Really mad March Madness

March 14, 2011

For sports wackos like me, and especially for sports wackos in and from Syracuse, where we have little else to get excited about, it’s the most wonderful time of the year (sing with Andy Williams voice if necessary). Now that both the men’s and women’s brackets have been filled out, I excitedly went to MSN.com first to print out my brackets. My custom for the men’s tournament is this: I print out the bracket, use a highlighter to mark SU’s path to the championship, fill in the winners each night, and when SU loses, crumple up the sheet into a ball and chuck it into the trash. :) Of course, there was one year where nothing got crumpled. I have that one framed.

Ever since the Maryland women won a national title, turning Duke into itty-bitty overtime blue meatballs, I’ve been printing and filling out both charts. I could not find a printable women’s bracket on FOX Sports, which I consider an oversight. It’s gotta be in there somewhere. However, there is an article with one lonely little comment, as of now anyway, posted by one bennymfan: http://msn.foxsports.com/wcbk/story/NCAA-announces-field-for-2011-womens-basketball-tournament-031411

Now, I’m sure bennymfan has major game to bring. His play in the paint is probably on such an awesome level he didn’t even bring it to the light, lest he make pikers like MJ cower in shame. His rainbowlike three-point shot  is a thing of beauty, making grown men like Gerry McNamara cry silky orange tears. And he certainly must have the uncanny ability to penetrate both man and zone defenses like the proverbial knife through butter. Why, otherwise, would he post something so rude on a public message board about some very tough athletes?

Oh, yeah. Because he’s a knuckle-dragging lunkhead.

FOX Sports seems to attract more of the grunting Neanderthal woman-hating type of male sports fan. I doubt that it has anything to do with it being FOX. Sports isn’t the same as news. But I’ve seen some very nasty comments posted there over the years about women’s basketball; the perceived sexual orientation of the players and coaches, as if that mattered; and of women’s sports in general. I wish I could provide a link, for example, to the comment board accompanying the FOX Sports obituary—an obituary, for cripes’ sake!—of Kay Yow two years ago. Turns out FOX Sports archives its articles diligently. All that’s left is a Lexis-Nexis reference: http://msn.foxsports.com/collegebasketball/story/Kay-Yow-delivers-message-to-mourners. But trust me, the commenters as a group seemed more preoccupied with Yow’s sexual orientation than her death, breast cancer, her grieving family and friends, or the void she left at NC State with her passing.

A quick check of other articles relating to the women’s tourney, first of all, was a pain in the tuchas to find, as the articles were buried several links down; and second, have no comments yet, which I would expect if they’re buried where no one can find them. By contrast, right now http://espn.go.com has players from the women’s #1 seeds on the home page. I printed my bracket from there. No relegating women’s sports to oh-yeah-by-the-way status there.

I don’t care to engage bennymfan in a pissing contest, tempting though it is. It does no good. Like the old adage says, never wrestle with a pig (it just gets you dirty and annoys the pig). I just rest easy knowing, even though I’ve never met the guy, that Brittney Griner could kick bennymfan’s ass any day of the week.

I did not know that there were any black characters on Captain Kangaroo until I read the death notice on Wikipedia of Jimmy Wall, who apparently introduced the character of Mr. Baxter in 1968. By then, being a wise and worldly ten years old, I had licked my 10,000-a-day ping-pong ball habit and was on to more weighty matters, such as the dangers of George Wallace running for president and whether the Tigers could hit Bob Gibson.

Anyway, Wall’s death got me to thinking about the show, and Bob Keeshan himself, and one thing I remember reading in his obituary was that he never used the word kids when speaking of his target audience. “They’re not kids, they’re children,” he told an interviewer. From his New York Times obituary: “… he never patronized them and always assumed they were bright and would appreciate him and what he was doing. And so they listened when he talked ….’We have respect for our audience,’ he told Steven V. Roberts in The New York Times in 1965. ‘We operate on the conviction that it is composed of young children of potentially good taste, and that this taste should be developed.’ “

After reading that, I’ve striven to avoid using the word kids when speaking of young people. Kids are baby goats.

Children are also individuals. It’s tempting to lump them all in together as simply members of a group, as it is with black people, Latinos, LGBT’s, etc., but the fact is each child is a separate person with a unique personality. I think that’s what I bristle most at when people ask me why I never had children. “What’s the matter; don’t you like kids?” is a common question.

Besides being offended at the question itself (it really is none of their business), I’m offended at their use of the word kids, as well as their insistence on lumping all children into a group. It really is like saying, “Don’t you like blacks?” or “Don’t you like Hispanics?” And when you get down to it, liking children is not really an issue, since being a child is a temporary condition anyway. If you genuinely don’t like baby humans, have some patience. They’ll grow out of it.

Best dream of all time

November 3, 2010

For some years, I kept a dream blog over on http://www.livejournal.com, user name sarahspade. I also kept extensive bound journals of my dreams in years past, especially in college. The original purpoase of this was to develop my lucid dreaming capabilities. In the now out-of-print book Creative Dreaming, the author, Dr. Patricia A. Garfield, suggests writing down what you remember as one of several techniques for improving dream memory and, eventually, control of the plot of the dream, which is what lucid dreaming is all about.

I’ve stopped sharing my dreams, mainly because I don’t have the time, but also because I recently became aware that most people don’t give a shit what you dreamed last night. Greg Behrendt, the standup comedian, does a little bit on this. “They’re your own private movies,” he says. You never realize what a moron you sound like to your friends when you’re telling the story. This one, however, was too good not to share: I murdered both Sarah Palin and Christine O’Donnell.

With kitchen knives. Very satisfying. I nailed Palin first. The secret is to use two 8″ or longer blade chef’s knives, one in each hand. She had her back to me, making a phone call. She was in her usual corporate uniform of skirt suit and back high heels. I thrust both knives in, pinning her against the wall like a pithed frog, and moved one blade around like I was comitting seppuku. Oddly, I didn’t get any blood on myself. Her blood spurted in several directions, but not on me. Since I had to reuse the knives on O’Donnell, I had to pull them out of the wall, whereupon Palin managed to stagger away for a few steps until she died standing up on a staircase, cell phone still in her hand.
 
