a once weekly open mike
because I hate spelling it ‘open mic’
Let’s see what happens when your host (me) has nothing to say. Step right up, speak your mind, tell a story, sing a song, whatever.
11/15/2025
Anything goes #54
24 responses to “Anything goes #54”
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anything goes
anything blows
count your toes
pick your nose
become comatose
and catch a doseThe Following Is An Email My Dream Woman, Who I Met On The Online Personals, Sent Me After I Left North Carolina and Never Saw Her Again:
You are pretty easy to remember, your wide jaw (you didn’t really shave your beard right?) your beautifully placed moles, your gnarly eyebrows, silky locks falling on your forehead…so silky…your bright greens that jump from big to small depending on your mood or feeling…sparkling when things hit you a certain way…your mouth…soft and inviting (especially when a frosty beard surrounds it!). My favorite grin, when it turns up on your left.
Your hands! So perfect, very beautiful, the thumb muscle, so lovely to hold and to be felt by…Hip touches my fav…your feet are quite amazing…you are lucky to have 1curled toe other wise the gods would strike you down in jealousy toward your perfect feet.
Your legs…smooth muscled ecstasy…all the way up to your…( talking about the next part seems to much like email sex)…so onward and upward….your hips, whoops…those are a bit to low too…your belly…yes, so hearty, fuzzy, silky, and warm…your chest hair is extravagant…so nice rubbing up against it…back, neck, shoulders, all with that wonderful layer of silky hairs….you are like that coveted bedding I’ve been dreaming of!!!
So you will remember me for my ass…
(Her photo below, well, she gave me a shot…)
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I would remember her for the dear john letter, best ever. Nice to be remembered…
And now I’m curious, where do you keep your beautifully placed moles?
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umm, on my face, a couple inches equidistance on each side of my nose…
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The first time ever I saw your face, I didn’t notice the moles. Sadly, this is why I am probably not Your Dream Woman.
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haha, good one
i guess she was up close for a while, with a good view…Sara Story
Last night I told her that it was time for me to leave, that we’ve gone as far as we could: sleeping together a week, 1000 kisses, 500 hugs, and about 3.5 seconds of sex sans coming. She’s going to pee on a stick today to see if I have some Mighty Sperm indeed.
It seems like a good segue: if I leave manana on New Years I can just arrive back to Mexico in time to see my ex from ten years ago, Maria, who my friends insist I’m still in love with. I’m not but who knows, maybe I just don’t realize it?
I wanted her naked but she refused so I turned my back, sulked some, then made the plan to leave. I turned back to her and told her then asked for one more naked hug.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We won’t have sex, I’m scared of pregnancy too, pregnancy in such a complicated situation.”
We had some delicious naked hugs, then talked for hours, about her plans, her future, and we tried to figure out how she could drop some of her jobs and still make it, feed the kids, pay the rent. I told her I would be going back to Mexico to see Maria. We hugged and kissed–she’s gotten what she wanted, someone who could match her kiss for juicy kiss.
I told her what a beautiful woman she was, inside and out, that I wondered if she knew that, wondered if she realized she was deserving. I really wanted her to climb down and suck me off but she showed no inclination. We can’t have sex, just hug and kiss deliciously: time to go. (Sometimes she tries to jerk me off with saliva on her fingers but I tell her that trick never works.)
In the morning I turned to her and she held me, first in front then in back. It was warm and delicious and I asked, “How can I leave these sweet hugs?” Her legs draped around mine, her hair in my face, her fun bags in my hands.
“How can I leave this warm woman?” I thought, here in the cold Blue Ridge Mountains.
I went down to pee and thought, “I’d like to ask her why she doesn’t give me a blow job when she must know I want it more than anything just now.” I brought my lube back upstairs in case she got any more ideas about the saliva cure to blue balls.
Back in bed she was on me again, our bodies warm and tight against one another. I worked a finger, then hand between her legs and opened up the always warm and wet wonder between them. I rubbed and penetrated with my fingers as we kissed under the covers in the cold Carolina morning. Then wonder of wonders she kissed my neck, then my chest–she was going down! She kissed then took me into her mouth, settled on a good angle and began to suck. Within a minute I was coming exquisitely in her mouth, sighing, moaning, whimpering.
She finished and I lay back, sated. “So that’s my goodbye kiss? Now I really better go.”
