Top-opolis

[Cuckolded_BlK_Male]

Heaven I'm in heaven
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak
And I see you find the happiness I seek
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek ...

 

[rosco rathbone]

Come now fellows. I know you-all enjoy mocking each other, but hasn't the time arrived to smoak the pipe of peace? Think of what we could accomplish as perverts united.

 

[rosco rathbone]

As I sit waiting for the santa jesus festivities to kick off, I am stricken by the harsh skills of Jim Goad, who I had previously written off as a hysterical gonzoite. I don't like to reproduce the works of others wholesale, but this is important. Sampled from the New York Press website:

My Self-Imposed Exile from Pornland

Portland, Oregon. An emerald paradise tucked ’tween snowcapped mountains and roaring ocean. Icy rain and steamin’ coffee. The world’s fattest junkies, hairiest dykes and most passive-aggressive liberals. Plus more strippers, call girls and self-described "sex workers" than any place should rightfully have.

Everything you need to know about the city is distilled in the fact that it has only one daily paper, two free weeklies and three free strip-club magazines.

Those who make their living in the city’s sex industry–an estimated 2000 strippers alone–call the town "Pornland." Legend has it, there are more titty bars here than anywhere on Earth. When I first moved to P-Town nearly 10 years ago, it seemed as if there was a strip bar on each corner. It’s almost as if Rudy Giuliani had used a giant broom to sweep all the sex shops out of 42nd St., and they all landed way out here in Bigfoot Country.

Here on Earth, with the possible exception of Annie Sprinkle’s dungeon, does pornography struggle so boldly to paint itself in redemptive, artistic, community-building, "sex-positive" strokes. Pornland’s porn apologists go one step further than trying to make it respectable. They make it cutting-edge… empowering, even. No other city on Earth more aggressively nurtures the idea that taking off one’s clothes in a dark smoky bar filled with swollen prostates automatically qualifies one as an artist, or at least a "sex worker," rather than a stripper or, Goddess forbid, a whore.

Obviously, taking off your clothes doesn’t make you an artist any more than taking a shit does. Sure, I realize that even a sanitation worker is capable of performing his job with some measure of grace and nobility…but he’s still a trashman. One can pick their nose with a certain degree of finesse, too…but they’re still picking their nose.

If there’s one thing more retarded than pornography, it’s the attempted intellectualization of pornography. Porn is theorized to death up here. Most of the "literature" that attends Portland’s sex industry is glutted with fatuous, transparent, misguided screeds about our "rights" and "free speech" and "pro-sex attitudes," and "educating society," as if leaving a trail of Twat Slime up and down a brass pole was not only the ultimate act of artistic expression, but also of political commentary. Whores magically become goddesses, proving that the only thing more ridiculous than arguing that pornography objectifies women is trying to argue that it doesn’t.

Not to mention the starkly ironic fact that pornography and "sex-positivity" are natural enemies. Pornography actually depends on the partial suppression of sexuality, or nude chicks wouldn’t be so special that people would pay to see them. The most farcical thing about this whole "sex-positive" crusade among sex workers is that if people were truly sex-positive, meaning sexually healthy and functional, the industry would disappear. Fat, flaccid old men with cockeyed toupees wouldn’t be throwing dollars at 18-year-old meth-addicted runaways with snare-drum-tight skin and shaved-bald beavers.

Still, to fend off the fundamentalists and the local DA, this amorphous mass of pimps, hoze and johns that calls itself "the industry" has to justify itself. To survive, it must struggle to appear "classy" in the same way the habitual sinner strains to appear righteous. Therefore, it must pretend it’s something that it isn’t. Flipping through these free strip-club magazines, it’s astonishing how often the word "classy" pops up in the ads for strip clubs, lingerie-modeling emporia (known affectionately as "jack shacks") and call girls. One escort service calls itself "Classy Ass," and if ever two words didn’t belong together, it is these two. But that epitomizes the industry–it sells ass, but with a thick, phony lacquer of "class."