O’Donnell, being completely naked, was defenseless against my two-fisted approach. She didn’t even put up a fight.
 
To quote Bugs Bunny, lo-o-o-ove it!

In a recent press release, http://www.lp.org/news/press-releases/libertarian-chair-time-to-re-legalize-immigration, Wes Benedict demolishes many myths about immigration. He also points out some unintended consequences of making it more difficult for people to come to this country legally. One point caught my eye, partly because I’m jealous I didn’t think of it, but mostly because, well, I didn’t think of it. And, I bet, neither has anyone else: Pushing immigration underground makes it easier for terrorists to enter this country.

Bet you haven’t considered that, tea partiers.

Cool to be dumb

October 25, 2010

I had an odd little flashback today. As a guest in a training class where the icebreaker was to share a fun fact about yourself, I mentioned that I had been in the National Spelling Bee in
197[CENSORED] and got to meet the First Lady at the time. About a year ago,  I shared that same fact as a comment on John McIntyre’s delicious blog, You Don’t Say (http://weblogs.baltimoresun.com/news/mcintyre/blog/, and if you don’t peek in on that blog regularly, you should), and was obliquely ridiculed by another commenter, who seemed to feel that memorizing arbitrary lists of useless words was a waste of time for a preadolescent.

One thing that the National Spelling Bee does today which it did not in my day is televise nationally, usually on ESPN. Anyone with basic cable, therefore, can witness the contestants querying the judges about word origins, parts of speech, and usage. If you’ve ever watched this event, on TV or in person, you know that the children, ferociously competitive without exception, do this extensively. I can affirm from experience that many years from now, these techniques help not only communication skills but analytical skills in general, specifically left-brain skills. Moreover, I can also affirm from experience that the words themselves are far from useless. Words such as stochastic, risible, supercilious and internecine occur and have recently occurred in my work life and Internet reading. Heck, even Frank Costanza referred to Elaine once as supercilious. (http://www.seinology.com/scripts/script-90.shtml) So why does the commenter on McIntyre’s blog think this is a waste of time?

Assuming that commenter is American, he is a symptom of a peculiar and, I hope, momentary trend in American societal development. Some time in the recent past, perhaps in the past sixteen years, Americans seem to have lost respect for being smart. Put another way, it’s really obvious we’re more dumbed down than ever.

This Sunday’s Washington Post carried an article and, in the print edition, a catchy pop quiz entitled, “The tea party warns of a New Elite. They’re right.” (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/10/22/AR2010102202873.html) The New Elite is deliberately anti-intellectual. They’ve lost curiosity toward many subjects. They ridicule true intellectuals as if “elite” were something to be avoided. An Ivy League degree is something to be scorned; Christine O’Donnell is proud of not having gone to Yale, and her supporters are proud of her for not having gone to Yale. (My guess is, so is Yale.)  Newt Gingrich used the term “elite” a lot in 1994 to deride those opposite him on the political spectrum. (He, having a Ph.D in history himself, is a clearcut case of the pot calling the kettle rusted. But I digress.) This is well-documented: http://thinkprogress.org/2007/04/22/gingrich-liberalism-vatech/; http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/commandingheights/shared/minitext/int_newtgingrich.html, especially risible because of his use of the oxymoron “elite mainstream;” see also http://articles.baltimoresun.com/1994-11-12/news/1994316001_1_newt-gingrich-washington-elite-programs We can hardly swing an Internet cat without hitting some frothy-mouthed anonymous bloviator grousing that the President or some other commentator is an elite. He’s too intellectual. They want a President who’s ‘a regular guy! Someone they can have a beer with! Here’s a terrific example of just that from a comment today, reproduced verbatim, to an opinion column written by Yale grad Anne Applebaum:

We have had it with all of you ignorant elites, get out of our way already! All we have to do is cut and past from Wikipedia and we can all see what the delusional fantasists from Yale still are on the WaPo’s payroll to brainwash into us their sense of inbred superiority based on hedonistic, secular, and Satanic wicked and sinful blindness:
Her parents are Harvey M. Applebaum, a Covington and Burling partner, and Elizabeth Applebaum of the Corcoran Gallery of Art. She graduated from the Sidwell Friends School (1982). She earned a B.A. (summa cum laude) at Yale University (1986), where she was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. As a Marshall Scholar at the London School of Economics she earned a master’s degree in international relations (1987).[4] She studied at St Antony’s College, Oxford before moving to Warsaw, Poland in 1988 as a correspondent for The Economist

My word. I had no idea being smart and well-educated was a detriment.

Look, I don’t want someone in the White House who’s a regular guy, or gal. I want and need someone who’s way smarter than I am. Someone who’s dumber than I can get us all killed. (I’m looking right atcha, Dubya.)

Finally, it wouldn’t be a Shut Your Everloving Piehole rant without a jab at the radical right. Their collective lack of intellectual curiosity is summed up in that bumper sticker you’ve no doubt seen on the road: “God Said It/I Believe It/That Ends It.” OK, I get it: Some people believe the Old Testament + New Testament = the complete, inerrant word of the Almighty, and no other faith’s holy books need apply. Go ahead and believe that G-d created the heavens and earth. …Don’t you want to know how? Don’t you even care? (I’m still looking at you, George.)

Now, I know that bumper sticker’s been around a long time. And there will always be a few folks who sincerely believe it. But it’s dangerous to put such people in charge of determining our children’s science curricula (http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/31/national/31religion.html and many others) and textbook content (http://tfninsider.org/2008/10/15/creationists-launch-first-strike-against-evolution-in-texas-science-standards/) at a time when those children will grow up to compete with kids in other countries who received a much more solid science and math education. We need teachers and parents who cherish and honor intellectual curiosity, more than ever. We need people who are not willing to be intellectually lazy. We need elites.

Elite. Teach your children it’s not a dirty word.