We hugged and kissed and I suggested she “finish herself off” as is her wont. She moved her hand down between her legs, I crawled mine onto hers then finger fucked her some. I replaced my hand on her breast with my lips and sucked her pink nipple hard and beyond. I sucked and kissed and licked as she got into her masturbatory groove.
“Its taking awhile,” she said.
“Here, I’ll give you some space,” and I turned my back to her.
Soon her movements became more pronounced and she was rocketing in the bed, riding her fingers into a symphony of moans and sighs. Red faced she finished and relaxed on the bed.
We hugged and kissed some more. “Well I guess you did all the work again, for both of us.”
She bounded out of bed, “I’ve got to take a shower! Pick up the kids!”
“Look! I actually brought up the lube this time. When are you coming back? I’d like to sleep in.”
“Two hours. I have to food shop.”
“Don’t forget to buy the pregnancy stick!”-
You write funny stories that resonate with me, and I chuckle and appreciate the writing, and marvel at your ability to always have your eel maneuvered to be near paradise.
Has it been all you’d wanted? Has it made you a happy man along the way, and a happy old man now? Hope so, and hope there’s been one amidst the ladies you’ve sexed that you loved?
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I’ve always considered Maria the love of my life, couldn’t keep her,
this is the last story about her:Mystery
I hadn’t seen my ex in over fourteen years until we both ended up this week in this little town up in the mountains of Mexico. I had forgotten to pick up my flowers the week before so when I got them they were wilted and drying out. When I stopped by where she was staying there was no answer when I pulled the doorbell rope. I attached the flowers to the bell and went home.
I went down the mountain to Matehuala and when I got back home there was a message saying she had made an apple pie for me. We visited the next day and picked some tasty apples—I was happy to have more organic food. A couple days later she invited me over for tacos, very delicious with pico de gallo. After lunch she told me what she had been waiting years to say.
“I have to tell you that a couple years ago a story was sent to me, anonymously, that I could tell you wrote about us. It really pissed me off. That’s why I wasn’t writing you back sometimes,” she said.
I had written a lengthly account of our trip to the beach sixteen years ago but had no idea how it had gotten out of my computer or house. “So you put it on the internet and now everyone has seen it,” she said.
“I don’t remember doing that,” I said. “It’s a mystery to me.” It was a very honest, uncensored story of two lovers getting to know each other. The title was called “Blowjob Lessons.” A couple years ago after finally transcribing it out of a notebook I’d asked her if she’d like to see it, and injudiciously told her the tentative title. She declined. I was never going to send it out anywhere until I had changed the names, which I never did.
“I have no idea how it got to you. Maybe I was hacked,” I said.
“It was sent to me from Germany,” she said. “I was so embarrassed. I showed some friends and then threw it away.”
“Well, writers are always getting in trouble with friends and families and lovers,” I said. “Everything I wrote was true. I’ll go check my blogs but I don’t remember posting that story anywhere.”
“And what about my art books? Why don’t you give them back to me?” She had made me up a collection of drawings of nude women and sent them to me years ago.”
“I sent you the copies,” I said.
“It’s not the same. Why don’t you give them back?”
“I want them. You gave them to me, they’re souvenirs.”
“And those photos we took.” She mimed tearing them up. “What if my children saw them?”
“No, I save everything,” I said. “All of that is in the bottom file cabinet drawer in my bedroom: your art, photos, letters, and anything to do with you. On top is your address is $40 for postage with instructions to send it all to you at my death.”
“What if I die first?” she said.
I woke up the next day with four or five obsessions, only one of them positive, thinking about this woman I’d recently met and the desire I was feeling for her. The other obsessions were: the mystery of the erotic travel story with my ex; worrying about my mother fresh out of the hospital after brain surgery; the political scene up north with the Supreme Court; and concern about trying to manage my house in Mexico from afar. I concentrated on the ex obsession and tried to figure it out.
#Why would someone hack into my computer?
#How would they find that story?
#How would someone know that was her?
#Why would anyone care?
#Why would they send it to her?
#If they thought she wouldn’t like it why did they send it?
#Where was it sent from? The postmark?
None of this makes any sense. I didn’t post it online. It isn’t online anywhere, I looked for an hour or so. And even if it were posted online, the above questions still apply: Why would anyone care and send it to her?
I actually have a pretty good memory, for example I know I typed up that story (if indeed it is my story) in 2014. I also remember thinking that if I ever shared it I would change the names, which I never did.
