Saturday, June 28, 2008

Anal Sex

So I have had a lot of time to think this past week. I've seen Jen a handful of times, I think she's been staying with a friend or something. Fuck her. So I was watching porn on the laptop. I found a flick where an 18 year old has anal sex for the first time. The movie isn't in English, and the chick starts crying. There were some comments about the movie. Some people said it was disturbing, and others argued that Anal sex is only about control and domination to begin with. I don't know what side I'm on.

I enjoy the dominant part of anal sex, however I don't know if I would say it is the only reason people enjoy anal sex. In this conversation I need to point out I am referring to heterosexual anal sex. Maybe I can understand gay sex being about mutual love and respect where there are no other openings. In a heterosexual relationship I don't know if I can agree. Maybe it's just that it is tighter, but there is always the feeling that you are making the chick uncomfortable. Who knows?

I would love to hear your opinions.

Please comment.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Jerking It

So I don't know if anybody's reading this, and that's probably a good thing. I don't know really . . . I think I would be thrilled if I were able to have a huge readership on some levels, but on other levels I'm fine just writing to myself. The whole experience of writing here feels the same way I imagine Buddhist monks feel after they sweep away sand drawings they spent hours perfecting. It feels like jerking off. When I was young, just when I hit puberty, I would sneak away to my room at any time of the day and jerk one out, imagining what it would be like to kiss the girls from school. Jump to me at 13 and I began searching the world for things to jerk off to. I have always had, and still have a somewhat racist cock. National Geographic never did it for me. One day I found an article in some magazine about paraphilic infantilism. There was a picture of a woman, at least 25, wearing a diaper, with only her long hair covering the nipples on her voluptuous breasts. I came to that picture more times than I can remember. Jump to me at age 20 and I have gotten over the girl in the adult diapers and have maintained somewhat healthy sexual relationships with women. At 20 I discovered the internet and began finding more pictures of women in diapers, and finding them more and more erotic. I would cum thinking about having my own little adult baby. The Adult Baby/Diaper Lover (abdl) scene is big enough to warrant it's own acronyms on the interwebs.

Jump to me now. I have never looked for someone into such fetishes seriously. I have brought up the fetish to past girlfriends in passing. When I brought it up with Jen she just laughed at the 'freaks,' unknown to her I was just as big a freak as the rest of them. I wonder if now is a good time to start looking.

The problem with looking for someone who is into the whole ab scene is that the actual lifestyle. I don't want a whore to wear diapers for me, or act like a baby. I am interested in finding someone who is interested in letting me take care of them, allowing them to regress or role play at times. It is a control fetish. I want to control someone, and still be able to keep them as a sexual object. I want to control someone because I fear that if I am not in control and in possession of someone, that someone cannot love me back.

I wonder if these memories are coming back because of Jen. Maybe I haven't thought about the fetish in years. It's been months. Now it's back, and strong. Maybe she has left and now I feel that because she left, everyone I do not have complete control of will leave. Maybe not. Maybe I just repressed the fetish for the sake of the relationship.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Sex Drive

There is a lazy mentality about what we do. Scams and tricks. Do you remember when The Sixth Sense came out? Do you remember why everyone thought it was amazing? It was because the movie has a crazy twist at the end. Once you become conditioned to crazy twists life takes a different turn, and you end up jaded and alone until someone can come up with an even more mind altering thought.

Only one person knows I'm writing this. That is my Achilles heel. Shylock. He might be surprised by this post. I don't mind.

I came home this afternoon and I found a letter, I'll scan it later, waiting for me on the kitchen sink:

It's MY Place!
I'm Staying!
Heart Jen

I fucked a prostitute last night, after writing the post. I don't have a problem with prostitution. I used to. I even made a pact with an old Jewish school mate, we promised one another that we would never buy sex, even if we were really desperate. After dating a whore, things changed in my mind. I was fine with the service. I understood that sex could be just sex, and as long as it stayed like that I was fine with it. I am not a jealous man. I am trusting. When I trust someone, I will believe them when they say that they felt nothing for some schmuck that they just fucked. Yesterday I paid a whore.

Since I can remember finding out about them, I have always had an interest in fucking a cross dresser. I want to get blown by a gorgeous girl, kiss her mouth, grab her ass, then grab her tits and jam her mouth back down on my cock until she gags and gasps for air through her nose. I want to be ready to cum, then pull her full lips off my cock, rip her clothes off. I want to rip off her bra and find a set of perfect tits. I want to rip off her dress, her panties, and find a long, hard cock. I've always wanted to turn the girl around, slap her ass, and push my cock into her ass hard. That was the fantasy.

All the past experiences I've had with whores have involved costs of over $200 and nice apartments or hotel rooms. The usual places to look for pay-to-play trim seemed to come up short when looking for t-girls so I had to resort to Craigslist. I had a few choices, and I think I chose incorrectly. I ended up spanking a fat, yet passable, girl on the ass before fucking her for a half hour and then giving up and finishing myself in her bathroom. It was less than satisfactory. I paid my $50, which I now understand, and went home unfulfilled.


