Tuesday February 14, 2006 is a day that will live on in my memories for the rest of my life.

A friend invited me to a party that night, and being single at the time I agreed to go, if not for the social interaction then the free booze that would surely be flowing freely all night long.

I get dressed in some nice dark slacks and a comfortable black silk shirt and head on over to the store with my friend. This being Texas, and me looking older than 21, the Indian store clerk didn’t bother asking me for ID, just wished me a good evening as I left his corner store with 2 6-packs of Heiniken.

When Tom (my friend) and I arrive at the party, it was already packed with guys and girls dancing, drinking and generally having a real good time. Since I’m naturally a shy guy, I just deposited the 6-packs in the house fridge and head over to the keg to start drinking this sweet nectar.

While filling up my glass with beer, I saw her.

She had hair so dark it seemed blue, eyes so mesmorizing and deep that I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Her milky white skin contrasted beautifully with her hair, and seemed to fairly glow under the light. Full lips with pink lipstick and dark eyeliner just made her a sight to behold. She stood about 5′4″, with a low-cut V-neck blouse, showing off her awesome rack, and a very short and very tantilizing skirt that just hugged her beautiful hips. I followed her legs up and down, lingering a few seconds on her thighs. I imagined myself between those thighs, and soon had to hurry off to a less crowded room to let my raging manhood cool off for a few seconds.

I took a few sips of my frigid drink, and forced myself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to freak this young lady out before even meeting her.

After I had gotten myself back together, I went back to the beer keg and started looking around. I searched for at least 5 minutes, and didn’t catch a single sight of her. I asked around, asking if anyone had seen a short, cute white girl with black hair, but they all said no. I was dismayed! I had fallen in love at first site with a girl, and yet I couldn’t find her, no matter how hard I looked!

I drank away all my worries, with beer after beer after beer. I know the old saying, “Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear ; Beer before liquor, never been sicker”, but I still drank a few shots of tequila whenever they were offered to me. Just because I feel an emptiness inside myself I didn’t want everyone else to be brought down with me. Everyone can here to party and have a good time, and I would likewise try to do that same.

I talked with a few girls, and while none really caught my eye, I felt the night would be a total waste if I didn’t at least go to bed with one of these willing participants. After all, I am a human with carnal needs.

I ended up hooking up with a tall, skinny white girl, with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. Not much to look at, but it was the best I could get from the slim picking at the party. We made out for a few minutes in the living room couch while most of the party-goers were starting to leave, or at least slow down in their crazy dancing. Since I was already pretty intoxicated, I knew it would be too dangerous and irresponsible for me to attempt to drive home, so I started leading her upstairs to one of the bedrooms I had seen throughout the night.

Halfway up the stairs, I glance up at the top, and who should I see but her again. All thoughts of the gankly girl behind me vanished as I hurried up the remaining steps to try to get to this beauty before another asshole reached her first.

I get to her, and as sober-sounding as I can muster, I introduce myself. Instantly we hit it off. Her name was Emily, and she was from here in town, but she cam from downtown. Everything about Emily was mesmorizing, from her calves, to her face, to her smooth mellow voice.

Even to me, in a half-drunken state, it was pretty obvious that Emily had had more than a little to drink, as she sexily swayed back and forth on her high heels. I didn’t care, though, because to me her swaying was like the movements of an enchanted snake weaving back and forth to the music of a flutist. I knew I had her in my grasp!

After a few minutes of small talk, I invite her into one of the few vacant rooms left in the house, to be able to talk in a more relaxed, quieter atmosphere. If I had’nt been so engrossed in Emily, I may have noticed Whitezilla staring at me with menacing eyes from the couch across the room. Alas, I was blissfully unawares of any such stares, as my eyes were firmly glued on Emily’s firm behind as she led me into one of the rooms.

Once we sat down at the spacious bed (which had some slightly ruffled sheets), I knew it was either now or never to make my move. I scoot closer to Emily’s side, wrap my right arm around her shoulders and bring my lips to hers. Her luscious lips obliginly parted, and my tongue easily slid inside. She tasted like a mixture of beer and salted peanuts and… something else that I couldn’t quite put my hand on.

My left hand came up and cupped her right breast as I busied my right hand by sliding off her blouse from her shoulders. She made no attempt to stop me, and even encouraged my actions by squeezing closer to me, allowing easier access to her unnecessary clothes. I am a little surprised, but not at all dissapointed to find her bra hook to be partially unhinged already.

She places her right hand gently on my neck and begins to work it down, lightly running her fingers across my skin. Once she reaches my zipper, so undoes it, slips inside and begins to stroke my now throbbing rod.

She pulls away from our passionate kiss, although hesitantly, and lowers her face to my crotch. I moan softly as her wet love cave envelopes me, and her space worm attacks my spaceship.

Words cannot describe this incredible feeling of ecstacy, friends, so I will not foul this memory by attempting to recreate it in mere written language.

After a few unforgettable minutes of pleasuring, I gently push her back on the bed, and begin taking off her skirt. I am determined to thank her for her act of kindness.

As I pull off her moist panties, her aroma enters my nostrils. She is very ready, it seems. I only wish the lights had been on so I could have seen as well as felt this beautiful, smoothly shaven love nest before I begin to feast on its delicacies.

I lower my face between her parted legs, and gently kiss her inner thighs, teasingly ignoring center point. After brief sucking and nibbling, I can no longer restrain myself, and dive into her pool of nectar. I gently insert my probing tongue into her slit, and like a scoop bring out her juices.

Salt. I taste something salty. As I pull my tongue back into my mouth, I can feel a strand of her juice still hanging out between our two orifices. I swirl her sample around my mouth, intrigued by this gelatinous texture, and swallow.

Then, I knew.

Quickly I get up, and walk over to the bathroom. I must be sure! I flick on the bathroom light, and gasp in combined horror and disgust when I see a thin trail of white goo dripping down my lips. I’m not sure if she called out my name, “Juan, oh Juan, come back to me!”, or if I was just imagining it, but either way I was’nt able to do anything but violently vomit for the next few minutes.

