actually have them, right there, to be relived.

I know now, as I did then, that this wasn't plausible, possible, or kind.  See, these people each have their own lives and goals, comforts, and momentums, and so we may get to pass like two ships in an endless ocean, or even travel aside one another for a time.  Eventually, though, we each peel off in our own pursuits and directions, and the mates we had once aren't always eternal.

I am now old enough to know that those friends that would sail with me for a time won't necessarily sail with me forever.  I had a friend, Erm, who once referred to our pack as "the fellas".  Not "The Fellas", like some pre-packaged boy band from the Rat Pack era, but "the fellas", the way he said it full of endearment and personal meaning.  There were several of us, ten or so, that grew up and fought and laughed and ran together.  You ever see those scenes in the movies where a group of guys is cajoling together, each one with his own unique relationship with each of the others?  That was us, "the fellas".

One by one, over the years, as girlfriends became wives or bones of contention, or as careers or jobs or goals or financial hardships or just plain life in general pulled us in one direction or another, we strayed from this pack, we fellas did, sometimes abandoning it altogether.  Some came back; some did not.  That is that.

In the past few months, I've been running into or hanging out with or talking to old friends from that pack, or second or third versions of that pack, Erm included.  It's been good, I suppose.  Cathartic, in a way, but awakening, too.  You never can step in the same river twice.

Some are married - so am I - and others are out there, exploring alone.  Some are married and exploring alone... perhaps this is a more adequate depiction of myself.

...

Have you ever seen a movie where the protagonist rides off into the sunset or towards a new adventure until his features become indistinct?  It's a common ending; the audience rests assured that, wherever this hero or that couple goes, they are going on with their lives.  All is well, it is assumed, and then the audience gets up and leaves, continuing with their own life.

Have you ever heard a song that doesn't just end with a dramatic finale, a definite endnote with resonance becoming nothing, but instead just continues to rock on or flow forth, continuing but growing fainter, not ending but just going somewhere else?

Life does continue, even after that song ends, and the fellas?  They're still out there.  Like different frequencies on the same path, we'll no doubt cross one another again.  But will it ever be like it was, with all of us drinking and laughing, cooking fish and being young?

I still feel young.  I still look young, to a point.  My mind, though... I'm an old man sometimes, and when I drink now, I drink alone.  Instead of making jokes, I write.

I've got new groups of friends, new fellas, not replacements, but good ones.

But will it ever be like it was?

No.

A Poem of Natural Love (Note: Love as a physical act... not some emotion related to an endorphin rush...)

I wanted to write a poem about the birds and flowers,

     But birds and bees are better, as I’d like to fuck for hours.

I see no point in hiding it, veiled behind the decent,

     For this hard-on in my pants is anything but recent.

It may not curry favor, love, and it may blow my chance,

     But why try deceit? I’ll be direct: Please let me in your pants.

I suppose I understand the trait that woman do possess

     To want to hear such longing words of love and heart’s duress,

To hear soft licks of poetry, to speak of love forlorn…

     Sorry, but that sappy bullocks makes it hard to perform.

So I do find bliss and happiness in walking through green meadows;

     For all the world, in honesty, I’d much rather get head, though.

Not that I can’t be passionate, nor do I find it trite,

     But a sonnet’s singing’s not something I care to do at night.

It seemed appropriate that this blog have an image to go with it, and so, I was inspired.

Jack the Ripper was probably DICKLESS, and faggots deserve equal rights

Rumor has it that Jack the Ripper, contrary to the popular belief that he was a ladies’ man, was actually dickless,(Note 1) or at least suffered from a pretty severe case of microphallus.(Note 2)  A little ironic, maybe, but, then again, maybe not.  It seems that the Ripper’s ill nature against women was probably due to his inability (despite his immense desire) to fuck them physically, and therefore grew frustrated with them, particularly the whores. (Of course, he may have singled out the whores because they’re not real people anyway, and therefore open to killing without serious moral repercussions.)