Nobody knows who is writing this. That comes in handy. How many people live in the 612? 3.2 Million people. I have mentioned that I live in the general Uptown area, though I never signed a lease in that house; my profession does not allow me to sign my name much anymore. I can be traced to Minneapolis. I am one of 3.2 Million.

My alias, E.D.J., many would assume that those are my initials. If the assumption that my first name begins with an E, my middle name begins with a D, and my last name begins with a J we need to do some basic math. What is 1/26th to the power of three? Anyone? No? 26 x 26 x 26 = 17576. So if EDJ are my initials then approximately 1/17576th of Minneapolis residents share my initials, that's around 182 people. Maybe I'll be easier to track down than I thought. Maybe EDJ isn't my name.

The fact is, I take pride in my anonymity, and I want you to know that I do the math. I want you to know that I won't get caught. With that in mind, I want to tell you what Jen and I do for a living.

Have you ever gone onto Craigslist? Do it now. Now go to any city. Now look under "Erotic Services." . I want you to look at the girls 20 and under. I want you to look at their pictures. Tell me, who calls these girls? The general demographic is middle-aged white men.

So here is a scam. You need a woman and a man. You post an ad, you tell your prospective clients about your desire to please an older man. You want to be spoiled, and you want a sugar daddy to spoil you. Give the men a disposable cell phone number. Only answer calls from unblocked numbers. Take ever call, and make these men want to cum inside of you right then and right there. Make them say they want to. Never negotiate price. Never negotiate "services," but tell him what you want to do to him. Set up a time and place to meet. Get off the phone. Get a subscription to a reverse phone book service; they are cheap these days. If the listing is for a couple you're in business, if the listing is for an individual call back and tell him that you're sorry but you'll be out of town.

Now you bring in your boyfriend. You need someone strong, and someone reliable. This is me. My job is to wait for your John in the hotel room you decided on. I sit down and play him the tape of you two sounding hot and heavy on the phone. You ask him to pay you $200 up front, and tell him that if he doesn't meet you in a week with an extra $600 you will call the Mrs. After that, you promise to burn the tapes. Nobody willing to spend the initial $200 on a whore will mind paying $800, and nobody in this situation is the type of person who wants to go to the police.

This isn't how we make money. This is immoral. This is what we used to do. This is what we did after Jen decided to stop whoring and before we started doing what we do. We have better ways of making money these days.

We split everything evenly. Safe Deposit Boxes of cash. Separate.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Jen Cheated

I have never understood blogging, and I don't know if I feel differently today. I am writing this under the suggestion of a friend, lets call him Shylock. Shylock seems to think that I should let out some steam, so I will do that on the Internet.

About me: I am E.D.J. I live in Minneapolis in a studio apartment with my ex-girlfriend Jen. I am 6'1'' and weigh 200 lbs.
Yesterday, June 17th 2008, I woke up at around 11.30 am; I noticed a letter folded up under the door to our apartment. The note was folded up strangely (Right: I re-folded the note and scanned it as I founded it.) The note had the words "Dear Jen" visible. I picked up the note, curious, and set it by the counter for Jen to read. I had the day off work, and spent the next few hours reading David Gilmour's "Lost Between Houses." Every thirty minutes or so I would get up to have a drink of water or to eat a granola bar, and every time I got up I would inevitably see that yellow folded note saying "Dear Jen" in an eclectic (or maybe eccentric) hand writing and want to open the note.

After my forth detour from reading a somewhat intriguing variant on the standard "Catcher In The Rye" novel written from a Canadian perspective I decided that opening the letter was the only thing a reasonable person would do. Jen wouldn't be home for at least a few more hours and even then I doubted that she would mind me reading it; I could always say it had unfolded over time, and what else is a sensible person to do but read an already unfolded note.

I read the note:

Dear Jen,
You were amazing the other night. I have never experienced such a mindblowing woman as yourself. I cannot begin to describe the emotion I feel towards you. I hope to see you, and your appartment again soon. When will your roommate be away again?

Missing you until then,

Don xoxoxoxo

I remember my first few thoughts. "Mindblowing" should be two words. "Appartment" has one p. Did Jen cheat on me with someone with an IQ below 110? Where did she meet this 'Don?' After that, my mind started to become more angry, and more focused. When did they fuck? Did she really tell someone that she had a 'roommate?' Was that all I was to her? Did this guy not realize that there was only one bed in our minuscule studio apartment?

I confronted Jen last night. She told me that she met Don at a bar in Uptown. She told me that she was sick of me, but she didn't care about him. She told me that she didn't want to talk about it. I went out with Shylock and saw The Hulk and had a few drinks. Shylock told me that he always knew Jen was a whore, and he told me he was sorry, and he told me that I could stay with him as long as I wanted. "It's my apartment, and I'm not leaving."

I got home last night, Jen was already asleep on her side (the outside) of the bed. I grabbed a sticky note and put it on the door. "It's my apartment, and I'm not leaving." I stepped over her and laid down on the inside of the bed, next to the wall.

When I woke up this morning there was a sticky note for me on the door. I looked at it, slightly hungover, "Neither am I."