After my stomach was flushed of all alien fluids, I wash my mouth with soap and water, and run out of the bedroom crying. As I pass a line of 5 guys waiting outside the room I hear her scream, “Wait! Where’s my $10?! Stop!”.

And that, my friends, is why I will never fuck another prostitute as long as I live.

This just in, from FoxNews of all places:

Mexico’s Congress Legalizes Drugs for Personal Use

MEXICO CITY - Mexico’s Congress approved a bill Friday that would legalize drug possession for personal use - decriminalizing the carrying of small quantities of marijuana, ecstasy, cocaine and even heroin. The only step remaining is the signature of the president, whose office indicates he will sign it, despite the implications for the war on drugs.

There is a special word for people who enjoy bringing pain to themselves, be it physical, mental or emotional. Some people get off on the thrill and adrenaline that being pierced multiple times by large metal tubes brings them. Others enjoy getting kicked in the nuts and having it taped to be shared with the internet. Still others were mistreated as children and now seek the companionship of people who will do them harm – people who will treat them like dogs, and they also seem to come back for more abuse.

I am one of the latter.

So far I have documented two of my internet dating experiences, but unfortunately there are many, many more where they came from (my head, stupid). A fat Asian women who had a ass so fat I couldn’t fuck her doggy-style; a crazy white whore who I met on a dating website, spoke to for about 10 minutes, arranged to come by later that night to fuck her in the ass – all this before bothering to ask for her name (I wouldn’t have asked but I needed to know who to ask for at the door – I couldn’t say, "This white chick who wants some cinnamon" because, come on, that could be anyone!)

Next up in the series of unfortunate events that is my life is Gloria – the lovely Venezuelan girl who I met on AOL while I was still attending high school and while AOL still had a living soul on the other side of the screen rather than an army of spam bots trying to get you to buy their product.

She was 17 (I was 18) and had just moved here from Venezuela (thus she was Venezuelan) a month ago and had a distinct disadvantage that drives me wild – not being able to speak a word of English other than saying "thanks" and "shit". She had moved away from her home country because of problems between her and her parents – her mother was cheating on her husband with a drug dealer and her daddy was abusive, ingredients which we all know to be essential to a bat-shit insane woman. Other things include not having been loved enough, growing up spoiled, being pampered with attention, and being repeatedly told she’s fat.

Anyways, Gloria was looking for new Spanish-speaking friends as she learned to adjust to this new American life in her aunt’s house. Lucky for her that she found me, right guys! Unfortunately she attended a neighboring school that was a few miles away, and took make it worse that year I ended up exposing how stupid our high school’s IT manager was and was sent to the "bad kids" school. We’d talk on the internet and I’d lament my having to work 2 jobs a week and now being sent to this circus-school and not having the chance to "meet up" sometime. She had the answer, of course (she was bat shit insane) and got herself thrown into the same school as me by knocking out this fat chick’s front teeth in school. How the fuck I didn’t pick up on this as being a warning sign and instead thought about finally seeing her nice tits in person is beyond me. No, wait… no it’s not. I know why I didn’t care – I wanted pussy.

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Dear Diary,

I did it. I finally did it. I never thought I would muster the courage, but it looks like there is no turning back now.

I came out of the closet and told my parents.

Since I hit puberty I knew I was different from the rest of my family. It just sort of gradually occurred to me, you know?

Their reaction was predictable: Mommy cried and cried, and Daddy hugged Mommy for a while as he gave me the, “I am so upset at you I could scream” look he always gives me when I mess up big time. They are both very sensitive to the slightest stress.

Everyone at school supports me, though. They all say it was about time I figured out what I wanted for myself, and contrary to what I hear in the news everyone is acting quite friendly ever since I came out. I feel better about myself, and now my football buddies are not as shy around me as before. It feels liberating not having this dark secret above my head any longer.

When I got home from school the other day, Mommy and Daddy were both watching their favorite show. I forget the name of it, but those five guys are so funny and well dressed, and they have a great sense of fashion! Mommy looked at me and said by giving up who I “really” was I was also giving up my ability to color-coordinate and to always be presentable. I think they are getting desperate.

I asked someone out at school today! I have had my eye on her for a while now, and she said yes! I am so happy! I should have done this a long time ago, but I think I may have still been battling inside of myself over who I truely was. I am thinking of introducing her to Mommy and Daddy soon, but I do not think I should even bother, I have heard Mommy’s reaction a million times: “Why can’t you like boys? What is so wrong with liking boys! Daddy and I like boys and look how happy we are! Why can you not be like us, Roberto? What is so wrong with what we are? Why do you want to be like the rest of the sickos out there?” It gets quite boring and irritating after you have heard it for the 50th time.

Anyways, it is my bedtime now, and I have school tomorrow. I will talk (write, heehee!) to you tomorrow, Diary.

Goodnight,

Roberto.

P.S.: I am thinking about officially changing my name to John or something.

I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking that I’m a lazy cunt that did not care about keeping you guys up-to-date with all the latest in entertainment. You thought I was like that fat cook on the Food Network that always throws shit on his food and screams in a false baritone that was famous for a few months and then faded into obscurity and had his crappy show moved to the midnight slot.

Well, the honest truth is that I have been deployed in Iraq. 122nd battalion, mobile infantry.

Haha I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to say, so here’s some videos:

Holy shit videos!
Vin Diesel shows you how to dance!	The master of dance is back!	What I wish my wife was like.	Oh shit shamu
My ex.	Wrestling is fake. That is so totally a woman.	Kung Fu Hustle!	My peepee has a soul.
Haha black people.	I dunno.	Haha japanese people.	This kid is gay. You know what he wants.
POW! Right in the kisser!	That’s a brain floating in the corner.	Russians like to get drunk.	The only reason I’ve been to McDonald’s in years.

Yeah, they’re all oldies, but goodies!

Her name was Karen, and we first met in Psych 101.

She was gnarled young thing; wheelchair-bound, head cocked permanently to her left, crusty fingers twisted into half-knots, long, atrophied legs, a seemingly endless trickle of spittle running from the corner of her mouth.

Despite her physical curse (MD, compounded by palsy), she was intelligent and very funny, and always added lively, insightful input to class discussions. One might say she stood out from the crowd, in more ways than one.