The industry floats atop a fluffy pillow of fantasy. Chief among these fantasies:

The strippers have to pretend they like the johns.

The johns have to pretend the strippers like them, too.

Sorry, but I just can’t pretend. Strippers don’t create anything that lasts. There is no message in their performances besides "Guys like to look at my crotch." And I’m supposed to respect them? To view them as goddesses? As artists? How many of them could draw a stick figure or write a sentence? How many of their brains could burp up one…just one…original idea? Their entire job is to prey upon men’s lonely vulnerability and suck money from their pockets.

You can paint a turd all you want, but you’re still selling gash for cash.

I’m a man of strange tastes. I generally find that there’s nothing less funny than a comedian and nothing less arousing than pornography. .
Porn held a fascination for me when I was 12 and had never seen a live, breathing vagina, but once I actually started having sex, pornography seemed degrading. And not to the girls…to me. Why should I pay for something I can get for free? I’ve never paid a dollar for sex in my life. I’ve never even bought a porno mag.

To me, sex is instantly corrupted when money enters the equation. I’m not sex-negative, but it might be fair to call me cash-negative. As I see it, sex is cheapened and distorted and, most important, rendered dishonest by money. That’s what money does to everything.

I don’t object to porn for prudish reasons, nor would I argue that sex without cash is necessarily uplifting. I hate pornography for overwhelmingly esthetic reasons. I’m not saying it’s immoral. But it is artificial, and that’s much, much worse. It isn’t bad and evil. It’s silly and tacky. Strippers and the men who ogle them shouldn’t feel guilty; they should feel foolish.

By and large, porn is stupid. Bad shitrock and bad haircuts and bad childhoods and bad, bad, bad taste. It’s all a joke, told at its own expense. Pornography is little more than "Reality TV" without clothes.

So I was only 10 days free after a two-and-a-half-year prison stretch for domestic violence against a Portland girl who was more violent than me. .
She was a stripper when I met her.

Before I got out, a friend had told me that ex-cons, no matter how much time they had spent locked down, almost immediately sense upon their release that their prison experience happened a thousand years ago and a million miles away.

He was right. The prison world, so alien to me when I entered it, became instantly foreign again upon my exit.

A writer friend had directed me to a local publisher of a free sex-industry magazine distributed in the billions of nude bars, jack shacks and dildo huts that blemish Portland’s visage like so many Kaposi’s sarcoma dots. There is at least one of these sort of rags in every major city. Their ads-to-editorial ratio is typically, oh, about 90-to-1, and what meager editorial content exists is pure industry-promoting Cool Whip designed to make you patronize the advertisers.

The free Portland sex mag in question was a notch above the competition, mainly because the publisher is a gracious and noble man, and his essential decency somehow leached into the magazine’s pages. He was also a fan of my writing and created a job for me because he knew full-time employment was a condition of my parole. Unfortunately, the editorial situation I inherited was awash with insufferably righteous "sex-positive" folderol cranked out by writers who, if their homeliness was any indication, spent a lot more time writing about sex than actually having it.

The magazine’s office was located on Burnside St., downtown near the river in the sleaziest part of Portland, a three- or four-square-block chunk that is the city’s only remotely urban sector. Homeless alcoholics with snot and blood encrusted in their gray beards. Black whores in stretch pants picking at scabs on their exposed bellies. A jack shack was located on the floor above us, and a nightclub that sometimes featured topless dancers was right below us.

A constant flow of drugs and thong-wearing 18-year-old call girls coursed through the office. Tattooed strippers would excuse themselves in the middle of photo shoots to go hit the meth pipe in the bathroom. And there was so much dried DNA on the backroom couch you could start a new civilization with it.

Despite the steady stream of naked cunt that swirled around me at this job, I had no desire to fuck any of these girls, or, saints preserve us, to shovel down under their makeup and silicone to see if anything human lay beneath it all. The only interesting thing about most of them was that they were fucked up enough to get naked for cash…beyond that, they were as subnormally unexceptional as your average prison convict. Most of them displayed a hatred for men that can only come from constant exposure to how low and desperate and sweaty most men can be when nature has left them no other option but to pay for sex.