However, the Ripper’s anxiety was caused by his physical inability to throw anything more than a night-crawler into a box.  There are also mental anxieties caused by social standards, particularly associated with gender roles.

Of course, I’m talking about faggots (Note 3) and homophobes.

Check out this link: http://www.sodahead.com/united-states/study-proves-homophobes-are-nothing-more-than-closet-homosexuals-what-do-you-think/question-140910/

In short, it says that homophobic men who go out of their way to prove they’re straight, often at the bashing of queers, are more likely to be turned on by homoerotic pornography than are straight guys that just don’t give a shit about homosexuals. (Of course, this link may not be the best source, as it was apparently written by a gay, but fuck it: OJ Simpson got off (no pun intended) on his own word; maybe we can overlook this queer’s bloody glove, too.)

This is an issue that will have to be addressed at one point or another, because while I’m not comfortable with the thought of two men fucking, (Note 4) I’m also not comfortable with Congress or the Church telling me how I should or should not fuck. (Note 5) Let’s assume for a minute that these gays are real, live people (not like the aforementioned whores), and deserve the same rights as we do. (Note 6) Would you want a gay guy telling you where to put your dick? Not me!  So why should straights, clearly the majority, have any say over where a gay guy should stuff his mutton?

So let’s clear up a couple of things:

Marriage.  Fuck it, let ‘em get married.  If being gay is just another demographic (in that it is largely something that gays are naturally (I don’t understand the chemistry, but I don’t have to: I choose to fuck what I want to fuck; let a gay guy or gal choose for themselves)), than is it not discriminatory to permit same-sex marriages?  Fact is, we’ve got other shit to worry about.

Gays in the military.  I’ve met some smart queers, and I’ve met some dumb military folk.  Hmmm… who would I prefer defending the country?  The smart guys, regardless of their orientation.  Fact is, you don’t have to be straight to be a good soldier, just hard-working, conscientious, and, hey, being smart would help, too.  Being gay just doesn’t matter. (Note 7)

Before you go thinking I’m a little light in the loafers, though, and that I swing my bat into the foul zone, I do have to say this: Gay pride parades are bullshit, largely because if there were a straight-pride parade, the faggots would be up in arms about it.  I believe that one of the reasons there is such a distinction now between a straight guy like me and blacks and gays is because the blacks and gays keep reminding me and the rest of America of that difference. (Yeah, I think the Million Man March was bullshit, too.) You are born black, or become gay, or whatever: Why be proud of something you had no control over? Let me ask it like this: Why be ashamed of something you had no control over?  Be proud of the choices you have made.  Be ashamed of the choices you have made.  Near as I can tell, being black or gay has little to do with the cosmically big life choices you’ve made, and if they do, you’ve probably made a fucked-up decision somewhere, and allowed yourself to be defined by your color, your orientation… demographics.  Congratulations: You’ve become a statistic.

Now, although I can accept that there are those that are different from me, and that they lead different lifestyles in one facet or another, that doesn’t mean I am curious about that lifestyle.(Note 8)  It’s almost like being nice to a fat girl: She hardly ever gets a guy to talk to her like she’s a human, so when she does, she assumes he’s interested.  Gays are kind of like that: If you accept that they putt from the rough and gargle semen, they assume that you’re in their club, and that you want to fuck them.  Don’t get me wrong: It’s flattering in the same way that a fat girl dropping the drumstick for just a moment is, but it does nothing for me.  If God could come down and make all gays into women, that’d be great, because not all women would use their pussies like a change purse: Opening it up when they want something.