About the third week in, I began to notice Karen staring at me from across the room. Each time our eyes met, she’d shyly curl her thin, purple lips into a smile — the sort of smile that said "I know I’m a hideous, drooling freak but, please, Dear God in Heaven, won’t you please smile back?"

Out of pity, I smiled back.

By mid-semester, Karen and I had become friends. I’d wheel her into the quiet hallways of the student center and we’d talk for hours about life’s injustices, about our radically different child- hoods, about health, about disease — about the future. I often found myself weaving whole-cloth tales of my "hard" childhood, if only to buffer the sting of her heart-wrenching tales of a little girl with a incurable, crippling disease; the brutal taunts of the other kids, the endless hours of tests, treatments and therapies — all of which she’d recount without a hint of self-pity.

As the winter passed and spring approached, Karen and I became exceedingly close, despite the suspicious leers of her roommate (a particularly bitter cripple named Jen) and the barbed guffaws of my beer-soaked buddies, who couldn’t understand why I — the most selfish, wretched womanizer on campus, would spend so much time with this diseased, rotting husk of a woman. We started studying and shopping together. I helped her pick out her clothes and try them on, cooked for her, even helped her in and out of the bathtub and scrubbed her back. And, although she consistently referred to me as the "big brother she’d never had," I could see, very clearly, that she was pining for more.

Needless to say, the thought of making love to Karen had crossed my shallow, polluted little mind on occasion, but was each time snuffed by the inescapable mental image of her pale, twisted limbs, her labored breathing, the stringy, clouded saliva running from her mouth… the image of fucking a sideshow attraction. There were times when we were together that she charmed me to the point I wanted to take her in my arms and ravage her — let her feel my hot, pounding heart against hers — but the Images would flood as if through a shattered dam and submerge me in guilt-ridden disgust.

One hot night in July, my roommate, Captain Forehead, and I were hosting a keg party at our mobile home — a gigantic, aluminum monstrosity we’d dubbed "Phi Kappa Trailer." The festivities were in full swing when I found myself, quite inexplicably, thinking about Karen, undoubtedly sitting alone in her dorm room. With a few drinks under my belt, I put on my Good Samaritan mask and decided that she might enjoy herself, so I picked up the phone and invited her to come to the party as my "date." She giggled like a child, accepted, and I hopped into the old Dodge Charger to pick her up.

Once back, she asked Cappy (who, by now, had also grown quite fond of her — tho’ he stilled privately referred to her as "tire tread" — don’t ask me why) for a glass of beer from the keg — the first time I had seen her show an interest in booze. After assuring Cappy that the alcohol wouldn’t cross-fuck the effects of her meds, he tapped her a tall, frothy one. It would be the first of quite a few, much to my surprise.

As the party went on and the drugs and booze flowed, the usual antics abound — a fistfight out front, a visit from the Carbondale PD, a complete stranger taking his squeeze into Cappy’s bedroom for a quick shag, some drunken Chinese guy going into our medicine cabinet in search of who-knows-what (ObSidebar: Cappy regularly mined the cabinet with a rat trap before such parties. Sure — and audibly — enough, the fucker got his fingers snapped just prior to Cappy literally *throwing* him out of the trailer and onto the front lawn, head-first).

There I sat as the hours went by, getting drunk as a widowed Irishmen next to Karen, whose usually ashen complexion was now rosy with alcohol. She drank her fill, laughed at the jokes, flirted with the guys and did her damnedest to be a part of it all, but I could see her broken gaze eventually returning to the other girls at the party — scanning their figures, studying their shapely, limber legs…

As the night began to give way to morning, the last of our guests stumbled out the door, and I found myself coked to the gills on the couch with Karen dozing on my shoulder. Cappy had long since passed out in the backseat of his Impala out front with some skanky local broad who’d wandered in, and our neighbor, Crazy Dave (RIP. old soldier), was busy throwing up in the kitchen trash can.

I lifted Karen up and took her into my room, settling her gently on the bed. As I turned to leave, she stirred.

"Checks?" she mumbled, "Let’s do it."

I froze in my tracks, unable to turn toward back toward her — waiting for those vile. monstrous images to flush over me — waiting for an excuse– any excuse — to get the hell out of that room.

For whatever reason — the booze, the dope, my conscience (perish the thought of the latter, eh?) — the excuse didn’t materialize. The images didn’t come. Instead, I found my face flushed, my temples pounding, my cock swelling and throbbing in my jeans. God help me, but I wanted her, diseased, mangled, pathetic creature that she was…

I wanted her.

I turned around and faced her in the reddish glow of the sunrise, filtering through the two-dollar curtains and leftover cigarette smoke. My hands and voice trembling in perfect sync.

"Karen — you’re drunk. Get some sleep, hon," I stammered.

"Checks," she said again, more urgently. "I need you to do this for me. Please."

"But, Karen, I…."

I saw in her eyes a precarious, triangular balance between desire, desperation and total defeat. I couldn’t fight it. Somewhere between animal lust and human pity, I knelt over her and kissed her. Her lips parted wide, and my tongue slipped deep into her steaming, sour mouth. She gasped and pulled me down on top of her with her gnarled arms, running her twisted fingers along my temples, through my hair…

Before long, I had wrapped myself around her atrophied frame, and was peeling her clothes off. She was grunting and panting like a coyote in a leg hold trap, licking my neck, sucking my earlobes, whispering how wonderful it felt to be held …

Fighting off an army of swirling psychological demons, I pulled her jeans and panties down with one, swift tug and tossed them to the floor. An instant later, I was licking and sucking her flattened, pasty breasts, trailing down her sagging, pock-marked belly with my tongue, forcing my face between her lifeless, white thighs, and kissing
— then sucking — her mushy, reeking snatch. She reached up and tried to hold fast to the nightstand as I lifted her legs over my shoulders and dug in with my chin. My tongue, numb from the combination of cocaine and vaginal acids, ran wild circles inside her as her bushy pubes filled my nostrils. She began to shudder and sob for air as I ran my face under her ass cheeks and let my tongue part her sweaty black bunghole with wet, darting thrusts.

