Friday, August 28, 2015

Deep Thick Dan has taken a Viagra, so he is primed and ready.

This is dangerously close to the "Pounded in the Ass by an Ex-Convict" Hypothetical.

A Man with Knowledge of the Future says your one-week old daughter will die unless you agree to his terms, his terms being you being pounded in the Ass by an Ex-Convict for four full hours. Let's call the ex-convict, for the need of a name, Deep Thick Dan.

Deep Thick Dan has taken a Viagra, so he is primed and ready.

You say "Yes" I want my one-week old daughter to live, so: Pants down, on your knees and Deep Thick Dan starts banging your ass. Note that Deep Thick Dan is Angry At The System, so he has a LOT of aggression, which he is now taking out on your already bloody ass.

At the thirty-minute point it has already felt like an Eternity in Hell, and the Man with Knowledge of the Future tells you that the child is not in fact yours: your wife cheated on you, and conceived the child with someone else. By the way, she is probably going to leave you for this guy, so you might only see this child -- that is not yours -- on the occasional weekend.

You bite hard, and let Deep Thick Dan continue pounding: you have held this child, there is a bond.

At the forty-five minute point the Man with Knowledge of the Future tells you that your wife and her new boyfriend are watching your experience with Deep Thick Dan, and laughing.

At the one-hour mark the Man with Knowledge of the Future says a stranger with a gun will come in and kill Deep Thick Dan, right now, but the child will die.

It is so hard to think, with your ass being pummeled into ground hamburger, but you grit and bear it.

At the two hour mark the Man with Knowledge of the Future says the stranger with the gun will kill your wife and her lover, Deep Thick Dan will stop, and you'll get the baby, healthy and safe. Otherwise, two-more hours and the original deal applies.

What do you do?

I'm sorry if you've already read this scenario before.

I am Laslo.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Racism festered in that way women fester.

As a Manager, I once hired a black man. Very competent, professional.

The only problem was, in the Department, he kept sleeping with all the white women.

One by one he banged them all, and when he moved on to White Woman Two after banging White Woman One, what would happen? White Woman One would be depressed and brittle and angry.

Soon the office was filled with Angry White Women as he moved on, relentless.

He never made any overtures to the Black Woman in the Department, which made her depressed, brittle and angry. Now she was angry at all the white women. Racism festered in that way women fester.

After sleeping with all the white women he went to work for another company, leaving a Department of depressed, brittle and angry women in his wake.

So would I hire another Black Man?

If he was qualified, of course I would.

It is the women you have to think twice about.

I am Laslo.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Thirty-eight-year-old women should NEVER giggle.

I did giggle, and I knew he meant well because I trust him."

Thirty-eight-year-old women should NEVER giggle.


I am Laslo.

Appropriate times for a female to giggle:

When they are six and the monkey does something funny at the zoo.

When they are eleven and talking with other girls about what they know about sex.

When they are sixteen and about to try their first blow-job and the pants are unzipped.

After that: no giggling.

I am Laslo.

Monday, August 24, 2015

And a girl who really knew how to use her tongue at an early age.

At a County Fair in Central California there was a leather-vested carny woman who would sidle up to men and offer to suck their cock on the Ferris Wheel for fifty dollars.

She was missing most of her teeth so you know the blow-job would be good, although your balls might get gingivitis: I'm not sure how that works.

Anyway, I said a polite 'no thank you' -- my girlfriend would gladly suck my cock on the Ferris Wheel. Which she did, but she then made me pay her fifty dollars afterward.

It was worth it though, to be gently rocking in the breeze up towards the stars, the fertile landscape spread out below you and the carnival lights, and a girl who really knew how to use her tongue at an early age.

Also: my girlfriend had great teeth.

I am Laslo.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

And I said "Why would you even want to say that?"

I had a dream that involved Hillary Clinton.

Or, actually, a young woman who insisted she was Hillary Clinton. To be more specific: a hot chick who insisted she was Hillary Clinton.

She kept saying "Make love to me, I'm Hillary Clinton," and I would say "No you're not, you're a Hot Chick."

She insisted "I AM Hillary Clinton" and I said "Why would you even want to say that? You're a Hot Chick with great legs and amazing breasts. You are NOT Hillary Clinton."

So, being a Hot Chick I banged her anyway. But then, mid-doggy-style she cackled and then transformed. She WASN'T a Hot Chick! I was tricked, but still I kept fucking her, I couldn't stop, except now she was Chelsea Clinton, not Hillary, and I knew I had to get out of that room, fast.

So I donated to her Foundation, all over her face.

Then went down a hallway that never seemed to end.

Dreams are weird.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Of course, words could not convey the beauty of what I saw.

I once had sex on a European train.

It was a transcendent experience: outside the window of our cabin the beautiful landscape passed by: centuries-old trees casting shadows from the fading sun, rich gray clouds, clusters of lush field rows, rough stone walls snaking past as we made our way from Vienna to, eventually, Paris.

As we had sex I would describe these scenes to the girl I was with, because her face was pushed hard into a seat cushion and couldn't see much as I banged her from behind..