Interestingly, or not, the last thing I did the morning I left California was print it off and bring it with me, in case I want to look at it or work on it.
I live an experience, then I live it again writing about it, then I have it to read and live again whenever I want. I like that.
When people say that some things are often not what they seem, I say most things are not what they seem. That could be the case here.
Weird.
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To help unravel the mystery, I have also searched for “Blowjob Lessons” online, and found lots of interesting stuff, but not your article…
What a mystery. I’d go nuts wondering how she got it. Any chance you might’ve sent it (from Germany?) and forgot you sent it? Like, are you a sleepwalker, did you suffer a coma some years ago, are you a heavy drinker? Very strange indeed.
Sure as shit she must’ve loved you, to make an unpoisoned pie and tacos for you after she’d read your “Blowjob Lessons” about her.
No returns, eh… More than anyone else’s writing I regularly read, your stuff always gets me thinking, would I do what Eel did? And that’s a compliment, because reading your stuff really gets me inside your head. Sometimes I would do what you did, sometimes I wouldn’t. Life is like that.
If someone I’d once loved or even liked asked me to return what she’d given me, I wouldn’t do it because I couldn’t. Nothing’s in my bottom drawer or a file cabinet. I don’t have a set of drawers or file cabinet, and don’t do mementos, and even if I did, I’m a slob so everything is promptly lost in the clutter of my room.
Philosophically, though, if I *could* I’d return whatever an ex asked, which of course doesn’t mean you’re wrong not to. What’s given to you is yours, as you say, end of story.
Or if it’s not the end of the story, maybe you want to change the names to protect the innocent and guilty, and run “Blowjob Lessons” here. Unlike when this site was published via Google, there’s zero censorship from WordPress.
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I finally told her I’d send her her art books with all the nudes,
she also made the trans drawings of meI’ll look for BJ Lessons
thanks for your interest
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(I’m going to print and re-read this)
Blowjob Lessons: San Pancho
We blazed out of Guanajuato to the beach; Augustina de Los Angeles put her hands on my cheek and ran her fingers over my face, I rested my hand on her leg and realized I had been feeling the city blahs as I was missing her Total Affectionate Attention. She had been relating to her good friends Jose and Rosea and now I had her back in my little world, my car.
In this beautiful house outside San Pancho we are ostensibly looking for a terrano, piece of land, to build a little beach house; Jose mapped it out for us in Guanajuato: Augustina de Los Angeles will be my front person, my Super Secret Agent who will find me my terrano with her charming tones while I will pose as a gruff Spanish husband chomping on a cigar and grunting a few times in Spanish. Augustina de Los Angeles hates her new assignment, having to be pleasant and make small talk as we try to tap into the San Pancho real estate economy. Jose said that the first time I open my mouth the price doubles, then goes up from there.
We’re back in San Pancho but without her children this time, we got in just after nightfall to Carol’s house; while we were getting the key from the caretaker Fermina, Augustina de Los Angeles was already chatting up the nearby cantina owner, I think she found a piece of land already for ten grand? Or was it a hundred? Not sure if the price was pesos or bucks but Augustina de Los Angeles will find me something with her simpatica personality. In the morning our first day back we hiked four or so miles sans food or coffee after I did my crunch routine; I had promised Augustina de Los Angeles a hike every morning but my legs are sore from pounding Mexican pavement daily these last few weeks and fuck it, I’m on vacation–hiking is work! I’m giving Augustina de Los Angeles the first day off before she gets down to business, oh, she’ll probably find me my land today anyway, you know how that works. Like the night before when we were just going to go to sleep after the long days drive and ended up having some delicious sex; I don’t think I’ve ever done the missionary while also engaging in clitoral stimulation–the orgasms were so nice that maybe we should quit while we’re ahead?
After fish dinner on Carol’s Super Patio I rolled one up and lay on the bed to let the food digest; Augustina de Los Angeles joined me and I gave her another lesson in giving blow jobs. There is a famous nonagenarian named Ruthann Westheimer, Doctor Ruth, who used to say that a woman should treat a penis like an ice cream cone, so here is your lesson for today: You kiss it, lick it, and suck it while stroking the balls, then you kiss and lick the balls too. You put it in your mouth and bob your head up and down the length of it, increasing speed faster and faster. To really make the man happy you let him come in your mouth and its even better if you swallow. Just before climaxing the head will swell up in pre-orgasmic glee, you can bite a little but don’t chew it raw. There is also deep throat when the penis goes all the way back in the mouth–try not to choke on it.