"Put in in my mouth," she whispered, as she lost her hold on the nightstand, and her arm, like a withered autumn tree branch, quivered and bounced to the side of the bed. I stood at the headboard and, cradling the back of her head with one hand and her chin with the other, slid my cock between her lips. A thin, sticky stream of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth and onto the pillow as she drew me in, purring hungrily as I pushed the shaft in, running along the inside of her cheek and distorting her already twisted features. I stiffened as her teeth clumsily scraped a layer of flesh from the head, and she looked up at me like a frightened child.

Cock stinging, I pulled out and ran the bottom of it along her face and over her lips; she gently soothed and kissed it, then drew back, grinning up at me like one of Jerry’s Kids at the telethon fireworks show.

I climbed back over her and lifted her bony white legs into the air.

Slowly, I slid my cock into her and began pumping — slowly and gently at first, as she smiled nervously up at me, then furiously hard as I felt my stomach knot and my throat close…

I pulled out just in time to splatter her belly with jism — to swat the dive-bombing demons from the air — then collapsed in a drug-marinated heap beside her, panting for breath in the unbearably thick mixture of mildewy summer air and sexual stench…

I laid there for an hour as the cocaine filtered from my system — cursing the dented, aluminum walls, cursing the demons… cursing myself…

Cursing her.

….

That afternoon, As she waited in the car and I, pale and ill, folded her wheelchair into the trunk, Cappy stuck his head out the bath- room window and looked down at me with a wide-eyed, almost horrified gaze.

"You *didn’t*!, he whispered.

"No," I fired back, "I didn’t. Asshole."

"Prob’ly could’ve," he sneered back, and disappeared behind the window.

"Yeah. Probably could’ve."

….

Karen and I remained close for the next two years, until she transferred to a special school for the handicapped out east. We still exchange an e-mail now and again (Glub help me if she ever runs across this story). Her condition has gone, quite predictably, from bad to worse — though, as was always her style, she takes in all in stride, even joking about it. She doesn’t have a boyfriend, but tells me of a lad in her physical therapy group that she’s got her eyes on.

We never really talked, face-to-face, about what happened –which, to this day, leaves me to wonder what she thought of the whole experience… and who, indeed, was the one most deserving of pity.

Hello! Once more this is Steve “Kingfreeze” Wisnoski with stories from the road.

My saga this time starts with an e-mail I received 2 weeks ago from an old employer, Carnival Cruise Lines. I spent about 7 years trying to juggle cruise contracts with Royal Caribbean and Carnival Cruise Lines between lucrative touring productions and trying to maintain some sort of sane home life. It had been a year and a half since my last cruise contract and the company apparently had an immediate need for experienced showband rhythm section players and was soliciting musicians who had successfully completed contracts in the past. The e-mail asked if I was interested in subbing on the MS Victory for 2 weeks, the office already knew that a long term contract for me is out of the question, been there, done that.

With a light student load in April at the music store I teach, and no casuals in the 2 week period requested, I asked permission to accept the contract and the store owner, an old friend, granted me this request. The store’s manager then rescheduled my students to other teachers in the store for the 2 week period.

I sent an e-mail back to the company asking the sub wage and the response was $100 more a week than I had received on a regular contract and I found this to be an acceptable compensation for what I knew would be an ordeal. Shortly later that day, I received an e-mail from the Carnival office with a plane ticket to Miami, FL, and a copy of my medical papers. These I printed out and sealed in an envelope carefully printing my crew number on the front.

The ship would embark on a one week cruise to San Juan, Puerto Rico, St. Marrten and St. Thomas and then two long sea days back to Miami whereupon the ship proceeds on another one week cruise to Ocho Rios, Jamaica, Grand Cayman, and Cozumel.

A one week or longer cruise is much simpler than a ship that does 3 and 4 day cruises. The latter has 2 boat drills a week, and the chaos of 3,000 people disembarking, and the new cruisers embarking all on the same day is a daunting task.

I packed my guitar carefully, surrounding the body of the guitar with my socks and underwear in preparation to check them aboard the airline. This gives me the secret pleasure of knowing the people that will be searching my belongings will also have to handle my underwear. I opened my pull along suitcase and, as always, my male cat jumped inside as I turned my back to get clothing to load. I closed the lid leaving a crack there and ran my finger along the edge of the lid, giving ultimate kitty pleasure, could be a lizard you never know. After several scratches and the suitcase bouncing about like luggage from the movie “The Exorcist”, the cat bored of the game and retreated to the kitchen for a little snack. Only then was I allowed to pack. For only 2 weeks, I threw in a couple of pairs of jeans and shorts, some t-shirts, a pair of dress shoes and a tuxedo, along with my gig bag, the undergarments already packed into the guitar case awaiting airport scrutiny. About 6 p.m. I ingested 1 mg. Xanax to put me to sleep as I had to depart my home at 3:45 AM to catch a 6:15 AM flight out of San Antonio, which is now an hour and a half from my new home deep in the Texas hill country. My wife and I took the early drive, and she left me at the curb of the departing flight area still dressed in her pajamas.

The flight to Miami was a good one because that early on a Sunday the plane was little more than half full and I had the luxury of having 3 seats to myself, a rare treat. At the connecting flight in Memphis, the pickings weren’t quite as easy. I had an aisle seat, my preference, but the plane was damn near full, except across from me, 3 seats vacant. I waited until everything settled down and was in there like a dirty shirt. Another fellow asked for the window seat, fine with me, I had the aisle seat with no one next to me and that is indeed remarkable.

Arriving in Miami without incident, I awaited an ex-music director to pick me up at the airport; he was working on the same ship in the jazz trio in one of the lounges and was out doing his home port chores that day. I happily sat outside for an hour awaiting his arrival.

Smokers scurried about looking for a light for their cigarettes. Now that lighters are banned on airlines, matches are a prime commodity along the doors that lead to the baggage pickup. I and another fellow watched for 10 minutes for any sign of smoke…. which means fire for our tobacco sticks. I noticed a Jewish woman smoking across the road and pursue her in quest of fire. She obliged and I brought the precious fire back to the fireless one in the median and we smoked and talked.