Of course, words could not convey the beauty of what I saw, but she did not speak much English, so it probably didn't matter much.

Only later did I learn that "Non posso respirare" means "I can't breathe" in Italian.

I am Laslo.

Friday, August 21, 2015

There is a nation of MILFs wanting to borrow a cup of sugar.

Jiminy Cricket.

I have given you people a day to figure out the obvious, and you wander off into the weeds.

Ashley Madison was about men getting anal sex.

Ashley Madison was about men getting anal sex.

Again: Ashley Madison was about men getting anal sex.

You want straight sex: there is a girl in your office, or neighborhood. There is a nation of MILFs wanting to borrow a cup of sugar.

You want a blow-job: plenty of college girls and waitresses and baristas. Sometimes: friends of your college-age daughter.

You want anal sex?

You want non-diseased non-contagious non-boulevard anal sex?

Ain't in your suburb, pal.

Online you could determine the details before you even met her: no anal sex? No credit card number.

Ashley Madison was about men getting anal sex.


I am Laslo.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

"It must be part of a Bigger Plan."

I once had sex with a widow.

Her husband had died young, a car accident just blocks from him making his way home. He was a good man, a kind man, and many felt the loss, but -- obviously -- the hardest of the loss fell upon his wife, a beautiful young woman now overcome with grief: uncontrollable tears, uncontrollable laughter, memories both told and kept behind her eyes.

I remember that, at the funeral home, the words were -- as one would expect -- heartfelt and trite:

"How are you doing?"

"It must be part of a Bigger Plan."

"He was SO young."

If you have been to a funeral, you know all the lines.

She was starting to get shaky, overcome by the people and the words and the wishes and the prayers, so I quietly escorted her to a side room in the funeral home and fucked her in the ass with her bent over a casket and her black dress up around her waist.

Something in me told me it didn't seem proper to ejaculate on a new widow's face, so I released myself upon the pillow in the open casket, then discreetly closed the lid.

It  was good to know that -- at least for a few minutes -- I could take her mind away from her loss.

The least I could do, really.

I am Laslo.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Surprise? Sadness? Smooth unmoving forehead.

I once had sex with a woman in her late twenties who had Botoxed her forehead. Her forehead was fine as it was -- smooth, no wrinkles -- but High Fashion had inevitably directed her to this procedure, unnecessary as it was. 

High Fashion had also directed her to her black high heels, but that was fine with me because I like when a woman wears high heels in bed during certain situations and contexts. Otherwise naked is one of those contexts.

Her Botox look was unnerving: we would have conversations, and her expressions never changed. Concern? Smooth unmoving forehead. Delight? Smooth unmoving forehead. Surprise? Sadness? Smooth unmoving forehead. Occasionally a nod for emphasis sign-posted what she was feeling.

Anyway, after she sucked my cock I would ejaculate on her face and she wouldn't even flinch: unmoving forehead, smooth except for the semen.

So that was her.

I am Laslo.


I must admit to being somewhat saddened by the harsh responses to Ms. Cyrus -- especially from the women.

Do they not remember their blossoming years? The confusion, the opportunities, the burgeoning new sexual power they now wielded over men?

The evenings spent at the Mall in short colorful skirts, desperately hoping an older male would buy them some cheap necklace and then take them in his Camaro back to his studio apartment and drink cheap beer?

Do they not remember waking up in a stranger's van and not being able to find their clothing?

Do they not nod knowingly at those first feelings of realization that there were indeed Bad Men out there, and some of these Bad Men were friends of their fathers?

The leering looks, the offers of 'free' ice cream?

Like I said: saddened.

I am Laslo.

Friday, August 14, 2015

There would be a lot of rich gamblers, and a lot of ejaculation.

I once picked up a hitch-hiker on my way through Nevada.

Turns out she was a stripper who was hanging up her thong and going back home to a small town in Alabama.

On our drive we mostly talked about inconsequential stuff -- if we talked at all -- and watched the landscape glide by us. Occasional stops for gas and food, a rest stop so that she could use the bathroom and then suck my cock.

Anyway, one morning as we drove towards a glorious sunrise I asked her the question that had been hanging in the air for our entire drive:

"Are you really ready to give up your dream?"

She paused, the golden sunlight on her face, and then said softly "There is nothing for me at home except working at a Dairy Queen, but there are Bad Men in Las Vegas."

I gently enquired about these Bad Men: it turns out the guys who ran her particular strip club ran a Bukkake Ring, wherein rich gamblers would be able to drink expensive alcohol and then ejaculate on a stripper's hair: there would be a lot of rich gamblers, and a lot of ejaculation.

"I just couldn't do it anymore. When I look in a mirror my hair haunts me."

We drove on a bit more in silence, then stopped for breakfast, after which she sucked my cock in the parking lot.

"What about a different town?" I asked after she was done sucking my cock. "A town where they respect the Integrity of strippers?"

"Yeah?" she asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

"You ever consider Portland?"

"Will you take me there? Will you take me back to my Dream?

I zipped up my pants, we turned the car around, and headed to the Great Northwest. 