After her little lesson I went down and kissed her ankle, then her leg, then up her leg to her thigh, and then licked her inner thigh. I planted a kiss in the middle of her wet pussy, then licked up the length of it and went to work kissing, licking, and sucking it. She responded with erotic shifts of her hips and i stuck a finger in her while my other hand cupped a breast and fondled a nipple.
She was making sounds of arousal and excitement and tried to pull me up and on to her; I covered her body with my own but my organ was just like a drunken sailor. I rolled off her and asked why she had me stop licking.
“Because then you would have wanted me to give you a blow job!” she said.
“That’s not really true,” I said. “The thing about blow jobs is that you do them because you like to; you just do what feels good. But sure, the more I lick you between your legs the more chance I can maybe get a blow job!”
I told Augustina de Los Angeles that I was going to go out on the patio to smoke; she wrapped her strong thighs around my legs and wouldn’t let me go.
“No! I’m not letting you go,” she said. We grappled a little in bed and talked mopre about blow jobs. She said she had gone back to Real last week and asked her best friend if she knew what a blow job was. “Well,” her friend said. “I wouldn’t recommend it.” These European women don’t seem to be as experienced as the Americans. Once Augustina de Los Angeles said, “Well, if I don’t give you a blow job then you’ll just find an American girl who will?” I just smiled.
Another lesson I had taught her, and I was starting to regret it, was “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” So there we were–she wouldn’t let me out of bed! Finally I did finish what I started. “Now can I go out to the patio?” I asked? “Yes!” she said with a smile; ah yes now I know what Augustina de Los Angeles likes, but I’m really more of a finger man.
Another lazy day by the sea; I guess I just never had the woman to enjoy the beach with before–even Augustina de Los Angeles says this is the first time she hasn’t gotten bored on the second day. We drove to Vallarta and got a shit-load of food–we’re really settling in for the week; oh god the girls at the supermarket, when will I see enough? In the morning we did yoga, crunches, then took a two hour hike up the coast before breakfast; we stopped at a beach where Augustina de Lost Angeles splashed around topless. I’m over the hikes; my legs are sore from weeks of pounding pavement on this trip–I’m used to dirt trails.
Today I start looking for a terrano, Carol’s spot is so perfect it’ll be hard to settle for a lot in town: she really scored five years ago and had built a fantastic little place with all her artistic touches.So off we, or I, go on the Great Tourista Fantasy Land Search. Yesterday I walked around San Pancho, San Francisco, looking at little marginal pieces of land, terranos, sweating in the sultry sunny afternoon, and talking to SoHummers who have bought and built. I ended up at the Gringo Mecca of Costa Azul where we are renting a house for a week. The piece next door may be available or perhaps the owner is playing the Reverse Game: the Great Mexican Fantasy Land Sell-off; okay, I could see myself with a little half acre and a modest beach house. Augustina de Los Angeles had found Don Andres earlier, a drunk who’s disappointed that his children never visit; he has many houses in the neighborhood–my fantasy is an orchard of fruit, maybe four of everything: papaya, banana, mango, orange, and lime trees! Oh, wouldn’t that be a sweet little Gringo Paradise?
Last night after we had a drink with Don Andres and his twenty-two year old girlfriend (she seems a little bored or stupid) I walked two blocks down to the beach and sat on the chairs at The Resort; inside the bar/restaurant the gringos were chatting it up and I thought about inching nearer to hear if the conversations were interesting or relevant. I wandered back from watching the waves crash on the shore to dinner; it and Augustina de Los Angeles looked very delicious. Earlier that afternoon I had given her another lesson in Blow Job 101; she was following all my steps from the previous lesson quite well. I was remembering how the intensity of a blow job orgasm came from the belly and thighs, really the whole body– it had been awhile since Laurel, my pink-nippled lover of 2001, had come back in October for that Goodbye Blow Job. (Augustina de Los Angeles now loves to say “blow job” often, and it sounds very nice when she does, although she’s become rather obsessed with the word.)
I lay on the bed in the vacation afternoon nearing that explosive moment: to enhance the experience I was incorporating a fantasy, thinking about my waitress (who I just looked at as she walked back to the kitchen in this breakfast spot in which I write) Cara Luz, fantasizing about her giving me a BJ, her naked as I ran my hands along her body and felt her between her legs. But just as I was almost super fucking there Augustina de Los Angeles stopped. And she had been such a good student that I gave her a break; the day before when she stopped I had said, “Please suck more!”