The ex-music director finally showed up in a large dirty white car and I frantically threw my items in before security noticed that I was trying to depart the area and became enraged that someone would dare stop. The MD and I drove aimlessly around Miami killing time, him prolonging the inevitable, and I trying to escape the dreaded welcome aboard orientation.

Our nation spends billions trying to help impoverished countries around the world, shit, I wonder if any of them have driven around Miami lately.

Finally, we arrived at the port of Miami and I went my way to the gangway of the MS Victory to present my passport and medical papers to the ships security. After x-raying my belongings and finding my name on the crew sign on documents, I was sent to the crew purser’s office where I waited to talk to a large British woman dressed in a white uniform that had me fill out a bunch of forms, again, and informed me how I missed the orientation and needed to call the ships safety officer after I finally found my cabin. I refused to sign the contract which stated my old pay rate, not the sub rate quoted. I was told to find the paymaster the following day.

I got the ving card for the cabin and was left in the chaotic hallway with my luggage, without a clue where to go. I was exhausted and covered with sweat from the Miami heat; everyone gave conflicting directions to the cabin number 2051. Somehow, in the middle of all this, I was supposed to remember the 4 digit number to call upon arrival to the alleged cabin. An hour later I found cabin 2051 and gratefully dragged the cumbersome luggage into the tiny room a proceeded to collapse on the bunk to try to cool down. Sometime later I heard the other occupant of 2051 try in vain to use his ving card to enter the room. After all these years the damn things don’t work once someone else has one programmed, those of you that have travel experience involving motels know what I am saying. I let the stranded fellow in the room, disappointed that a stranger has arrived; he had been told the cabin would be his for a short while, but, surprise. I expressed sympathy for this unwelcome event and we found a place above a hall ballast to hide the ving card so both of us could gain entry at will.

Before long, the loudspeaker chimed and the cruise director announced the impending boat drill and commanded that all ship personnel go to their emergency stations immediately. I hear the scurry in the hall as the ship’s employees grabbed their lifejackets and donned a lime green baseball cap that shouts Carnival Cruise Lines on the front. The sound of people died down as they vacated the area, then 7 short blasts and one long blast on the ship’s whistle and another announcement that all personnel and guests of the ship should now be at their muster stations. This is a drill in case of an emergency at sea. From here, all persons would be led to their final destination, the lifeboat to disembark the vessel if need be. The hall was quiet and then finally one long blast from the ship ended the drill and the sound of crew began to fill the halls once more.

I had been spared this because of having missed the orientation and issued a boat drill card with my muster information on it. However, I had to attend an entertainment staff meeting involving about 200 people in the show lounge where the cruise director alternately scolds and rewards the staff, depending on the situation. After about 30 minutes, he runs out of stuff to say and ends the meeting.

6 o’clock brought dinner in the mess hall, I as staff could use the staff mess hall, much nicer than the crew mess hall. Table cloths and pitchers of water adorn the tables in the industrialized environment. There are portholes along the wall to actually see the ocean. The cooks on the ship work long and hard supplying 3 meals, plus a midnight buffet for crew and staff. Staff gets waiters, crew doesn’t. There are many choices on the menu, and a buffet of the featured dishes of the moment. Some of the foods are unrecognizable, or downright repulsive to the average American. Things such as crudités, fried smelt (which resembles the bait used to catch the real fish and resembles whole fried okra from a distance), spaghetti con funghi, beouette (beats me). There are some good items, a salad bar; the steaks one night were very good, steamed rice, an assortment of industrial type vegetables, hamburgers, hot dogs, eggs to order on demand. There is always a variety of cakes which are always very good.

After my meal, I sauntered into the small crew bar which adjoins the crew mess to smoke a cigarette. There is a large transient in the wall and I sat and watched the crew mess like a movie from my seat in the crew bar. Phillipinos, Indonesians, Romanians, Croatians, and many other people of different nationalities dressed in a wide array of service oriented uniforms ate and talked. The sound of a room full of people speaking 20 different languages is like that long orchestral passage in the middle of “A Day in the Life” by the Beatles on the Sgt. Peppers album. A young man from Jakarta sat on the stool next to me and engaged in conversation in surprisingly good English. Still, I talked in my typical ship dialect and just spoke the main words and leave the other stuff, jargon, and phrases out of the conversation. We talked of George Bush, the Tsunami, and his home town. He smiled frequently and offered me an Indonesian cigarette which I gratefully accepted and it tasted like cloves and other things, not too bad.

My musical director is a tall, handsome, Canadian fellow that plays soprano sax. He graciously talked me through the spiel for that night’s welcome aboard show then took me to a little room where we look for the new uniform shirts and I am awarded three, and a necktie that smells like a fish, he is immediately deemed Dr. Fish tie. As the week progressed, everyone in the orchestra becomes Dr. Fish tie and the phrase “Dr, Fish tie I presume” is a common one.

He seemed very pleased to have a rhythm section player; they had gone through several cruises with no piano or guitar, hence the reason for the call at my home. A 10 piece orchestra, a bunch of saxes, and people playing holey things, bass, drums, we trudged through the preliminary dance set and I gave them my most sophisticated voicings. Several times I was passed solos to test my ability, after that test I can look forward to no more solos. The guys with the holey things all wanted this honor and all try to sound like “Bird”, however, they sometimes sounded more like duck. They are a very good band altogether, the drummer very tight and knowledgeable, the bass competent, and the horns playing the sectionals together and with authority. After the dance set, the musician’s suspicious looks towards me vanish as apparently I had passed the “test”, they were happy to have someone create harmony while they flailed away on the shiny instruments in a monophonic war. Still, I am used to being an accompanist, someone who lays down the changes while everybody else beats their brains out to try to impress themselves, the audience, and … fellow band members. I play as supportive a role as possible; this is a huge part of the show band’s guitar chair responsibility. Make others sound good, give them a solid foundation to noodle over, sometimes it feels a bit frustrating but you just count, 1 dollar, 2 dollars, ect. Even so, the rhythm work in this situation is demanding enough, it makes it own statement and I did my best, not the best but my best.

