Here is what I should do. Stay home, play my newly purchased Skyrim: Dragonborn DLC on Xbox, have a couple brandies, lay on the couch with the cat. Maybe make some chicken. Beat off. Do some pushups. Go to bed early and wake up to a healthy and productive January 1st.
Here is what I’m going to do: haul ass all over town half-drunk on the most cop-laden night of the year searching desperately for pussy. Text people I have no interest in talking to looking for a house party. Every bar and every party house is going to be “popping,” “going off,” but one in a thousand will be where the pussy is. One party in the entire town will have three or more reasonably attractive women who aren’t part of a couple and are kind of feeling like hey, it’s New Years Eve, I better have unprotected sex with some aging drunk. There are maybe five of these women in greater Los Angeles and three million men all out looking for them. The guys who know where that place is guard this secret like the nuclear fucking football; their sole purpose in life is to make sure you don’t show up and cockblock. But I’m gonna be steaming around town hammered with a brake light out looking for the Golden Ticket like every other schmuck. Because I have to. Because what if. Continue reading
Will always pull the same move. You meet a guy at a party. Somewhere between 45 and 60. He is from some hot climate type land where gays are hanged by vigilantes but also 10 year old boys are always getting paid to suck cock. The developing world.
He’ll start telling you a story– these guys are always fascinating to talk to. usually they’re married with kids. They have had long and storied careers smuggling shit in Pakistan or whateverthefuck. They will winkingly start telling you a story about sleeping with a hooker. Always great to hear fuck stories from old guys, or guys from places where sexism is still OK. There’s less dancing around the issue. I was in Dubai; I saw the hottest Russian hooker I have ever seen, at a club– I took her back to the hotel room. Got her clothes off– man, she can’t have been more than sixteen, tits like rocks, you know, flat stomach, beautiful skin. The most beautiful woman I have ever touched. And she looks me in the eye as she is taking off her panties, and…
She had a penis!
BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.
And then they give you a little look, like– how ’bout it?
Image stolen from some stock footage web site
I came back out to the park even though it is god damn motherfucking freezing, because there are two girls doing yoga, in yoga pants, on the grass. I came out so I could look at their asses.
They are going to look over here and see me looking. Fortunately this laptop gives me legitimacy. I have some ostensible purpose other than leering at their asses in their yoga pants. That’s right– stand on one foot, grab the other foot, lean forward. You are bumbling. You are going to fall over. Your expression of physical vulnerability is delightful. Also, I commend you for your commitment to flexibility and health. Your yoga pants are being consumed by your ass crack. Your buttocks are meaty and robust. You are in fact slightly heavier than one would expect for someone so committed to yoga. This is an asset. You are the kind of girl with whom one thinks he has a shot. By retaining a slight layer of padding, you are not pricing yourself out of the market. I think that if I met you through a friend I would talk to you and charm you and you would end up drunk on red wine in my filthy apartment cozying up and watching The Dark Crystal on my Xbox before I ate you out on the carpet and got rug burns on my knees. If you were thinner I’d assume you wanted someone with money. Continue reading
You have a nice body, they tell me. Or, you are fitter than the other guys I’m with. They say it once. That’s why I work out. Hours and hours and hours. Squat deep, ass to the grass. I can feel my pelvis creaking like an old car’s ball joint that’s about to snap on the freeway. You have a nice butt, they will tell me, once. My knees feel like someone’s digging under the kneecap with a chisel for four days after leg day. You have a nice “V” shape; you have that “V crotch.” It feels like there’s a bird with a sharp beak trying to dig out of my guts the day after I do “core” day, which is to say, the day I fuck the floor using a wheel on a stick. Dead lifts, calf raises. I walk around like Bryan Cranston in Drive. You have a nice body, they say in passing when I’ve fucked them already and who gives a shit.