Last chance

October 21, 2010

…before the US turns into Denmark or Sweden.  Last chance to tell Nancy Pelosi to go eat a hodgy. A news post from one of the directors of NCPA:

Dear Policy Patriots -

Election Day is Just Two Weeks Away! If ObamaCare is not repealed, you will face lower quality, higher cost health insurance. Your access to care will suffer. The time to act is NOW!

Top 4 Reasons to Repeal ObamaCare. There are dozens of good reasons to repeal ObamaCare but here are the top four:

  • Americans Don’t Want It. People will be required to buy a product whose price will be rising at twice the rate of growth of their incomes and they will be barred from doing many of the things needed to control these costs.
  • Businesses Can’t Afford It. ObamaCare imposes a bizarre system of subsidies which will disrupt the entire labor market – causing massive layoffs and, ultimately, a complete restructuring of industrial organization.
  • Patients Don’t Need It. The health insurance exchange will give health plans perverse incentives to attract the healthy and avoid the sick; and after enrollment, to overprovide to the healthy and underprovide to the sick.
  • The Health Care System Can’t Support It. As is the case in Massachusetts, people will have perverse incentives to game the system – remaining uninsured while healthy and obtaining insurance only after they get sick; choosing limited-benefit plans while healthy and scaling up to richer plans after they get sick.

Change You Can Believe In! The American people deserve better than ObamaCare. You should expect more. Health reform should include higher quality, lower cost and strong protections for the care of senior citizens. Repealing ObamaCare is step one in achieving these important, attainable outcomes.

Walk Your Block This Week! Policy Patriots just like you have distributed more than 350,000 copies of the NCPA’s What Does Health Reform Mean for You? This week, many have committed to walking their neighborhoods, distributing this important educational guide. Do your part today by order 100 pamphlets from http://www.policypatriots.org and committing to walk your block this week.

———–

Okay, it’s a little hysterical-sounding, but he’s on the right track. I’ve been harping on that fourth point for many moons now. The health care system won’t be able to stand the strain. http://wp.me/pzqik-2R, http://shutyoureverlovingpiehole.wordpress.com/2009/07/13/stop-single-payer-health-care-now/

I’m happy that my representative, Frank Kratovil, voted against the thing, mainly on point #2; and dismayed that one of my senators, Ben Cardin, has stated in his publicity literature that he sincerely believes that health care is a right. He’s wrong, of course. If you have to pay for it, it’s a commodity, not a right.

(WARNING: This post is pure fan fiction, meant for adult readers only. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. This post contains graphic depictions of lesbian sexual activity. If you are offended by homosexuality in any way, you are invited to leave this blog immediately and go here: http://www.foxnews.com.

( This post is inspired by the posts of Bachem Macuno (http://ifuckedanncoulterintheasshard.blogspot.com and http://backinanncoultersasssaddleagain.blogspot.com/ and dedicated to the memory of Robert Schimmel, whose politics I have no idea of but who I would like to think would have enjoyed sex-positive content on the Internet or anywhere.)

I was at home watching the Orioles finish the season against the Tigers, actually switching between that and a very important game of Pyramid Solitaire on http://home.iwon.com, when the phone rang. It was Jack, my hair stylist. After we said hello, he said breathlessly, “You know how you said you always wanted to be on the set of a porn video while I was doing the makeup?”

“Yeah?” I was genuinely excited.

“Well, now’s your chance! Can you be at the Belvedere Hotel in a half-hour? We’re in a studio on the fourteenth floor.”

“I’m on my way, bye!” I didn’t even wait for him to say bye back. I slipped into flip-flops, grabbed my wallet and jumped in the car. Jack is my stylist, true, but he also does makeup for weddings and the occasional TV special. What only a few people know, though, is that most of the money he makes doing makeup is for adult videos. And nothing he does is vanilla porn. I’ve met some of the talent in the past, and they are all into fetish porn, she-males, chicks with dicks, stuff like that. Knowing I love makeup, he and I talked about how he’d invite me to the set of a production he was working on, and he’d let me hold the lights while they taped, or maybe even do some basic makeup steps like prepping skin or applying foundation and concealer. Now I was finally getting to do it. I was like a kid going to see Santa Claus!

After some difficulty finding a parking space near the Belvedere, I went in, got in the elevator…and remembered the Belvedere doesn’t have a fourteenth floor. Puzzled, I called Jack back on my cell. He told me to go to the bar on the thirteenth floor and tell the bartender I was looking for him. So I did, and the bartender walked me back through the kitchen and the meat cooler to a small door on the back wall. The bartender swung open the door for me. I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw.

Jack was there all right, along with the usual assortment of crew on a video set: prop stylists, a couple of camera guys holding small videocams, and a couple of our mutual friends who were just along for the view. No women. I assumed it was going to be a gay production. “Robin! You’re here!” Jack exclaimed as he greeted me. We airkissed. “You are gonna have so much fun. We talked about it here, and I convinced them there would be no one better for this part than you.”

“Part?” I replied, surprised. “You want me to be in the video?”

“Honey,” he said, “I wouldn’t want anyone else to be in this one. Meet your fellow cast member.” He gestured behind me with a powder brush. I turned around and saw—well, my mind is still shaking its head over what I saw. There was one other woman in the room, after all.

Christine lay on a queen-size four-poster bed, each poster bearing a bound wrist or ankle. Her hair was partially plastered to her face; her eye makeup was a little smeared, possibly from crying. She had on only duct tape over her mouth and a pair of ordinary nylon panties, pink. She turned to look at me with a blend of terror and disgust, trying to scream through the duct tape.

“Wait: you want me to do her makeup?”

“Honey,” Jack replied, “who said anything about makeup? I said we want you to be in the video. You’ll be the domme and she’s the sub. You can do anything you want to her, and we’ll capture it all. Take all the time you need. With a little luck, the video will go viral by Halloween.” In other words, the weekend before Election Day.

“Oh, man,” I said, “this is gonna be fun…how did you think of this?”

Jack’s friend, Roger, piped up, “We just thought, who could be the most deliciously evil? And your name came up immediately!” I smirked. Roger knew me too well. I got in character immediately.

“Well, you don’t expect me to top this slutty little piece of meat while I’m wearing jeans and lip gloss, do you?” I asked. “Get me into something more…suitable.”