The welcome aboard show came right after the dance set and began with “Anchor’s Away” and segued into a variety of pop tunes with punches and transitions. A male and female singer lead this extravaganza from the stage surrounded by a lot of gangly looking girls and guys with sparkly stuff and feathers. The orchestra followed a laser disc and was fed the tempos and transitions via a “click track”. Headphones are worn and a click transmits the tempos and occasionally a guy with a New York accent came through the headphones and spewed “and 3 and four and ……… off”, dictating accelerandos and ritardandos. The combination of the laser disc and the orchestra in these scenarios can create a powerful sound but I tried to play a little differently than the recorded guitar on the comp parts, and I did my best to match him during signature riffs and orchestral passenges. With musicians coming and going, these tracks are essential to maintain uniformity to the production shows, and if the orchestra is really tight, the audio engineer has the option of floating in or out whatever he sees fit, sometimes the track is turned off if he feels real confidence. The MD hands me a print out demanding my presence at the first orientation meeting of the week at 8:00 am the next morning, shit.

I squeak through the first night and took a shower in 2051 in a bathroom of approximately 13 square feet, threw on my crappy white trash outfit of a t-shirt, kaki shorts and flip flops, and made my way up 3 decks via staircase to the staff bar for beer and frivolity. I entered the door to looks of astonishment from the assemblage as to this invader, a table of Italian officers drinking “Grappa”, a really nasty tasting Italian clear liquor, and Pelligrino water, giving me a very mean glare like some sort of junior mafia. Croatian electronica noise permeated the air, and I had broken no rules since I had come from the crew area and not crossed into sacred guest areas on my way to the bar. Doing so dressed like I was would have gotten me into hot water and probably a trip to the staff captain. I get 3 Red Stripe beers @ $1.25 US each and sit in the back of the lounge alone, no one approached and I approached no one. After 30 minutes of the disco noise thing I tire of this scenario and trudge back down the staircase and quickly fell asleep, it had been one hell of a day.

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So I am sitting here at the neighborhood Laundromat, with the only thing matching my lack of care in this world is my lack of clean underwear (hey gurlies even my current pair is dirty!). Oh, and before you ask, boxers, but tight ones. Anyways, I am surrounded by the unwashed bodies of my fellow Hispanics who are likewise washing their own shit-stained briefs, with my attention divided between ogling the hot chick that’s washing her thongs next to me, wondering what size granny panties she has one in lieu of sexy crotch cotton, typing away on my new notebook, and watching the clichéd Spanish soap operas on the 24/7/356-Spanish dominated TV, which, by the way, have 10x as many sexy 55 year old women in it than any American show could ever hope to have on one screen.

I mean, seriously, what the hell is up with these damned shows? I was fapping to one called “Mujer the Madera” which is about a woman who loves a man but dates another because he has more money and can therefore buy her much more makeup, and as I was about to cum I saw a rather sexy grandma with half her tits hanging out of that ever so sexy tight red dress she only kind of sort of had on her body. Anyways, I finished jacking off to her image because, hey, she was hot, but during that period of contemplation after you have spurted all over your hand and only partially made it into the sock I got to thinking, “Dude, she could so have been my mother, and I would probably still have fapped to her.” I mean, come on, you know that every 13 year old kid out there that has a hot mother with huge knockers has probably wanked to her a couple of times. Maybe even if he has a hot sister as well. There’s nothing wrong with rubbing one off, and in remote cases fucking, as long as there is no kissing that involves the exchange of saliva. That’s just nasty.

So you are probably sitting there, in your underwear, wondering where the hell I am going with this. You are right, I should probably move on, or back, as it were.

If you are one of those five or six lonely, bored souls on the planet that has read my complete collection of utterly useless, uninspired dribble (Not including myself; yes, I am a huge fan of my own work!) then you may have come to the conclusion that, hey, I am a pretty racist guy! In my last update I mentioned something that actually turned out to be a pretty good excuse by itself: I am brown, therefore, I am entitled to making fun of the extremes on the skin-color spectrum since I am the mean of both and a natural referee by birth.

Keeping in mind my natural tendency to be racist, and the fact that I keep spouting off on the supposed superiority my own, it comes as no wonder that some people who have read this site usually leave with a bitter taste in their mouth. I’d go so far as to say it is akin to the taste of salty semen, whereupon I would loudly proclaim my heterosexuality by stating that I have never tasted semen, but the truth of the matter is that I know the salty, bitter taste of said by-product. Damn those hookers. Anyways, the bitter taste here is not from the result of fellatio, but from people thinking that it is fine if I am racist, but that I am only selectively so. I say nay unto them, however, and remind them that he who laughs at his self the most is the sanest person in the world. Which, roughly translated into the neanderthalic language that you idiots use (Which, by the way, does not include the word “neanderthalic”) means that I damn well do make fun of my own race. So much so, in fact, that the Spaniards have issued a public apology for having raped all those nubile, defenseless Native Mexican American women after having infected them with their highly contagious viruses for being the sole catalyst that set the whole chain of events leading up to my birth in motion.

I have no idea how those last few paragraphs relate to the rest of this article, but it is my God damned website and I will write about how whenever I do not bathe properly I get this cheesy substance beneath the folds of my uncircumcised penis if I want to and there is not one damned thing you can do about it!

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If there is one theme that keeps resurfacing again and again in my life it is irony.

Now let us be clear about one thing: 9 out of 10 of you will not know the real meaning of irony. You will think something stupid like, “Oh, today I went to McDonald’s and tried to order a Whopper. LOL ironic.” and while it may seem to encompass the core definition of irony it is really just you being a dipshit.

I will tell you what irony is to me: Knowing I can cheat on my girlfriend with any girl that will open her legs for my pinkish-brown pain train, but then realizing through horrible experiences that all of these girls I cheat on my girlfriend with are going to have a height:width ratio of those humongous turkeys they sell at the grocery store every year around Thanksgiving. In fact, I will make up a new name for these creatures - Turkeyballs. While you could go, “Hurr hurr he’s talking about the balls of turkeys!” it would only earn you a kick in the face because I do not mess around, fool.

