Archive for the ‘cock’ Category

ATMs ain’t rocket science.

Learn to count. You know how much her hourly rate is. You know that ATMs only dispense $20s.
So, if her rate is $350 and you get $360 from the cash machine, you know you’re either gonna have to break the $20 before you get there or give her an extra $10.

Don’t go in there all flummoxed about how to make change for a $20. She just gave you a blowjob, don’t ask her to give you change. Don’t ask to take ten minutes off your hour for a ten buck discount. And for fuck’s sake don’t short her $10 off her rate.
If you didn’t get change before you got to the room, suck it up and give her the full amount plus ten. If $10 goddam dollars is gonna make or break your budget, well… jerking off alone is a lot cheaper.

Behind the mask.

The Observer rocks on

In 1992, H. Ross Perot mounted a campaign for the U.S. Presidency as a third party candidate; he chose as his running mate Admiral James Stockdale. During his opening remarks at the Vice-Presidential debate against Al Gore and Dan Quayle, Admiral Stockdale uttered the line that cemented the public’s view of the till-then unknown war hero as a doddering, out of touch old man: “Who am I? Why am I here?”

Since I started writing this blog a while ago, there has been a certain segment of our little society of whoremongers curious about who I may (or may not) be. That curious sector has now expanded into a virtual cottage industry.

Am I some guy lashing out at those who done me wrong? Am I some guy angling for free pussy? Or am I just bullshitting and making it all up?

The more common guesses center around the issue of my gender. Because I have written much that is critical of the guys involved in these tawdry pursuits, the natural inclination among those tawdry guys is to instantly assume I’m not really one of them. Because I criticize the guys, I must be a woman. It’s obvious! I must be some bitter, angry hooker seeking online revenge.

Sorry to burst your bubble, guys, but just as Vicki Vale knows who Batman really is, there’s one person who can attest to the fact that I really am male. Sure, I may be an old grey dog;  a short, fat, balding middle aged guy with a waistline that provides shelter from the sun for my penis. But that still counts as male.

So who am I, then? Lean in closer, I’ll whisper it. Just to you. Don’t tell anyone.

I don’t want to give out any Spoilers. Maybe I have other hobbies besides fucking hookers. Maybe I’m an outlaw, a desperate outlaw. Maybe I’m Fresh Off the Boat, like listening to emo bands or maybe I’m Radioactive Man‘s sidekick..

I’m not anyone but just plain lil’ ol’ me. After all, WTF, it’s… just me. I may have been born between October 23 and November 21 for those of you astrologically inclined. Maybe you can identify me by the car I drive.

I may not be a real doctor (or play one on TV), maybe that’s just an honorary title. I may not be a real lawyer, I may just be some guy who likes to talk about law. I’m not Five, of that I’m sure. And pretty certain I’m not Eight.

Maybe I’m black, maybe I’m white. I may be Asian. Am I an oddly tall Korean from the Valley? Or am I a Chinese guy from L.A.?

I’m just here to tell the troo…errr… Truth.

In among the wolves.

Keeping an eye on you.

As most of you who have blogs or websites know, we can see where the clicks to our sites are coming from.There are stat trackers galore and even the most basic blogging package has a hit counter of some sort. For example, I can see what websites I’m being linked to, I can see what web search terms people are using to stumble upon my little corner of the web.

Yeah, I can see that the most common search term used to direct traffic to the ol’ Hooker Addict is tied in to an essay I wrote some 5-6 months ago. For some reason, the topic refuses to die. I can see that I’m still getting traffic from a comment I posted on another blog months ago. And I guess I should be flattered that people searching for “huge cock” are being directed to me.

And I can see when you guys are talking about me on your message boards.

Because I’m one of you.

That’s right guys. I’m on your message boards, I’m in your private clubs, I’m on the ‘men only’ boards.

I wrote not too long ago about the social horror of the Hooker/Hobbyist Meet & Greet. Social awkwardness coupled with a sense of entitlement is a bad combination. A certain local message/review board linked to my blog on a thread about meet & greets. I could see every time someone clicked that link in that thread. But I didn’t need a stat tracker to tell me I’d been linked. I could read it myself.

And then you guys kicked it up a notch. You moved the discussion to the private men only board. Here, as you so often do, you used the cloak of internet invisibility, not to look inward but to lash out. But you didn’t lash out at me, did you?