Almost all female "sex workers" seemed to hate the men for whom they were paid to preen and smile…and this was never considered "biting the hand that feeds them." The more these miserable shlubs worshipped and idealized the strippers, the more the strippers mocked them. One busy lady who worked as a stripper, jack-shack model and call girl told me in confidence that she enjoys the power she feels over these poor tricks. She enjoyed humiliating them and made no mention that her job might be degrading to her. She thought, like I do, that it’s much more degrading for the tricks.

Who came up with the insane idea that it’s more degrading to be paid for sex than to pay for it?

For all the fuzzy postmodern cunt-positive rhetoric about how hazardous this business is for women, none of these girls ever seemed to face remotely the same sort of legal hassles and prison time that their employers did. Oregon’s legal system tends to overprotect females, even predatory ones. In the two years I worked there, I never saw one girl get busted for prostitution, but their bosses kept getting slapped with one sex-crime charge after the next.

I witnessed one case where a willful, oversexed, violent 16-year-old who wanted to be a "sex worker" so badly that she provided false ID to a jack-shack owner wound up being considered the victim, and the owner, even though he was acting in good faith, went to jail for promoting child prostitution.

So I developed a hearty contempt for all these goddess-artists. I despised the johns, too, but my loathing was tempered with some bemused pity. I didn’t pity the girls. I didn’t see how sex workers were any more exploited than any other worker. And I sure as fuck couldn’t feel sorry for girls who earned in a five-hour shift what I made in a week.

So I’ll be the first to admit that I was inappropriate for the job. The magazine became a Trojan horse inside which I crouched, ready to pillage the industry. I was paid a living wage to bite the whore that fed me. I was allowed an almost unconscionable amount of editorial leeway, and I stretched it every time. It was as if a monkey had taken over the controls and was pushing all the red buttons. Like a tomcat playing with cockroaches, I systematically fired one sex-positive columnist after the next, then made a public mockery of them in the following issue.

I replaced them with writers whose abilities I admired, but I still wound up writing more than half of every issue myself. I called my monthly column "The Industry" and designed a logo for it that featured a toxin-belching smokestack. I ended my first column with a joke:

Q: What were "sex workers" called 30 years ago?

A: Whores.

I’m not sure how Webster’s defines it, but for me, the word "whore" has two meanings:

Someone who trades their sexuality for cash.

Someone who does something they don’t want to do for cash.

I was writing exactly what I wanted to write, so I didn’t consider myself a whore. I couldn’t write about the sex industry with any degree of honest respect, so I relentlessly lampooned it. The magazine’s non-ad content became a weird hybrid of Hustler and The Onion.

Titles of some of my feature articles:

"Adult Films Made by Children"

"What’s With All the Lesbians?"

"Man Uses Photoshop to Give Himself a Bigger Penis–And it WORKS!"

"Ex-Slaves Sue Dominatrix for Reparations"

"Home Breast-Implant Kits"

"Penis Sizes of World Religious Figures"

"Virgin Mary’s Face Appears in Wet Spot"

"A Night at Stinky’s–The Strip Club Where Women Are PAID to Get DRESSED"

"What About Us?–A Support Group Forms to Address the Unique Emotional Needs of Strippers Who Were Never Abused as Children"

"The Herbal Date-Rape Drug"

"Priest Turns Confession Booth into ‘Erotic Lingerie Modeling Booth for Boys’"

I also wrote the story line for a serial comic strip called "Trucker Fags in Denial."

The writers I hired weren’t much kinder to the industry. "I Hate Sex" and "The Cum-Hungry Genius" were columns written by females who routinely took potshots at pimps, johns and hoze. The author of the latter column called one of her monthly installments "Female Castration is Where it’s At."