You may note that fucking fat chicks is not ironic, per se, but the fact that I am being punished every time I cheat on my girlfriend when in fact it is her that should be humiliated is ironic as hell. It is like God punishing me for stealing awesome looking sports cars, but then having me realize that all I really stole were shitty ricer 4-cylinder Hot-Wheels clones. Fuck you, God.

So, yeah, my sexual encounters are ironic. Case in point: “Gurl212321″.

About a year ago AOL had the great idea of buying out love.com and turning it into a pit void of it’s birthname. It held something like 2 months of “testing” where every single feature was free for the general public. I, being the great horndog that I am, did not hesitate to sign up and start IM’ing girls that were within 100 miles of my zipcode (75240 hay gurlies wat’s up?). I landed a couple of possible leads, but me being the idiot that I am chose the one that could quite possibly have been the worst.

Her name was Karen or Megan or something equally stupid like that, I do not remember because I do not think I learned it until after I dropped her home after we kind of sort of fucked. That seems to be another recurring issue with me and women - I do not learn their names until after they have completely degraded me to the point that I consider suicide an acceptable release from the humiliation and burning sensation centered around my crotch and anus areas. Damn those STD’s.

Anyways, I saw her profile, which can be located here (her AIM is gurl212321 ) and the thing that caught my mind most was her being half-Asian. Let me tell you a thing about Asian girls: I do not like them. I do not know what it is. Sure, they are fine as friends, although they seem to suffer from vapidness even more than white chicks do, but I do not think I would ever date one. I blame the porn industry. Whenever you see a naked Asian chick it is usually in huge, thick white cotton panties (not safe for work), with either huge D+ sized tits or tiny A beestings. Then, if they are naked, her crotch area is swarming with a bush that looks like a fucking spider nesting ground (not safe for work). I understand that for the past millennium showing pubic hair was taboo in Japan, but Jesus people! One would think that with the space crisis over in Japan they would try to have as much personal space as possible, and YES that means getting rid of the pound of sheep-fleece that you are carrying around. Ugh. Yeah, so I’m a little racist. I do not care what you think. I’m brown. I can think and say whatever the fuck I want, cracker. The point is, regardless of any misgivings I may have had about a naked Asian girl, I was very curious to see what all the fuss was about. I mean, all I hear is Asian chick this or Asian chick that or Asian chicks have horizontal pussies (I later found this out to be not true. SCIENCE!). The fact that she was only half-Asian kind of sealed the deal for me, as I do not think I could have done this with a full-fledged Asian chick because it would be like trying to drink 2 liters of Tequila on your first drinking binge instead of slowly working your way up to it. I would have preferred her to be 1/4 Asian, or at least Filipino because we all know that Hispanics are the byproduct of Spanish jerks raping Aztecs and Incans and other once proud, powerful tribes of South America and that Filipinos are the result of the less picky of my kind going to the Philippines to fuck a 9 year old Asian girl and staying there to marry her. I guess a pre-teen Asian girl would not be too bad, since I do not think they would have had the time necessary to grow too vapid as the rest of them. I’m sorry, I think I’m just bitter because at the last Margaret Cho comedy concert I attended she gave all the guys but me a blowjob. Bitch.

Wow, racism is a fun topic to rant about! I guess that is why the Arian (OMG IT LOOKS LIKE ASIAN LOL) empowerment groups have been so popular for years - bored white people who have figured out that being racist is FUN! I think they should be a national Be a Dirty Racist Day in the U.S.A. and only in the U.S.A. because we all know that racists in other countries are very dangerous and the ones here are merely cute and misguided.

So, about this Asian chick. We started talking (Well, it was really her talking and me pretending to listen and agreeing with everything she said) and I found out she was a sophomore in high school. I almost freaked and closed the window until she assured me of being 17. Keep in mind this was last year so I was like 19 or something and within acceptable limits. I guess she was just a stupid student or something. She told me that some of her favorite past times included reading, watching movies and eating ice cream. While any other human of my intelligence would have had mother fucking Klaxons going off in their heads as a warning that this would only lead to sweet, sweet disaster, I conveniently ignored the comment by saying, “Me too!” Boy was I wrong! I do not think that if I trained day and night for 2 years to build up a high threshold for dairy that I could ever have matched what this whale of a beast must have consumed to reach her size.

Let’s do the math, people. Take a half-gallon of Blue Bell ice cream. I think it would be safe to assume that 90% of that is dairy. So, for every 5 gallons that you eat of the stuff, you are consuming 4 1/2 gallons of milk. Most humans would be violently sick if they tried to down anywhere near a gallon of milk within 2 hours. This turkeyball must have been downing about 3 half gallons of ice cream a day! Assume you have awesome metabolism but you sit on your ass all day long and that for each half gallon of delicious ice cream you eat you gain a 1/6lb of weight. This freak must have been gaining about 1/2 a pound a day. She was hesitant to tell me her exact weight, at 17, and informed me beforehand that she used to weigh the Asian mean of 85lbs just the year before and she was roughly 5′1″ tall. After I prodded and poked and cooed at her that no matter how fat she was I was still going to fuck her, she started a fucking game where I had to keep going ever higher to guess her goddamned weight.

“150?”, I hopefully said. I would totally have been fine with this since it would make her look almost like a normal person.

“Higher.” came the awful, awful reply.

“155?” came my quivering retort.

“No. Higher. Teehee” replied the demon from the deepest bowels of Hell.

“160?” Oh God make it stop.

“You’re almost there!” she replied in what I am assuming was the mating call of a fat bitch to her morning dozen donuts.

I was getting tired of this dumb game, and scared of the possibilities of the results, so I thought I would give myself good news by expecting bad news, “175?”

“Yeah… that’s about right.”

FUCK YOU GOD.

I know that most of you would probably have logged of the internet and formatted your computer with a fresh installation of Windows after hearing that she was 175lbs and only slightly taller than 5 feet flat. I think I can equate my actions to that picture that has been making the rounds on the internet of this skinny little African kid stealing an obviously expired piece of meat. You know it is probably going to kill you, but you are so starved that you do not mind a little deadly stomach virus in a few hours as long as you are satisfied in the present. I wish several times a week that I was like that one brown guy from Prince of Persia so that I could turn back the hands of time and skip those awful, awful pieces of history altogether.