(Suckie suckie or fuckie fuckie; that was what the Costa Rican prostitutes had said back in ’84; in that hotel bar there were thirteen whores and twelve potential clients. I had gone on a joy ride to Nicaragua, got over-heated in the jungle, and had to take a taxi out of the country to the Costa Rica capital San Jose)
Augustina de Los Angeles now says she likes to suck the little sailor, yesterday’s lesson involved longevity.”Remember, you shouldn’t start what you cunt finish,” I said. “Now can you please kiss, lick, and mostly suck me for ten or fifteen minutes? If I hadn’t had sex in a week it would only take a few minutes to bring me off.”
“Now I see why they call it a blow job,” she said.
“Why did you stop?” I asked. “Because you were afraid that I would come? You’d get a mouthful of come?” When she had another lesson later in the evening I warned her not to be surprised by a spurting dick, and not to bite in surprise. “Oh, certainly I will bite!” she said.I have found my beach house! It is less than a three minute walk to the beach; you can hear the ocean and there is an ocean view! It is on a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood, everything I could want with room to build up. Yes, well, really Augustina de Los Angeles found it: she made don Andres an apple cake, and when we were just getting back from La Pinita he invited Augustinade Los Angeles down the street to visit his sister. Maria mentioned that she was looking for a place and the sister said she was selling a little house for her sister who lived in Guadalajara; don Andres made a face because the sister had stolen the land from him while he was in the States making and losing his millions.
The sister said the place, the smallest casita in an area of million dollar houses, would be fifty grand and I readily agreed. The next day, as per Mexican fashion, the price was raised to sixty grand, still a great bargain, but by then I was leery of getting between the family squabble and pulled out of the deal.Augustina de Los Angeles now wants to see my list, the sixteen women in the last four years who I have had sex with; its that green notebook, the page in the back where I list ages, what we did, and the relative degree of safety. I count an orgasm as a score: if I cream my jeans fully clothed after some mutual groping that goes on the list. Of course Augustina de Los Angeles sometimes regrets her many questions like when she asked me why I like young women and I told her because the pussy was so wet and juicy.
It was a big day looking all over San Pancho at terranos for sale–I would certainly get bored at the beach without the Great Gringo Land Fantasy search; being a hands on sex education teacher is interesting but now there is a blue balls alert. Lying in bed in the morning I knew that I was really on vacation when my woman brought me home made apple cake and coffee in bed, and then danced some flamenco. That night Augustina de Los Angeles had her first successful blow job and I quizzed her about the new experience, a spurting cock in her face. (As usual I worked the fantasies pretty hard thinking about that teen-age girl I met at the Matehuala plaza and Cara Luz, my waitress for coffee every morning.)
In the afternoon I was reading Augustina de Los Angeles this journal, fully intending to not read the parts about the sexual fantasies but she noticed me skipping over some passages and demanded to hear it all, then left in anger when I duly read her the parts about the Mexican waitresses. I tried to explain that we all (except her apparently) have fantasies during sex, that really I probably couldn’t even orgasm during oral sex sans an accompanying fantasy, that it might be a kind of sexual dysfunction.
“Good,” she said. “That’s just what my husband was praying for.” Then she told me she had decided to move back to Switzerland, giving me just one week more to make her fall in love with me.
Ah yes, this is the life: sitting on the patio in the morning sipping coffee and eating home made apple pie after spending the dawn hours hugging, kissing, and fucking with my Spanish lover. Land fever, the San Pancho dream nightmare died a happy healthy death yesterday when I realized it would not be worth it to buy a marginal piece of property in this tropical paradise. After finally getting a hold of some good strong coffee I did a morning kitchen strip dance for Augustina de Los Angeles to the beat of The Girl From Ipanema, then ate a lot of beans and tortillas to balance out the caffeine overload. Augustina de LosAngeles joined me on the bed for a siesta. As she is having her period I asked her if we could have anal sex, you know, fuck her in the ass?
“First we eat beans and tortillas,” she said. “And then you fuck me in the ass!”
“You just want to have as many new experiences as you can,” I said. She sucked me erect and I pulled her up on her knees and got in position behind her. She resisted a little and said “I want it to be romantic.”
“Augustina,” I said. “There’s nothing romantic about anal sex.” I decided to use a condom but after I put it on I couldn’t go through with it.