Never let your dreams die.

I am Laslo.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

I might have to explain.

Got the two actors I (desperately) wanted interested-to-to-point-of committed.

Filming June 2016?

I might have to explain.

I am Laslo.

Like a late-model Acura with no body damage and no tears in the upholstery, freshly waxed.

When I was twenty I had sex with a woman much older than me.

I was with my girlfriend at the time, and it was obvious that our relationship was drawing to a close -- not much to say to each other anymore, even the anal sex felt perfunctory, and when even the anal sex gets perfunctory, well: not much roadway left.

Still, we went one spring weekend to visit her mother at her house in the country: almond orchards blossoming as far as the eye could see. Her mother was thirty-seven, and a remarkably fine-looking woman at that, for a woman so old: when you are twenty the age of thirty-seven seems old indeed.

We had arrived late on Friday, so conversation had been a minimum; early Saturday morning I went down to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My girlfriend was still asleep upstairs -- she was always a late sleeper -- when her mother came into the kitchen after her shower, wearing only a towel.

I think I said something about almonds when she dropped the towel to the kitchen tile, and her naked body in the morning sunlight was magnificent in a great-used-car way: like a late-model Acura with no body damage and no tears in the upholstery, freshly waxed.

So she starts sucking my cock, and for a moment I realize that I probably shouldn't be engaging in this, but my cock was being sucked so I didn't really think about it that hard.

Then I bent her over the kitchen table and fucked her from behind; there was a vase with pretty flowers on it, I remember that. I was gentle at first -- I did not want her to break a hip or something --but then she told me "Harder! Harder!" so I complied.
When I finally ejaculated there was come everywhere: on the ceiling fan, on the table, on the flowers in the vase, on the refrigerator door with all the photos stuck to it with magnets, and in her hair.

After we cleaned up we had breakfast, when my girlfriend finally came down to join us. I got a bit nervous when she paused to sniff the air, but I think she was just smelling bacon.

As we ate I did the math. I was twenty and she was thirty-seven: not bad, really.

When I would be thirty she would be forty-seven; this could be concerning.

When I was fifty she would be sixty-seven, and being fifty is too young a man to be eating at Sizzler's' Afternoon specials.

Sunday afternoon we said our good-byes, and drove back to town.

I still remember this time with a feeling of longing. And mild regret at not at least trying for a mother-daughter threesome.

I am Laslo.

I'm not sure why that came out; I was lost in the moment, I guess.

I once dated a black girl in college.

Her skin was a beautiful light cappuccino, flawless in that way that only exists in youth and good fortune.

Unfortunately, her skin was a cause of great inner turmoil to her: her black friends would comment that she "wasn't really black," that she was too light-skinned to understand the true experience of the Black Life.

She would try to take these words in stride, but it caused her great pain: her white friends thought she was black, and her black friends thought she wasn't black enough.

On top of that, she was brilliant, and exceeded in all of her classes; some of her black friends then used this as 'proof' that she was Acting White.

So, anyway, one evening we were having anal sex and -- when I ejaculated -- I shouted out "I have a dream!"

I'm not sure why that came out; I was lost in the moment, I guess.

From that point onward things became awkward between us; she began to read the autobiography of Malcolm X.

We drifted apart, and I soon started dating a Japanese girl.

Sometimes during sex I so desperately wanted to shout "Tora! Tora! Tora!", but I had learned my lesson.

I just wish her parents hadn't named her 'Pearl.'

I am Laslo.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

No, I did not cause it.

I once dated a woman who later developed Toxic Shock Syndrome.

No, I did not cause it.

It was unbearable to watch: a beautiful young woman, robbed of her health and vitality, doubled over with excruciating cramps and bleeding, her very own vagina turned into a horrifying biological war zone.

I am glad I only fucked her in the ass.

I am Laslo.

Friday, August 7, 2015

"You haven't even tried to remove wet fecal matter from a model's eyelids yet: don't be a quitter."

We've gone this far without a comment about Larry "Think Pink" Flynt?

Imagine working Color on His magazine.

"Is that pink?"

"It's pink-ish, but I don't think it's pink-pink."

"So what do we do?"

"We remove some cyan and black."


"Yeah. An excess of cyan and black in the vaginal area means either the photographer was stupidly trying for something artsy and moody with the vagina, or it is just the withered vagina of a meth addict."

"I thought you just had to enhance 'Saturation' with meth vaginas."

"What are you -- straight out of Graphics School? The Hue is all wrong: think salmon, not mollusk."

"I'm cranking Saturation but it just looks gray.":

"That's because there is no color left in her vagina: odor, yes, but no color, just faded weary roast beef."

"What are those little white spots? Is that dust on the lens?"

"That is just the degraded remains of forgotten condoms. Like the concept of Hope, they will leave her system eventually..."

"I'm not sure I can do this job..."

"You haven't even tried to remove wet fecal matter from a model's eyelids yet: don't be a quitter."

"I just don't think I can do this..."

"Son: this is women. This is who they are."

"Even the ones with the cankerous herpes on the labia?"

"Even those, son: even those."

I am Laslo.