Jack and I went into another room to dress me. Among the costumes they’d brought, I found a black corset with pink trim and a shelf bra that fit me. The garters of the corset held up stockings that matched my legs; in my size I found a pair of black pumps with impossibly high heels to wear. I considered adding a cute pair of black lace panties they had, but thought better of it and decided the bottom half of me would go commando. Fingerless black lace gloves completed the fashion look. Now dressed, Jack poufed up my hair a bit, gave me the perfect smoky eye in black and gray, and added false eyelashes and shiny red lip gloss.  A touch of BeneFit BeneTint applied to my nipples, which peeked out over the top of the corset, completed the look. I toddled out slowly, with a slight swagger, knowing that the only pair of eyes locked on my shaved pussy between the garters and the hem of the corset was Christine’s.

“Hello, Christine,” I said lowly. I was trying to sound menacing. She looked at me with pure hate but said nothing. “Looks like it’s up to you and me to make our own fun tonight.” She shook her head violently and moaned a syllable that sounded like a cross between “nooo” and “mmmm.” “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you,” I intoned. I edged closer to the bed to get a close look at her almost naked. Her skin was surprisingly creamy and smooth, with faint bikini tan lines ; her breasts were graceful and round, with quarter-sized flat pink nipples. The panties she was wearing were probably el cheapos from Target or Wal-Mart, just sheer enough to share hints of a fluffy bush and pouty labia. She hadn’t had a bikini wax, it was evident. I turned to the crew and said, “Got any massage oil?”

“No, but we have this,” Jack replied, handing me a jar of Albolene cream. They no doubt use it to remove heavy makeup. Albolene is terrific for that. It also makes a great, if somewhat greasy, skin conditioner and lube. I set the jar down near the bed for later. “You’re a very lovely woman, Christine,” I said to her, sitting down next to her on the bed. “You look so beautiful lying there naked. Well, almost naked. You know what I mean. What pretty breasts you have. Who knew, under those frumpy GOP suits? So pretty.” I reached out and smoothed my fingertips over her left nipple. “Mmm, what beautiful, lickable nipples you have,” I purred. I rubbed slightly harder, and the nipple sprang to life under my fingertips. She put up no struggle. “Are your nipples always this responsive?” I asked slowly. “I hope that feels good.” She just looked at me.

“Tell me, Christine…does this feel good?” She said nothing, but her look softened. I thought I saw her eyelids flutter closed. My voice dropped an octave and I narrowed my eyes to menacing slits.

“I said, does this feel good?  Answer me!” Though the threat was minimal, she nodded. I spread my fingers to caress her entire breast. It was warm and resilient in my hand. “Would you like me to rub your other nipple? Tell me yes or no.”

And I make a small tactical error: Thinking I’ve softened her up enough, I remove the duct tape from her mouth. What emerges from her throat is not ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ but a high-pitched animal scream of no syllable in particular. Then: “HEEEEEEELLLLLLLLPPPPP! RAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEEE! HEEEEEEEEEL-” I roll my eyes, sigh, and slap the duct tape back on. Muffled grunts seep through the duct tape as she rolls her head back and forth.

“Tsk tsk, Christine,” I glower. “I gave you the privilege of being able to breathe and speak, and you abused the privilege. For that, the tape goes back on. Now: do you want me to rub your other nipple? Nod your head.” Fearing the consequences of saying no, she nods yes.

I straddle her, my moistening pussy pressing on her tummy, and reach forward. Gently at first, then slightly more forcefully, I pinch, rub, massage, strum. She can see I mean no harm or pain to her, and I feel her body relax and see the anger lines on her face soften. Then my whole hand expands to cup her left breast. It’s warm and slightly sweaty. Did I just hear her moan? I do the same with my left hand on her right breast. “Mmmm,” is definitely what I heard from under the duct tape. I rub her breasts in tandem, slowly, gently, first dry, but eventually reaching for the Albolene and applying a small amount to each nipple as I tease and pull them into a flaming red state of erection. Once erect, I take more than a few moments to circle each nipple with my tongue, watching her face as I lick and suck them lovingly. They’re soft and taste slightly sweet. I love nipples. I’m arousing myself; I can feel my labia throbbing and getting wetter with every lick. Softening her up is my goal.

“So,” I say to her as I continue the heavenly breast massage, “you say you’ve never been with a man. I believe you.” Her look turns to one of suspicion. “And yet, no one can be asexual. Sex is God’s gift to us. It’s what we were put on this earth to do. It’s the second most basic urge. Second only to eating.

“You can’t possibly be asexual, a pretty girl like you. …And yet, you’ve never had a cock in your pussy. Or so you say. I’ll do the due diligence on that later.

“I therefore can conclude only one thing.” I sit up, remove the duct tape again, and this time she simply gasps for a breath. “That you’re secretly a slutty little pussy-eating dyke.” Her brown eyes grow wide as saucers as my cunt approaches her lips. I hear a quiet snicker from one of the crew. “Let’s see how much you like it. Eat my cunt now, bitch!”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust and turns her head to the side. I grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head back to face front. “Wrong answer, Christine!” I shout. “Do it now or the duct tape goes over both your nose and mouth.”

The room is deathly silent for a moment. I move not a muscle, nor does she. Then I feel it: the tiniest touch of the tip of her tongue to my clitoris, like a cat checking out a morsel of food. I think this is getting tedious. The next thing I feel jolts me to attention: the tip of her tongue vibrating allegro against my clit, vibrating like a tuning fork, like butterfly wings, like machine-gun fire. It’s faster than anything I’ve ever felt. Like Joshua Bell performing a passage from a Tchaikovsky violin concerto. I suspect she wants to just get me off quickly so I’ll stop riding her face. If so, it’s working. I can feel my labia swelling against her chin as she strums my clit with her tongue. Then I feel her tongue slip down lower, under my clit, between my labia, and the high-frequency vibrations slow into languorous laps of her tongue up and down my slit. Slowing down she is to adagio, tongue actually lingering at the opening of my now dripping-wet vagina. I’m propping myself up against the wall and my thighs are turning to jelly. She’s going to make me come and I might fall off the bed.