So with the knowledge of my hunger in mind, it would come as no surprise when I invited her to come over to my apartment. She asked if she could bring a friend with her, and instead of my mind jumping with elation at the possible prospect of a threesome, I could only think that we would not be able to fit into my 10′x11′ bedroom, much less my squeaky bed. I grudgingly said yes while fighting back tears of defeat, humiliation and sadness, and she was on her way. I think I should note here that I broke one of my own rules by giving her my home address, but at this time I had been on a dry spell for well over 4 months (I was actually to meet my current girlfriend/fianc�e within a month of this occurring) and I knew that her being 17 her parents would likely kill me before letting me stick my pee-stick into her pussy even though I would be doing miracles for her self-respect. When they finally rolled around in their v6 Camaro and came knocking at my door I had already accepted the fact that I would be fucking yet another fat beast. Good news seemed to have come upon me though by the arrival of my roommate some 15 minutes previously and me being the self-conscience person that I am refused to let them in where they could possibly be seen by him. To turn their frowns upside down I invited them to CiCi’s. CiCi’s is an awesome place to go eat all the cheap pizza you want for like $4.50. A fatty’s oasis in this world full of Atkins’ diet hotspots.

The Asian chick looked just as I had imagined she would: her circumference was about the amount of her height. She had little tits that blended with the rest of her bloated body to the point that I almost thought her to be a flat-chested fat chick. Haha! Can you imagine that? Her friend, while slightly less fat as her, did not look half as bad. She was a blonde white chick, about 5′4″, with tits that complimented her fat ass. After learning that her age was 16, however, I mentally barred myself from thinking of her as anything but a fatty with no sex appeal.

We arrive at CiCi’s and I graciously allow her to pay for my meal, where I proceed to show them how fat they are by only eating half a tiny slice of pepperoni pizza and proclaiming myself stuffed. I guess it must have gotten to them because they only ate 10 more slices before stopping as well.

We say our good byes and I head home thanking God for saving me from self-destruction on this beautiful spring day. Until she calls me the next day wanting to “hang out”, and this time, alone. (Cue foreboding music).

She wanted me to pick her up around noon so that she could skip the last two classes of that day (thus was she still a sophomore) and I readily agreed, having forgone jacking off the night before. I go over there, pick her up, make small chat while driving back to my place. I know I am going to fuck her. She knows I am going to fuck her. It is all good, baby.

I arrive and thankfully my roommate was not home at that time so I could sneak her in and out and be in and out without them ever being the wiser.

I asked her if she wanted to shower because you know that if fat people do not shower ever 5 hours or so they start to stink up the place. She declined and I did not push the point fearing she would try to hold out on me, or worse, cry because I was suggesting she smelled to high heaven (she did).

So we sit down on my bed and the worst part of the day begins… I did not want to make the first move for fear of the chance of being called out on sexual assault, so I tried my best to get her to touch my wienerschnitzel. The conversation went something like this:

“So, what do you want to do?” I asked.

“I dunno. What do you want to know” was her reply, accompanied by a wink.

Repeat this cycle 15 or 25 times and you get the idea. I think she was actually trying to seduce me by winking, but it had the reverse effect because her fat face already hid her slanted eyes pretty well.

I finally grew bored of this shit and reach out and grabbed her tit. No way was I kissing her. It seemed like she was already wet and ready because her eyes grew wide (about as wide as an Asian chicks eyes get!) and she let out a blood-curling moan. Ugh. I was in no mood for foreplay so I told her to just strip down and get in the bed while I pondered the best sexual position to get penetration with all this fat would be.

1. I could not go at it doggy style because her ample ass would be too thick for my tiny dick to reach her pussy with.

2. I could not ask her to sit on me because my sense of self-preservation has always been too great to needlessly throw myself into the face of danger like that.

3. I had to finally settle of telling her to lay on her back and try to lift her legs into the air.

My last chance to back out was when she flat out refused to strip and said she would only take off her clothes underneath the covers. Fine with me, I did not want to see that shit anyways, but stupid me did not take that chance to kick her ugly ass out.

Out came her pants which must have been wide enough to fit me, a former high school football player that weight 230lbs in his prime, with much ease. Her panties were just as bad and I wondered how many cotton plants had to be destroyed to be able to fabricate so much cloth. I purposely averted my eyes from them lest I see any sort of stains on the inside. I had enough trouble keeping an erection as it was.

I threw on a Trojan and climbed aboard the pain train destination: nastiness. My guess had been right that she was already dripping wet.

“You know I’m not a virgin, right?” she breathed.

Haha, of course I know you are not, dumb bitch!

Without further ado I went to town on her pussy. I briefly contemplated on trying anal sex with her, but I realized that with her being fat and all she probably had a hard time properly cleaning her ass after each bowel movement. After about 10 minutes of pumping I realized that I probably would not get to finish (another fucking reoccurring theme) and asked her to suck me off. I took off my condom because I did not care what she thought about STDs as long as there was no chance of my contracting one and told her to get to shining it.

She was ok because as we all know fat chicks give great head because they are always hungry, but after 5 minutes or so of noisy sucking she asked if she could stop because my dick tasted like rubber.

It seems like God takes pleasure in letting me cheat, but only giving me turkeyballs, and then not even letting me finish. I will get you, you Nazi!

I quickly hopped in my shower and started scrubbing like a mad man. It seems it always ends like that. I did not invite her to shower, and instead told her to put on her clothes over her sweaty, stinky body. No way was she smelling up my bathroom!

I drove her home without a word because I was obviously done and done with her and did not see the point in further communication with this beast. As I am pulling up to her driveway she asks, “So… what are we now?” obviously hoping that I would lean over and give her a hug and a wet kiss and proclaim my eternal love for her.

Well, I did lean over, but only to open the door and tell her, “You let me fuck you without me even really knowing your name. On top of that, you are fat. Furthermore, I did not even get to splash all over your face. We are done! Good day to you, madam!” and proceeded to poke her until she ran off crying to her house.

While God gives me these turkeyballs to fuck, I will keep humiliating them after the act.