I’m watching you. I know all you guys. I’ve partied with you. Hell, I may (or may not) have commented on that thread.

You wonder why I don’t like “hobbyists”? It’s because of that behavior. The venue brings out the worst in you. Some of you I have personally liked, I’ve had drinks with you, or maybe I just had a drink while you drank club soda. But based on your behavior behind closed Internet doors, maybe it’s time you start working the steps again. Maybe make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourselves again.

What are you saying? Your jacket doesn’t fit right with that knife in your back? Malcontent? Off your meds? What an amusing bon mot, joking about how a certain hooker actually likes being groped! Of course, she also likes doing bareback gangbangs, but you forgot to mention that part.

I’ll keep watching you, I’ll keep writing about you. And I’ll keep waiting for you to revisit Step 9.

War Stories

Posted: April 23, 2010 in cock, hookers, sex, whore
Tags: , ,

Guy talk.

Over there!

Guys talk. And sometimes, they talk to me. Why, I don’t know. I guess I just have that pervy kinda face.

At work the other day, just out of the blue, one of the guys starts talking about golden showers. OK, it’s a guy thing, I get it. Just trying to gross out the other guys. Most days, somebody would say “eeewww, that’s nasty!” Everyone would have a laugh and go back to their own cubicles. This day though, he carries the story a bit further. “I knew a girl once,” yeah, sure ya did…

“I knew a girl once, she told me she made a lot of money giving guys golden showers.” Now I’m wondering where he’s going with this. “She said she never had sex with ’em, guys would pay her to piss on ’em!” Why imagine that.

Next guy ups the stakes with a story about how his buddies took him to a whorehouse for his 18th birthday, Here he is, young and naive, having a drink at the bar at the Ranch. And since we’re now in a full fledged game of one-ups, the stranger at the bar next to him (in his story) sidles up and says “you ever have a girl shit on you?” Cuz a good hooker story just ain’t enough, it has to be a good gross hooker story.

I’ve come to realize that most guys have a hooker story to tell. It’s ubiquitous. It’s a rite of passage. Sooner or later, every guy (it seems) fucks a hooker. That time you got really drunk, that time you scored the winning goal, that time you fucked that hooker. War stories.

Teenage boys, celebrating a birthday by fucking a hooker. Money was pooled together, group discount rates. Mattresses were set up in the employee break room after store hours. The birthday boy gets the first ride. His buddies are in the boss’ office next door, and boys will be boys, they’ve set up a mirror in the ceiling panels so they can watch the action in the next room. Birthday boy has found his way in and established a rhythm, but being a novice fucker it won’t take him long. His pumping pace picks up, the train is pulling into the station… and the boys in the next room break out into a loud chorus of Happy Birthday.

Every guy has a hooker story.

The Guitar Girl

You probably think this blog is about you, don't you?

She came highly recommended. Well Reviewed. I was going through a phase where I had a distinct preference for the hot MILF-y type, and she fit the bill. She had been on the short list of gals I had some intention of possibly seeing some day. Well,  circumstances intervened and “some day” came sooner than I thought. She offered a discounted rate, and even after paying for a hotel room, it’d still be a good deal. Or so I thought.

So I found myself checking into a hotel off the freeway in the middle of an afternoon.

There’s always the usual pre-show jitters. Will we click? Will I be able to perform? Is this the best lighting for my penis? So I’m naturally a bit apprehensive when she finally knocks on the door. She was not at all what I expected. Now don’t worry, this isn’t going to devolve into the standard “she looked nothing like her picture” rant. She looked just like her pictures. That is to say, her features, her figure, her form were just as advertised. But rather than the sultry, sexy, lingerie-clad temptress I found myself face to face with a patchouli-scented, gypsy-skirted, guitar-toting hippie chick. Lucky for me, I’ve always had a fondness for hippie chicks, whether the ironic/nostalgic type, or like my afternoon visitor the type who had actually been hippies. Oh, and yeah, I understand that she wasn’t going to be wandering the halls of the hotel in a negligee.

But more than her style of dress, I was completely unprepared for the guitar. I had booked an escort, not a floor show. As she made herself comfortable in my room, she informed me that she was an aspiring singer/songwriter and she wanted to serenade me to set the mood. I thought, “why not?” Well, actually I thought “so this is how she plans to kill the 53 minutes out of this hour that we don’t spend fucking.”