People don’t go that slow on wet, juicy cunt unless they mean it. Could she be…enjoying eating my pussy?

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I ask loudly. “Unh-unh!” she moans from between my legs. I push my cunt into her face harder. “Don’t lie to me, you rightwing slut!” I shout at her. “You eat pussy better than anyone I’ve ever had! You’re tasting me and drinking down all my juice! And you’re loving every minute of it! I see you smiling! Your cunt is probably dripping wet right now, too!” I grind my cunt lips against her smooth skin as her tongue penetrates deeply into my vagina.  “Admit it! You’re nothing but a pussy-loving dyke, and that’s all you’re good for! Now answer the question again: you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I remove my cunt from her face, but hear only a muffled reply. “What was that?”

“yes…”

“Tell us all what a cunt-loving lesbo you really are, Christine. We’re waiting to hear it.” My labia hover just millimeters from her face.

“Yes! It’s true! I’m a cunt-crazy bitch!” she cries. “I’d rather eat pussy than anything! Thank you for letting me eat your delicious, beautiful cunt, Mistress Robin! Please let me make you come all over my face! Please!”

“Happy to oblige, slut,” I growl, pushing my clit back into her mouth. She does something curious and imaginative at this point: her whole mouth slides down to envelop my labia and her tongue slips smoothly into the opening of my cunt again, while she actually uses the tip of her nose to stimulate my clit. I’m vaguely aware that the camera lens is but a few inches away from her mouth. The camera will no doubt catch the subtlety of her using her nose on me so she can feel my orgasm throbbing against her tongue. When I do come, it feels like I’m actually ejaculating into her mouth as she wags her head back and forth and moans her pleasure at drinking all my juice.

The cameraman steps away, and I rest against the wall a moment. I can feel the pleasant aftershocks of my labia pulsating against Christine’s cheeks. When the pulsations stop, I climb off. Her face is glistening with come and saliva. I note a dreamy look in her eyes. “Not bad, slave, not bad at all, ” I murmur. “Wow! You really know how to eat pussy. I bet you enjoyed that as much as I did.” I move down to the end of the bed where her ankles are tied to the bedposts. Bending down to get a closer look at her panty-covered crotch, I see that even through her abundant muff, her inner labia are so long and puffy they almost cut through the fabric. The wet spot between them trails down to the bed. “Just as I thought: your cunt gives you away. You’re really turned on right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmurs softly.

“Would you like me to get you off?”

“Yes…I mean no! No! I’m still a virgin!” The look of terror returns to her face. “You’re not going to fuck me with a strap-on, are you?! Please, mistress! Please don’t…devirginize me!!”

“Calm down, slut,” I reply. My nails trace over the wet part of her panties. “I have no intention of  deflowering you.” I rub her clit through her panties a tiny bit. My goodness, she is wet. “Being the lezzie slut you are, you must be aware there are many ways to achieve sexual satisfaction without actually putting a cock in your pussy. …I’m just here to help you explore some of those ways.

“I can tell you one thing, though: these granny panties are good for nothing but getting in the way of what I’m about to do with you. They’ll have to come off.” Since she’s tied up, though, and I have no intention of untying her, and the laws of topology cannot be broken, I can’t just slip them off her hips.

On the table where the props and makeup sit, I spy an implement that might help me, and I’m inspired. I go over to the table and verify that what I’m seeing is a hunting knife with about a six-inch blade and a wood handle, stained dark red and inlaid with abalone. I pick it up and turn back to the bed. Christine begins to emit a scream, then catches herself lest the duct tape go back on her mouth. I have no intention of hurting or cutting her, but let her think I’m going to. A little fear keeps one honest. Wordlessly, I walk back to the bed and in one motion, slice the left side of her panties in two. The nylon falls softly to the bed, and this time Christine’s scream is real and from the deepest part of her diaphragm.

I roll my eyes. “Jeez. I’ll buy you another pair.” And with another smooth, swift stroke, for I truly don’t want to hurt her or draw blood, I divide the right side of the panties. The scream she lets out this time is less energetic, more like a whimper. I pull the cloth out from under her butt and lay it on the bed next to us. I kneel down by her side to get a better look at her now-naked pussy.

Though I could see before that her bush was quite luxurious, I appreciate now that it’s almost a rainforest. Used to shaved or hairless pussies, I’m mildly startled to see a thick thatch of surprisingly dark hair which, it’s evident, has never been shaved or waxed. It spills over her mound and into the crevices of her groin, and hides her clit somewhat. Her inner labia are, however, anything but hidden: they spill out from between the outer labia and protrude almost an inch from her body. Long, meaty, and very juicy, if she weren’t my fuck slave right now I’d have them both in my mouth without pausing to think about it.

Almost absentmindedly, I run the flat edge of the hunting knife across the top of her mound, gently pulling small strands of her hair and rubbing the sharp side of the blade against it. “Oh my god,” she moans. She stiffens visibly.

“Relax, Christine,” I say. “I’m not going to cut off your pubic hair with this knife.” She relaxes a bit. “However, you might consider, in the future, a little trim. Or even a bikini wax.” I set the knife down and tease the outside edge of her labia with the tip of one finger. “You have such a beautiful pussy.” She blushes a bit, but I think I detect a smug little smile also. “It would be a shame for your fellow lesbo pussy-eaters—Laura Ingraham, Ann Coulter, whoever’s licking your yoni these days—who are putting their lips down there not to be able to clearly see your juicy wet labia and rock-hard clit. …It is rock-hard isn’t it?” And with that, I run one finger between her labia, down in the vestibule where it’s really slippery, and slowly draw it up and over the head of her clit. And she is hard. “Look at that,” I murmur. “You are so turned on, your pussy juice is soaking the bed. Your clit is glass-hard. And look at these slippery wet labia of yours.” I grab them both between thumb and forefinger and stretch them away from her body. The camera catches me doing this. “They give you away. You love lesbian sex. You love cunt! I bet this whole night was your idea in the first place.”