The magazine created an understandable buzz. People were reading it, but their demographic barely overlapped with those who patronized our sponsors. The readership and the target advertising audience were not the same group and may even have been at odds with each other. People in the industry didn’t know what to make of it all, and most of them, dumb bricks that they are, took it at face value. We received countless phone calls requesting directions to Stinky’s nightclub.

Our competitors tried to use the editorial content against us, wooing advertisers with the notion that these articles, rather than all the jack-shack ads that surrounded them, were unforgivably sleazy.

About six months ago, I hired someone whose pen name was "Office Partridge" to write a column called "Hard Justice." He’s the son of a fairly well-known feminist author, and maybe he’s still rebelling against Mom a little bit. It was less than a month ago that he handed me a column whose lede was, "Strippers are garbage." He continued:

Uh, excuse me, ma’am? Could you get your fucking life out of my way? I’m trying to look up your asshole. Thanks. I can look at the place on your body that shit comes out of. Anytime I want. For a dollar. And you have feelings? I can see your pooper! Is this a joke?

Youch. Truer words were never spoken in the magazine, but the context couldn’t have been less appropriate. "It’s as if we did a magazine with ads for coffee machines," said one of our designers, "and every article was about how much coffee machines suck." I grimaced, knowing the article would cause trouble. Then I ran it.

It caused more trouble than I anticipated. I was unaware that many of these strippers were able to read, but apparently they can. All the whores responded with the sort of outrage peculiar to those who’ve been hurt by the truth, the oddly familiar shock that comes when the obvious is articulated clearly for the first time. If you aren’t really whores…if we didn’t really hit a nerve…if you weren’t really ashamed deep down of what you were doing…then why are you freaking the fuck out?

Fanning the fire, our competitors trotted the article around to our advertisers, who began threatening to pull their ads. Without consulting me, our publisher yanked the offending article from the magazine’s online version, replacing it with a bent-over-backwards apology, now also gone. He wrote that we’d convened an emergency editorial meeting in which the staff expressed shock and dismay that this article, which was supposedly handed in at the last minute, flew in under our radar and somehow got published. He wrote that Officer Partridge would never write for us again. He wrote that we’d never publish anything like it again. He wrote that the next issue would be chock-full of apologies and sundry expressions of our bottomless remorse for ever suggesting that women who trade sex for cash are whores.

There were several problems with what the publisher wrote. First among them was the fact that this "meeting" had never occurred. Another was that the article was handed in way before deadline. By foisting all the blame onto Officer Partridge, the publisher was offering me an easy way out. If I, too, pretended to be shocked and outraged, my job was secure.

But I couldn’t do it. The problem, by and large, was that I agreed with the article. I wouldn’t apologize for all the money in the world.

That’s because I ain’t a ho.

So I quit. .
As I was clearing out my desk, two whores from the jack shack upstairs came down to "confront" me, only to be further outraged when they realized I wouldn’t apologize. No, honey, you aren’t a whore. You stand in a cubicle sticking dildos up your ass for cash while some schmuck watches you and beats off, but you’re not a whore.

The magazine’s staff is still scrambling to repair the damage. They’ve hand-delivered written apologies to all the clubs and jack shacks and have hired three Mexicans armed with box cutters to remove the offending article from all remaining copies. They hired a sex-positive stripper to replace me.

I never got to write that advice column for Islamic sex workers. Nor the feature about "Sharkey’s," the mythical strip club on Oahu’s north end that features nothing but strippers who are victims of shark bites.

Funny–no one said we were "biting the hand that feeds us" when we repeatedly made sport of johns, whose money greases the entire industry. One female columnist routinely wrote fantasies about murdering men who she felt had inappropriately drooled over her. In the same issue as the offending "Hard Justice" column, she gleefully and remorselessly wrote about a real incident where she’d punched some guy so hard she had pieces of his flesh stuck to her hands. And no one was offended by that. Nor did anyone object to the same issue’s "I Hate Sex" column, which was an extended murder fantasy regarding a man who had committed the murder-worthy crime of stealing the author’s panties. Without a hint of irony, both of these articles openly advocated violence toward johns, while "Hard Justice" merely made unflattering comments about strippers.