“Look at you!” Augustina de Los Angeles said. “You write all that nasty stuff but when its time to do, you don’t. You are such a prude!”
“Listen to yourself,” I said. “You are calling me a prude because I won’t fuck you in the ass?”
“Noooooo,” she said. “I didn’t say that!”
So perhaps I will fuck her in the ass another day, even when her period is over.
Later we were lying in bed, she started to suck me, and I mused aloud about what woman to fantasize about.
“Who shall join us here today Augustina de Los Angeles? How about that little Erica from the hotel in Delores Hildago?” She came up and kissed me as I ran through the Erica fantasy.
“Yes, I am kissing her, taking off her blouse; oh, what nice little titties she has. Mmm I’m sucking her nipples, reaching my fingers between her legs; now she is licking you Augustina.”
“Noooo!” she said.
“Oh yes, and now when I lick you between your legs you can think about Patricio and Pedro, and maybe Jose too; yes, Jose is fucking me in the ass and you are sucking Pedro’s dick as I lick you.”
Later that afternoon she was working away on a blow job and asked me who I was fantasizing about. “No one, “I said. “I don’t have a fantasy.”
“Well, get one!” she said.
I’m sitting in the sand at the 7th hour while Augustina de Los Angeles swims topless out to sea; she is in her element, floating and swimming out to China–a ship steams on the horizon and pelicans dive for fish. “Lets stay another week,” she had said. “Walking the beach every morning; look! The sea is calm now.” She swims in the sea as she has all her life; once she swam out too far and had to be rescued–her father hit her across the face, first time.
I’ll probably end up liking the beach in spite of myself; sharing it with an affectionate vivacious woman who can dance flamenco is quite nice. Its a stoner’s delight: lighting up in the early afternoon on the deck, ruminating about life some (mental masturbation), and then drifting back into the bedroom with Augustina de Los Angeles; I plead self-consciousness but she tries every tact to get me to fuck her.
“Oh, the blood is not so much now,” she says. “You are such a prude!”
The munchies kick in and lo! Augustina de Los Angeles has made another apple cake! Yesterday she called home and her son didn’t even want to leave his video to talk to her, although her daughter did. Augustina de Los Angeles never thinks of home: her children, her husband, her house and her village; she just blissfully enjoys her little San Pancho vacation. But what the hell its time to go home, leave the beach, the waves, and the sand. Time to leave the birds, the sun and the sex: the kissing, the hugging, the licking, the sucking, and ah, the fucking! And the food: the guacamole, the apple pie, the Swiss potatoes, the salsas, the frjoles, the beans, the shrimp, the fish, and the beer! And the lands: the terrenos: to rent, to buy, to steal; the little lots in town with the old grandpa standing by, the huge deserted gringo mansions at Costa Azul, and the jungle parcels up the road which I will never see. The great Mexican fantasy land search and dream of building a crazy little vacation house is over.
I awake on the last morning at the beach to her sweet face, gentle kisses, and warm body. She wants to walk on the beach but she is not yet awake. “Wake me,” she says. I drift a hand along her leg, then up between where she is wet; I move around and am inside her, mounting her for a Super Hug, moving in and out of her. I tell her she gives me everything and I give her everything.
“Well, not quite everything,” she says. Oh yes, I remember, I still have not fucked her asshole a little, perhaps later.
We headed East from the sea and thirty miles away I said, “Oh fuck I forgot!”
“What?” Augustina said.
“I forgot to buy a fucking beach house!”
We drove toward Matehuala on the autopista at 95 miles an hour; after paying the toll to the lady there I often said, “Gracias bonita!” (thanks, pretty one) as I sped away from the booth. On the last toll booth Augustina de Los Angeles was driving; when the man gave her the change I muttered, “Gracias bonita,” but then Augustina said loudly “Guapo!” but she looked back to see my reaction and nearly hit the cement abutment next to the toll booth. He really wasn’t guapo (handsome), Agustina just wanted to play my game; it was hilarious–I’m glad my car wasn’t smashed. (Later that day she gave me a blow job as I was driving 100 mph.)
In Las Palmas Motel that night after making love with Augustina de Los Angeles we were kissing and hugging and she said to me, “I love you Paul.” I asked her to speak to me in Spanish; she said all these sweet words including “chulo” and “prescioso.” I didn’t understand much but I did “touch me.” I put my hand between her legs.