“No!” she cries. “They kidnapped me! They put something in my drink! They—”

“Save it,” I interrupt. “I don’t care how you got here. The fact is, you’re here, and you’re going to enjoy everything I do to you in spite of yourself. I can see you’re enjoying this.” “This” is me sliding two fingers up and down her slit, separating her labia and catching the underside of her stiff, swollen clit with every stroke. Under the guise of rubbing her clit, I open her cunt enough to get a view of her hymen. Sure enough, it appears to be in the same shape mine was at age fourteen. As I’m looking there, she actually pushes her hips forward and upward, as if she were trying to catch my fingertips on the upstroke. As if she were trying to come.

I stop.

“Please, Mistress,” she moans. “I was so close! Please, I beg of you, please let me come! I need to come!” Her grimace looks almost desperate.

“I tire of this activity,” I announce, faux-bored. “Let’s see, what else can we do? What other toys are over on the table, I wonder?” I get up and go back to the table. There are a few standard dildoes, a pocket pussy (probably belonging to one of the crew), and some random vibrating toys. I pick up the largest dildo and ask Jack, who I know has an impressive collection, “Got anything bigger than this?

“I know just the thing,” he says, and jumps up to go get whatever it is he has in mind.  I ponder whether he’ll bring back something too big. Jack has shared with me in the past that he likes ‘em big.

I needn’t worry. He brings me a dildo I think I recognize from a catalog, where it was called the King Kong. It’s vinyl, kind of a light opaque lavender color, and must be at least twelve inches long and probably about 4 1/2″ around. As soon as he walks in the room with it, Christine starts screaming her head off: “No! Noooo! Please!  Please don’t! Please let me stay a—”

I’ve heard enough screams for one night. I grab the cut panties, still wet with her melt, and gag her roughly with them so the wet side goes in her mouth. As I tie the cut ends behind her head, she continues to moan and yell through the fabric.

Slightly annoyed, I announce, “I thought I told you, my little lesbo sex slut, in the interest of restoring honor, I promised I would not deflower you, and I am a woman of my word.” She will not shut up, but I talk past her gagged cries. “Conservatives aren’t the only ones who keep their word, you know. You get to keep your cherry. I have no intention of putting this dildo in your vagina. And, I told you I wasn’t going to do you with a strap-on.” Mild relief, but also some puzzlement, crosses her face. “In addition, since you’re so anti-masturbation, I promise that you will come at least once tonight by my hand. If I do it to you, that’s not masturbation, is it?

However…you’re going to come when and how I say you can come. Not before then.”

I have plans for her. I realize, though, that the current configuration in which she’s tied up is not the best way to effect my plan. “Are your legs sore?” I ask her. Though puzzled at my question, she nods slightly. “I thought so,” I reply kindly. “It’s a long time to be in the same position without stretching a little.” I untie one of her legs from the bedpost. Wisely, she doesn’t try to kick me, but she does bend her knee. Her leg is free for only a few moments; I grab her ankle and truss up her leg so her ankle is bound to the same bedpost as the corresponding wrist. After I do the same for the other leg, and her limbs are splayed back Slavic-style, we all get a more posterior view. Besides her still-wet pussy exposed to the air and the cameras, I and several of the crew can now see that that thick black bush extends down and tapers off in density somewhat to surround a delicate pink, fully closed anus. Her eyes shift back and forth nervously.

I reach over to grab the jar of Albolene, and put a liberal amount of it on the business end of the dildo. I scoop some more out of the jar and reach down between her legs to apply the oily cream. Her moans and screams, though still muffled, become louder as she realizes where my hand is. “Noooo!” she groans through the panty-gag.

“Oh, yes, Christine,” I coo back. “God, are you going to love this.” And with that, I slide the oiled dildo in one long stroke into her well-greased asshole.

“AAAAANNNGGGHHHHH!” Some of the guys are actually clapping and cheering. I make a “cut” motion with my non-dildo hand. “Gentlemen!” I chide. “A little decorum, please!” I mock-scowl at them. “We want her to remember this moment, don’t we? Don’t we want her to love getting fucked up the ass? Let’s not embarrass her and make this an unpleasant experience, now!” They calm down only a little. I turn my attention to the lovely slave, reduced to a shaking mound of sweaty flesh.

“Enjoy every inch, my little cunt-slut,” I murmur. The dildo goes in and out slowly, lingering on every inch. She’s whimpering and crying, but her pussy is no less wet than it was before. As I pump the dildo in and out, I bring my face close to hers, and I can smell my cunt on her cheeks. I lock eyes with her and murmur, “I want you to learn to love getting it up the ass…there is a vast underground network of clitoral tissue under the anal area…if you relax, you can even learn to come from it.” Delightfully, she does not avoid my intent gaze, and even returns it, her wide brown eyes fixed on mine without blinking. “I see  your nipples are hard again and your slit is dripping wet, I can see you like it deep down, you want me to fuck you longer, and harder…you’re going to learn to associate orgasms with a full ass when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to come any other way!”

The dildo is in my right hand. With my left hand, I gently rub the underside of her still glass-hard clit. I have a rhythm going now, as the strokes of my fingertips on her hard clit echo the strokes I’m taking with King Kong. Her cries drop in pitch and volume until they sound almost like purrs, her moaning muffled but still unmistakably those of pleasure. Though I’m dying to put one or two fingers inside her vagina, because I want to feel her come on my hand, I keep my promise and leave her hymen intact. Besides, I have only two hands.

Her moans go up a little in pitch, and someone thinks to remove the gag from her mouth so she can moan freely. But we don’t expect the torrent of pleasure words that pours forth. “Oh, my god, that feels good!” she shouts. “I had no idea it would feel so good! Fuck my ass! Fuck me hard! I’m a lezzie cunt slut and ass slut! I love it! Give me the whole thing! I can take it! Please, Robin! Make me come with my ass full of cock! OhmygodI’mcomingRIGHTNOWWWWW!” Her labia throb and pulsate as the spasms of her orgasm lift her hips up off the bed, removing the dildo from my fist for a moment before I can grab it again and continue my thrusts and clitoral massage. I enjoy the view of her pretty face contorted in painful pleasure, her mouth wide open in a blissful moan. I can hardly believe what comes out of her mouth next: “Don’t stop! It feels so good! Keep fucking my ass! I can come again! Please make me come again! Keep rubbing my clit! Don’t stop! Rub harder! Fuck meeeeeeee……aaaaahhhhh!” Her second orgasm causes those long lovely labia of hers to twitch, drool, and radiate warmth and a marshy, musky aroma I enjoy as I watch her multiple climax up close.