Such are the dangers of goddess culture–the girls get away with murder, while brimstone rains down upon males who do nothing worse than infer that girls are less than sacred.

It’s all further proof that one can never tell the truth in a medium driven by advertising.

I spent almost as much time in the porn industry as I did in the Big House. It’s been less than a week since I left, but it already feels like 1000 years ago.

Just like prison.


emphasis rosco's

 

[RisiaSkye]

PBW & CBM (and all of you who feel the need to intervene in their ongoing hostilities): I'm only going to say this once, and I'm being nice here, so please don't make me do this again and be a bitch about it--cut the shit.

I don't care who's right, nor how much you hate each other, how much you disagree, or who's supposed to be king of the hill. I haven't edited your posts to each other yet, but in the future, if this kind of behavior continues, I will.

Be well, everyone.
And Merry Christmas & Happy Kwanzaa to those of you who celebrate those holidays.

Best to all,
RS

 

[Pure]

.

 

[Pure]

[sorry, having transmission probs]
.

 

[Pure]

Hi RR,

I wasn't familiar with Goad, and he makes some good points in the excerpt you posted. Nonetheless there's a lot of hate there, and violence elsewhere. It's a fun read, but I don't know if I want to debate the 'war of the sexes' on his terms, e.g., in your excerpt,
How smart is the average stripper?

or in my excerpts below,

"Is it understandable, and even forgiveable if you, avoiding repeated blows ('beating'), occasionally throw a couple punches at your girl friend when she's been really stupid and you just can't take anymore ?

You may say, "That's Pussy, Bitch Goddess of the universe, talking," But is the alternative, the rule of Redneck* King Cock?

(not my choice of terms, but his, in a number of writings about how unduly put-upon and laughed at is the 'redneck' male)

Here's a little background on Goad, some excerpts from his book, and interview material.

I have labelled the various speakers, for clarity. The plaintext is the columnist, John Strausbaugh. The italics are excerpts, selected by Strausbaugh, from Goad's book, _Shit Magnet: One Man’s Miraculous Ability to Absorb the World’s Guilt _(Feral House, 319 pages, $16.95),

Excerpt from John Strausbaugh's column of 8-21-02
"Jim Goad's out of prison, can he stay out?"
(New York Post) [about 30% of the total column, which can be seen at]

http://www.angryharry.com/tgbadman.htm

[John Strausbaugh:]
Misery only loves company for so long. Goad claims that over time Debbie [Goad's wife at that time] drove him to violent rage with her depression, her constant complaining and her lack of intelligence. Addressing her in the book, he writes:

[Goad, in his book,_Shit Magnet_]
You were as dumb as a lobotomized garden slug... Your stubborn imbecility frustrated me to the point of madness. I couldn’t treat you as an equal, and I resented treating you like an inferior. After a while, I felt as if I was taking care of a retarded child...You were possibly the dumbest adult with whom I’ve willingly spent more than five minutes.

And you were definitely the most miserable.

[Strausbaugh:]The first time he hit her, he slapped her. Later, he would punch her, blackening both her eyes.

[Goad, in_ Shit Magnet_:] I cried about that one. It tore me up to see what I’d done to the woman I said I loved. The coily-haired li’l Hebe-girl whom I’d promised never to hurt.

But a few weeks later I shoved you while in the bathroom and you fell against a towel rack, bruising your ribs.

I don’t even remember why I did it...

[Straubaugh:] There were other violent outbursts, forever marking him as a wife-beater. Debbie would later claim the abuse became daily, which he has always strenuously denied.

I [Strausgbaugh] ask him: "Is Jim Goad a wife-beater? And if not, what’s the difference between Jim Goad and a wife-beater?" Prompting this exchange:

JG [Jim Goad]: "Okay, define beating."

JS: "Did Jim Goad regularly beat on his wife?"