“Ah, you do understand Spanish,” she said. “Will you kiss my pussy one more time?” -
just read it and rather liked it…
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i would like a nice glossy of this one
the only time I ever lied to Augustina was
when she asked if I’d ever fantasied about her daughter
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Haven’t read the “Blowjob Lessons” yet, but I’m sure I’ll learn some skills I’ll never use.
You will notice that I’ve un-approved the photo you attached here. You’ve sent in lots of girlie photos, but this is the first one that made me stop and think. This woman is smiling for a photo as you took the pic, but I’m not sure she’d be smiling if she knew it would go up on some stranger’s blog. So, no.
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Well, I got that photo off the internet 20 years ago, what does that mean?
Reading BJ Lessons makes me want to finally compile my Women/Sex book, why not?
The advantage being I’ve already written it, need to edit and organize, been spending the morning
thinking about it, pretty much what I’ve been posting here, and much more…
Just need a hot pretty muse to inspire me to produce weekly, damn, sad thought: all i got is YOU, but hey…Here’s something I just saw I posted on my Facebook page four years ago, which my prude friends
didn’t approve of…:This woman invited me to ride out the pandemic in her house in Montana.
My response:
“Okay, I’m going on a suicide mission into your arms, rip off your mask and panties, inhale the pesky covids from your mouth, lick them off your belly, then part your legs and cum a fresh batch into you.”-
Well, gosh, that’s a lovely offer. Make me the same promise, and you’re invited to Thanksgiving dinner!
> Well, I got that photo off the internet 20 years ago, what does that mean?
Guess it means you get your photos the same way I get mine, by pillaging the internet. (I never run original pictures, don’ t even know how to transfer images from my phone to the internet.)
I’d assumed, wrongly, that the pictures you send were snapped by you, images of the ladies you write about, and thus my worry was that we were violating some ex-girlfriend’s privacy. But if they’re swiped off the internet, then what the heck, no worries.
Sorry for the misunderstanding and delay; the image is now added.
Still haven’t read your long piece, “Blowjob Lessons,” but I shall! I want to give it more time and attention than I’ve had today, as today’s been a very, very busy day by Doug standards, including SIX CONSECUTIVE HOURS OF SOCIALIZING. I’ll need a week in isolation to recover.
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Well, you’ll probably get a story or two out of all that socializing,
you know, i do peruse your site everyday in search of something new
about your personal experience…
well, you did ask for it, and then you got the BJ Lessons Extravaganza
(people learn to “not encourage him.”)
I’m not above posting photos of real exes or from a date or so here,
figure 10 people who don’t know her read this so what’s the harm?
That photo probably came off Flash Your Rack, and her sweet expression does
kind of point to a sweet moment with her boy, who then got dumped and put
her pick on that site, or maybe she consented, there’s a lot of that around, right…?
(Photo, Mom at 19)
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Writing takes effort, and more and more it’s more effort than I want to exert. So nope, I don’t see any stories in Friday’s breakfast with the family, then visiting my sister at the nursing home, then visiting another friend at the hospital, then sleeping through a long bus ride home.
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when, if, you read it be brutally honest, if you were bored do tell,
i should write a negative review just for fun…
Dateline New York Times: Just when we thought that all the no-talent wanna be Bukowskies
had crawled back into their mother’s vaginas, what should emerge but this repetitive mess called
B—J– Lessons.
To quote noted blogger Holland Douglas, “That’s twenty minutes I’ll never get back.”
Notwithstanding Mr Douglas’s cliche-ridden response, this piece represents the worst of the Sub Stack rejects, furthermore…
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I don’t usually do brutally honest. Maybe my baseline honest is brutal enough, no need for extra brutality.
Anyone who reads what you post here would assume you’re a Dirty Old Man™, nothing but sex and more sex on your mind 24/7. But I think I know better, or at least there’s plausible deniability, because I also read what you write in the AVA, where smut is disallowed.
Sex is never far from my mind, but it often goes hours and hours, even the whole day without nudging out old movies, news, & what’s for lunch.
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Exactly, about the ava vs blowing bubbles……
Yeah, honest is enough…-
Honest is all I got, my entire shtick.
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Okay, well you asked for the BJ lessons story, I dredged it up, and???
(in fairness, you probably weren’t expecting War and Peace, etc…)-
Somewhere I have 2-3 sentences of a comment started but never continued, never completed, never posted about that entry.
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okay, BJ lessons, RIP…adios #54
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