It’s over. I slow down and eventually stop what I’m doing. Christine’s exhausted. Head thrown back, eyes closed, slight relaxed smile…I’m satisfied I’ve satisfied her. I leave the dildo firmly embedded in her ass (firmly, because the Albolene was absorbed by her skin and rectal tissue a while ago) and get up to release her shapely legs from their flung-up position. She flexes her knees, as well she should. Her breaths are still deep and heavy, and her bangs are plastered to her forehead.

“Mistress, may I be untied now?” she asks plaintively.

I ponder for a moment. “No,” I reply, “as a matter of fact, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to tie down your legs again.” I grab the twine that was holding down each ankle and retie her legs to the bedposts. I don’t want her moving for what I’m about to do. “I’m not quite done with you yet. I have one other thing left to do.

“You intend to remain a virgin, yes?”

“Yes, of course!” she cries with almost religious fervor.

“So that means you won’t be having sex with anyone else.”

“No, mistress!”

“Good, because I want to make sure your pussy belongs to me and only me.” I get up again and bring back some equipment I noticed when I went for the hunting knife. Jack and a couple of the other guys in the group are into piercings. One of them has brought along a forceps, piercing needle, and a bunch of assorted jewelry—barbells, captive rings, plain rings, and a few other pretties. Christine takes one look at the hardware and for the first time, actually tries to get free of her bonds. She can’t, of course.

I rub an alcohol pad on her labia. “This is to make sure you keep your vow,” I intone flatly.  Swiftly, I grab both her inner labia with the eye of the forceps, and slide a hollow needle through both of them.  The scream this time is genuine and legitimate.

Just as swiftly, I slip the jewelry I’ve selected through the holes. And I step back to admire my handiwork.

Tears stream down Christine’s cheeks, but I know that will be temporary. I grab the jewelry between my thumb and forefinger and speak directly to her. “This is to insure that no one takes you but me,” I say. What the jewelry is is a tiny gold padlock. Right now, her cunt is locked shut until I unlock it. “You will wear this lock unless and until I say you may remove it. Or when I choose to remove it.”  The gold lock does look striking against her magnificent bush.

“Do you…do you have the key?” she sniffles.

“Key?” I sneer. “There’s no key. There’s a tiny computer chip inside. It’s voice-activated. No one can open the lock but me.”  The look on her face is one of horror and a tiny bit of  intrigue. This is untrue, of course, but I don’t tell her that. It opens just by pressing a small button on the front of the lock. “You will wear your lock all day, every day…to conventions and speeches…when you go to sleep and when you’re awake, even to fucking Thanksgiving dinner with your family, unless I’m there to take it off you. Do you agree to my terms?” She nods tearfully.

“Very well, then, my lovely little cunt addict. You will grow to enjoy and even become aroused by your new jewelry. You’ll want to show it and your beautiful pussy off to everyone. Too bad you can’t, of course, because you’re now my fuck slave. And no one else’s.”

I depart the room and get undressed and take off my makeup in the adjoining room. Roger, Jack, and the rest of the crew begin packing away the props and cameras. When I come out, back in my comfy jeans and turtleneck, Jack hands me a small envelope. “Thanks darling,” he croons, “that was magnificent! I knew you would come up with something wild, but this was beyond all our imaginations.”

“Aw shucks,” I reply, “I couldn’t have done it without you! …and your costumes, and your jewelry, and your forceps and needles, and your dildo, and, well, you know.” We both have a chuckle as we turn out the light and lock up the room.

I go home and sleep very deeply indeed. The next morning is my first chance to peek inside the envelope: holy shit! There must be ten $100 bills in it. I earned all of it, though. So did Christine.

Christine! Oh my god, we forgot to untie her!

I call Jack, frantic. “Dude, we have got to go back there! We left her there tied up! Omigodomigodomi—”

“Robin, Robin, calm down. We can go over there together. I’ll meet you there. I have the key to the studio.” I jump in my car and drive like a crazy person to the Belvedere. Jack’s already there when I get up to the thirteenth floor.

“Oh noooo,” I wail, “I feel awful! We weren’t supposed to leave her here! Omigodomigod!”

“Okay, okay!” he says, jiggling the key in the lock. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

We walk in to a faint morning light in the room from a single window to the right of the bed. Christine is asleep, but in the exact position we left her in: arms still tied to the bedposts, dildo still eight inches up her ass, padlock still holding her labia together…and a soft smile on her face as she sleeps.

…but at the same time, I would be unwise to put on my car, lest it be vandalized by rightwingnuts.

They say that having the blues takes years off your life. If that’s so, Robert Schimmel, who died yesterday at age 60 (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/05/arts/television/05schimmel.html?_r=1 and many other references), has insured I’ll live to be 100.

Despite painstaking attention to the “Recent Deaths” page on Wikipedia, this one escaped my attention until Steve and Sonny Fox broke the news  on XM 150 (Raw Dog Radio) this morning. I was in shock. I just sat there in the car with the ignition off, not believing my ears. It’s probably a good thing that the car wasn’t moving at the time. What a raw way for someone who beat cancer and survived a heart attack and hepatitis to go. I’m sure he wouldn’t say he got a raw deal, living only sixty years as he did, but there was, I’m sure, so much humor left in him. Besides being a front-row persona in my list of hot guys over 50, the oldest on the list in fact (http://shutyoureverlovingpiehole.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/in-praise-of-middle-aged-men/), I’m not ashamed to admit that lately I’ve had a major crush on this guy. Probably that’s emblematic of my inability to form real relationships, but I’ve been susceptible to celebrity crushes my whole life. And it may sound mean to say, but ever since he lost his hair to the chemo, he was sooo gorgeous. My eyes were glued to the TV screen every time I played his DVD or viewed one of his YouTube videos. How can one little (5’6″) sixty-year-old guy be so hot?