Note 1: In Patricia Cornwell’s book “Portrait of a Killer: Jack Ripper, Case Closed”, one of the theories written on the Ripper was that he was “badly disfigured… possibly had his privy member destroyed, and [that he was] now revenging himself on the sex by these atrocities.” (I’d probably want to kill somebody, too, and jump rope with their intestines.) It was also amusingly annotated that one of the Ripper suspects, Walter Sickert, was probably incapable of a hard-on, and had to squat like a woman to piss.  I’ll say that: Ted Bundy was one sick fuck, but at least he had a dick and fucked lots of women.

Note 2: I was looking up the word microphallus to make certain I had it spelled correctly, and learned that microphallus is “defined as a stretched penile length of less than 2.5 standard deviations (SDs) below the mean for age.” (http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/923178-overview) I also learned that treatments for the unfortunate condition are hormone therapy (testosterone) or gender reassignment.  I was unable to find a chart which indicated, by age, what an appropriate length should be, but can only assume that I suffer from MACROphallus (“An abnormally large penis”, http://www.medilexicon.com/medicaldictionary.php?s=macropenis), putting me at about 2.5 SDs ABOVE the mean.

Note 3: I tend to speak in profanities, so if the word “faggot” offends you, remember: Just because you suck dick doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch.

Note 4: I am VERY comfortable with the prospect of watching two women fuck, or perform cuntilingus (sic?), or even sling shit at one another from bras made up into slingshots, so long as they, for fuck’s sake, do it NAKED. (They can’t be fat, either, but possibly ugly with a GREAT body.)

Note 5: I do not think that fucking a woman in the ass is akin to fucking a man in the ass.  My buddy the Orangutan one time said that he would never sodomize a woman because then he’d know what fucking a man’s ass was like.  I have this to say: Tits.  Balls.  Hairy assholes.  A mile-long taint versus a centimeter.  Oh, and, IT’S A WOMAN.  His argument was like saying he’d never take head from a woman because her mouth had a tongue and some teeth (“Easy, bitch.”), just like a man’s does.  NONSENSE.  I would also titty-fuck a woman, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be thinking about fucking a fat dude’s bitch-tits. (Of course, the Orangutan is now a sexual deviant, and would probably fuck a pork sandwich if it were warm, had enough condiments, and no one was looking.  I one time had to say that I’d fuck a cow for $20 just to get him to quit asking me if I would.  Of course, this sick fuck starts stopping by pastures, so I had to recant my previous statement, but he still brings it up.  What a sick bastard.)

Note 6: I think that being gay is just another demographic, like gender and race, and is not something you choose.  There are those that think being gay makes you an instant sinner, (Fuck you, Catholic Church: Father Bad-Touch has given you enough on your plate without you casting your own aspersions.) which, to me, is kind of ridiculous.

Note 7: The “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy is arguably in defense of gays in the military; I happen to think that it is as much bullshit as affirmative action is.  Both have their roots in discrimination, and although they are both in place in order to assure greater freedom of action for gays and minorities, they imply that discrimination is an accepted part of the system; they counter discrimination, but do nothing to fix it.  Gays are still not allowed in the military, but if nobody knows about their gayness, then that’s okay; meanwhile, Private Duke knocks his wife up for the eighth time, and he doesn’t have to conceal it.  Don’t tell me it’s progressive; it only accepts the discrimination and makes it a more solidified part of the system.

Note 8: I one time dated a New Age chick that was into horoscopes and signs and yoga.  She had tremendously big tits, so I went with it, but at the end of our first date, after talking about this hippie shit and that hippie shit, she took me to the shop she managed, a yoga/fortune teller shop.  Because I didn’t say that I thought astrology was a bunch of shit in the first place, she then proceeded to have me read a chapter on my birthday and what sort of person I was.  I read it, and sure enough, it sounded like me.  Then I picked some arbitrary date, and read it.  Guess what?  It sounded like me! (The way those things are written, you’ll see vague descriptions that could be you if you stretch them far enough and believe them hard enough…) At any rate, I did wind up fucking her.  Now she’s married and doesn’t look so hippy-esque, but what’s that matter?  I stained her cervix; that’s all I care about.