She played, she sang. I tried to be a gracious audience, while trying to maintain an erection.

Things didn’t get much better when we moved on to the main event after the musical opening act.

I made my move to go down on her, she balked. Really? No pussy strumming? She said she was sore down there from her last appointment. I had to wonder, if she’s too sore to lick is this somewhere I want to be sticking my dick? But no, she reassured me there wasn’t anything wrong, she was just chafed from a client who was an overzealous licker and under-zealous shaver. (Let me interject here, guys. Has no one ever taught you not to sandpaper a vagina? Am I really the first one to tell you to shave before you head downtown?)

As if the unexpected musical interlude was strange enough, things really took a turn for the weird when we moved on to the fucking portion of the program. Hippie chick wanted to inspect my instrument first. Not, as you might suspect to surreptitiously check for  warts or spots or misplaced frets. No, she wanted check out the size and shape. This, she said, would enable her to somehow tantrically determine the optimum position for pleasure.

Aw hell no

No, really. She would be able to tell. By the shape of my dick. What position we should fuck in. Her expert conclusion? Cowgirl. Yup, she thought riding my baby carrot would be the best way to have at it.

I know it may surprise all of you who are convinced that I can only fuck up, but I hate cowgirl. Look, I’m no porn star, I’m not physically gifted, and I have no game. But I’ve been fucking for longer than most of y’all have been alive and I know how to get off. I don’t have a vast repertoire, I just go for some of the ol’ in out. But, I figured I had made it past the six string to the g-string, I might as well let her saddle up.

We wrapped it up with her on top, and then it was time to go. No encores for this performance.

Of course, in the review I wrote I ate her pussy till she came 3 or 4 times, then finished up by pounding her hard from behind while she was telling me how huge my cock was.

Look, here’s the thing. She was a perfectly lovely lady, and we had a perfectly pleasant afternoon. Everything was as advertised, no more, no less. It was a straight up exchange of services for consideration, and no one got hurt, no one got ripped off and no one fell in love. These things aren’t mystical, they aren’t momentous and the aren’t manipulative. I think the worst thing the public-at-large does is to somehow imbue the hooker/john interchange with more hidden meaning than it really has. Or deserves. It’s not all Pimps n’ Ho’s, it’s not Pretty Woman. It’s not abuse or the result of abuse and will not likely lead to abuse.

We seem to have a tendency in this society to look for hidden meaning in the everyday. On that particular day, there was no further, deeper meaning. I fucked a hooker in a hotel room. Then I went to Ikea.

I’ve got a huge cock.

Always play safe

Every hooker I’ve ever been with tells me so. From streetwalkers to high-priced GFEs, every one of ’em tells me I’ve got a huge cock.

A lot of guys involved in the “hobby” (hobby? are you guys collecting stamps along with bangin’ hookers?) spend a lot of time writing reviews. There are complex ratings systems. Did she have real or fake boobs? Plus 2. Was she on time? Plus 1. Adams apple? Plus 2… no, wait, minus 2… whatever.

For my money, the best ratings are always gonna be based on how big my dick is. If I walk out of that hotel room thinking “Man! I have got a HUGE cock!”, then she did her job. If I walk away thinking “that was a good blowjob, but it couldn’t have been that difficult for her to deepthroat this gherkin” then there was a breakdown in communication. Look, anyone can get you off. It takes someone really fuckin’ good at her job to make you think you’re the biggest stud in town.

And sure, I know she says that to all the guys. But she really means it with me.

You asked for it

I was reminded of this today, swimming through the deep blue waters of one of the local message boards. There’s the ever-present thread about what constitutes a true “GFE.” One of a series of posts and polls that gets trotted out periodically. What does “GFE” mean to you? Probably the only topic more discussed is “shaved or trimmed?” And so often, as in this particular thread, it’s usually intended as nothing more than a look-at-me type of conversation starter. If a gal can get the guys talking about the definitions of “GFE” then that gives her an opening to let them know that she offers exactly the GFE they’re looking for. If she can present it as an opinion poll, it’s not really an ad, is it?

There will never be a comprehensive definition of GFE that everyone agrees on. Not if you’re trying to pin it down based on sex acts. No two guys are gonna like the same thing the same way. Slow, fast, on top, from behind.

But pretty much every guy wants to think he’s got a huge cock. I know I do.

Then again, I don’t have to worry.

I’m huge.