Everything he said resonated with me. He was like a BFF—a really, really hot middle-aged BFF—who said out loud everything those of us with X-rated senses of humor are thinking. Nothing shocked him, nothing seemed to bother him, at least not on stage. I love that he hosted the AVN Awards three times (http://avnawards.avn.com/). He was perfect for that event. Sometimes when I was a bit depressed I’d listen to one of the albums I have or his web site and just let his velvety smooth baritone soothe me, if soothing includes such observations as “It’s wrong to fuck your pets. …’Gee, thanks for that tip, Bob.’ ” Other times, I’d be in the car and have to pull over to the side of the road, I was laughing so hard from a bit they’d play on XM150, usually the one about premature ejaculation. It didn’t matter if I’d heard it twelve times before, which most likely I had. He still brought tears to my eyes.

He was at the DC Improv in November, and I blew it off—the District is 150 miles away now, after all. Of course, I’m kicking myself now. Sure, I wanted to meet him, but I wanted him to meet me, too.

So Bob, if you’re watching, and in a Jewish afterlife kind of way I know you are, I just want to say G-d bless you, I love you, and thank you for making me laugh my ass off. See you soon in olam ha’ba.

The Washington Post ran this article a couple of weeks ago:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/04/13/AR2010041302365.html

(If the above link doesn’t work, try this one:

http://cbs3.com/topstories/Mike.Huckabee.gays.2.1630642.html)

Now, I’m sure Mike Huckabee believes everything he said. And he certainly has the right to say what’s on his mind. But in this event, he manages to piss off a variety of groups whose vote he could certainly use. He must not really want to be President. Or, at least he hasn’t yet learned that you can attract a whole lot more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Many people have deconstructed what he had to say. But I can’t resist throwing in my opinion.

  • “Marriage has historically never meant anything other than a man and a woman. It has never meant two men,…” Gee, for an ordained minister, Huckabee sure doesn’t know his Bible very well. “King Solomon, however, loved many foreign women besides Pharaoh’s daughter—Moabites, Ammonites, Edomites, Sidonians and Hittites. They were from nations about which the Lord had told the Israelites, ‘You must not intermarry with them, because they will surely turn your hearts after their gods.’ Nevertheless, Solomon held fast to them in love. He had seven hundred wives of royal birth and three hundred concubines, and his wives led him astray.  As Solomon grew old, his wives turned his heart after other gods, and his heart was not fully devoted to the Lord his God, as the heart of David his father had been.” (1Kings 11:2-4, all quotes NIV) I am not even gonna get into the Mormons here. Nor current-day Arab royalty. There are plenty of counterexamples to Huckabee’s claim, and he no doubt knows it.
  • “I feel homosexuality is an aberrant, unnatural, and sinful lifestyle….” And yet, there it is in, yup, you guessed it, the Good Book itself: “After David had finished talking with Saul, Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself. (1Sam 18:1)…I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother; you were very dear to me. Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than that of women. (2Sam 1:26)”
  • “That would be like saying, well there’s there are a lot of people who like to use drugs so let’s go ahead and accommodate those who want to use drugs.  There are people who believe in polygamy, should we accommodate them?” he said, according to a transcript of the interview.” On the first point, the official LP view point is basically, yes, let’s. Using drugs (presumably illegal drugs, not the okay ones like tobacco and alcohol) should be an individual choice, as long as no one else is harmed in the process. On the third point, there are people who do “believe in” polygamy, all over this world. See the first paragraph.
  • “There are some people who believe in incest, so we should accommodate them….[Marriage has never meant] a man and his pet, or a man and a whole herd of pets.”These arguments are such huge red herrings, you could cater a whole bar mitzvah with them. The reason you can’t marry your dog, or your preteen daughter or whatever, is that there is a lack of consent involved. Two people—any two people—who consent to the sacraments of marriage should be able to do so. (This, by the way, is also why NAMBLA doesn’t get a pass—boys by definition in our society cannot give consent. Even my gay male friends think NAMBLA is creepy.)
  • He also advocated isolating AIDS patients from the general public, saying it was necessary to confine “carriers of this plague.” Apparently Huckabee hasn’t kept up with the news. It is true that throughout the lifespan of the epidemic, the plurality of those infected with HIV have been men who contracted the virus through sex with another man. However, if Maryland is any representative, the largest group now is intravenous drug users:
    (http://dhmh.state.md.us/AIDS/Data&Statistics/NewMDQtrEpi.pdf ) and has been for some time now. When I worked at HERO, eleven years ago, about 80% of its clients had gotten the virus from shooting up. Sadly, one big reason gay men aren’t the largest group of carriers any more is that most of them died before effective treatments were developed.

    As you’ll note from the graph in the PDF document referenced above, drug shooters and good old heteros now far surpass gay men as “carriers of this plague.” If we were to actually do what Huckabee suggests and quarantine carriers of HIV, look whom we’d be quarantining (from http://www.cdc.gov/hiv/topics/surveillance/basic.htm#hivest, about the only time you’ll catch me quoting the government on something):

Transmission Category Estimated # of AIDS Cases, Through 2007*
Adult
and Adolescent Male
Adult
and Adolescent Female
Total
Male-to-male
sexual contact
487,695 - 487,695
Injection drug use 175,704 80,155 255,859
Male-to-male
sexual contact and injection drug use
71,242 - 71,242
High-risk heterosexual contact** 63,927 112,230 176,157
Other*** 12,108 6,158 18,266

That’s over a million people, folks. Where, exactly, does he propose quarantining them to?

So in just a few well-placed sound bites, Huckabee manages to piss off a lot of gays, many of whom are Republican; nearly a million HIV-positive voters; as well as a lot of us gay-friendly types who just want to see our friends/parents/siblings/children/coworkers treated fairly. Oh, well—guess he’s not interested in our votes. And without the votes of open-minded, fair, tolerant adults, he’s got no chance to be President.

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