She broke my toe somehow, with her high heel. She broke my toilet. I could hear it running; I was still too drunk to get up. I just heard a soothing trickle like a rain forest waterfall. It was toilet water saturating the rug. Now my apartment will never not smell like mildew. She bled all over my sheets. Why do girls always get their fucking period at my house, it’s like I have some kind of hormone in the air. I like to think they’re aborting some other man’s seed in preparation for me ravishing their womb. But they always get their fucking period, which, it’s part of nature but it’s fucking disgusting.
Still. What a piece of ass. Continue reading
“… yes, I’ll hold… hello? Clive? Clive! Have you seen the bloody papers? Today’s the day! This is what we’ve been waiting for! Fur coats, Clive! Cars! Jesus, Imagine the wome–
“Wait, so they’re using… with forced… what? Oh. Oh….
“I… yes, yes it’s fine. ‘Back 2 Tha Hood’ this one’s called… very well. Let me know when the plane’s booked.”
A small hand throws a Bible in the trash.
Hey my name is Katy but friends call me Pixie because I’m so tiny! I’m a sweetheart if you get to know me. I’m trying the internet because people in real life assume I am much younger than I am so I am tired of 12-16 year old boys hitting on me lol!
The first things people usually notice about me
my size. i am 5’4 and 83 pounds. I know I look 12 but I’m 18. I have ID lol!
I’m looking for
• Guys who like girls
• Ages 19–49
You ever wonder where they find guys so fucking stupid that they think a nubile 15 year old with puffy nipples is going to seduce a pudgy hunchback with cerebral palsy? Apparently, it’s OKCupid. Continue reading
does not believe your height keeps you from getting women.
Image: “Ordeal of Man-E-Faces” by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus
Previously on Passions:
Custom Jerkoff Encouragement Videos. That was the new idea. Men would pay you to make a video where you sat with your legs spread and talked to the camera about their fetish, liberally incorporating their name. I want you to cum inside me, Darren. My life is almost complete but I want to have a baby. Your baby, Darren. I want to feel your cum spray inside me, Darren. This was the example Yuri showed her. He had bought a studio, which is to say a building with a camera in it in Pacoima between a CLINICA FAMILIAR with posters of frightened pregnant girls in the window and Rudy’s Auto Shop, Specializing in Transmissions Since 1989. I need you to give me a baby, Darren. And she smacked her pussy, the star of Yuri’s first producorial effort, betraying her stripper roots. Smacking your pussy makes a guy who’s staring into his vodka red bull look back up at you in a titty bar; on a laptop video screen it looks cheap and clownish. Astrid would do better. Darren had paid one thousand dollars to have somebody tell him she wanted his baby. The girl got two hundred. It was eight minutes worth of work and it didn’t seem to be a problem that the girl ran out of material at the two minute mark and just repeated herself. The American sex industry is the last place in the world where the buyers are so desperate that incompetence is forgiven, even expected. The quality of acting– the insincerity of the enthusiasm, or the horror in the case of something like rape porn, would have got any Wal Mart greeter fired on his first day. But you could still feel pity and disgust pretty transparently in the passenger seat of some guy’s Honda as you took off a pair of panties that you’d been supposedly sweating and cumming in for two days and handed them to him for a hundred dollar bill. You could still be obviously creeped out as long as you held eye contact. She bought them in packs of six and swabbed them in her armpits after jogging. Continue reading
OK, how am I gonna get money. Maybe Charles Bukowski’s Factotum was not an appropriate book to read when experiencing anxiety about finding a job. He’s cleaning toilets. Polishing the brass rail around the L.A. Times building. I don’t want to do that shit.
I have cleaned toilets. Worse, I have cleaned toilets for a boss who then inspected each toilet, maddeningly thorough about detecting the tiniest bit of excrement left behind. As though someone would have to shit, look at the gnat-sized chunk of stubborn waste on the bowl, and scoff. I can’t shit here! This was in an office building that hosted small insurance companies. This was not the president’s toilet, or Madonna’s. These were men who shit when the spirit moved them, specks of lingering asscrust be damned. But still. What is this, she would ask. I thought you scrubbed the toilet. Why is this still here. Continue reading