JG: "Define beating. The dictionary defines beating as repeated striking."

JS: "There you go."

JG: "Never did that with my wife. Hit her maybe 10 to a dozen times over 10 to a dozen years, and would gladly trade being hit as many times as I hit her with being slogged with her neuroses. And you could hook me up to a lie detector test and see if that’s true. I know what it’s like to be hit–big fucking deal. A lot worse ways to suffer than being hit."

He writes:

[Goad, in _Shit Magnet_:] These weren’t beatings in the sense that I never hit you repeatedly during the same incident. It was just one desperate lunge each time. None of it was premeditated. It was always quick and instinctual.

Four slaps.

Two punches.

One shove.

Three kicks.

Ten years.

And I hate myself for doing it.

And I hate what you did that led up to it.

[Strausbaugh:] And then Debbie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. And Goad started cheating on her with an ANSWER Me! groupie, Anne Ryan. Ryan put out her own misanthropic zines and handed out personal business cards describing herself as a "Psychotic Neo-Nazi Bitch With a Whip." She turned out to be a lot worse than that for Goad. Shit Magnet narrates–from Goad’s point of view, of course–an intense, psycho affair in minute, painful, degraded detail. "Sweet Dracula girl," he calls her. "Fifteen years younger than me and a thousand times more fucked-up."

Goad admits that he hit Ryan first, but claims that as their relationship deteriorated they took to beating each other up pretty regularly. They fought in public, were arrested and released. When she wouldn’t stop fighting and started threatening to kill him, he took out a restraining order against her. He says she continued to cling and "stalk" him anyway. They had their last, savage fight in his car in the hills outside Portland, where he left her by the road.

Because he’d had her in his car, Goad faced tough kidnapping as well as assault charges, potentially topping out at over 25 years. After 7.5 months of pretrial incarceration, during which Ryan and the dying Debbie formed their bond and virtually all the media portrayed Goad as the blackest of woman-beating blackguards, he copped his plea. (Ryan would later do a couple of months on an unrelated assault charge of her own.)

Goad has never expressed a scintilla of remorse. Asked if he’s sorry for beating Ryan, he tells me, "Absolutely not. I enjoyed it."

•••

[Goad, in _Shit Magnet_]Now I know why women have a hole between their legs. That’s where they hide all their problems.

[Strausbaugh: ]But a guy isn’t supposed to hit a woman, I say. "The guy’s not supposed to hit a woman," he counters, "but it’s okay for a guy to hit a weaker guy. I mean, it has nothing to do with physical weakness. Woman are ‘sacred’ [in this society]. This idea that they’re second-class citizens is bullshit. They live longer, they don’t go to jail for the same crimes, they don’t have to go to war. It’s bullshit. They get better bathrooms. Anybody who says women are second-class citizens should go into a male and female public bathroom, and come out and tell me with a straight face that women are second-class citizens."

[Strausbaugh:]Yeah, but you’re still not supposed to hit a woman.

This belief has "nothing to do with Strength v. Weakness," Goad writes, "and everything to do with Man v. Woman."

[Goad, in _Shit Magnet_] If I had assaulted, say, an eight-foot-tall Negro gentleman as many times as Anne attacked me, and the Negro gent finally hauls off and pulverizes me, everyone would think I deserved it, even though the eight-foot Negro is stronger relative to me than I am compared to Anne.

If I had broken the nose of a man smaller and weaker than Anne, would anyone think I deserved life in prison?

[Strausbaugh:] Well, it could be said that a gentleman hits neither a woman nor a smaller guy.

[Goad] "H.L. Mencken said a gentleman is a man who never hits a woman without provocation," Goad replies.

He [Goad] utterly rejects any argument that men are more prone to physical violence than women.

[Goad]
"Every study of family violence that’s ever been done has seen it neck and neck–or women committing more violence than males," he argues. "Does the justice system reflect that? Women do as much damage with a frying pan in their hand, or a knife or a blunt instrument, as any man." The lopsided law "has nothing to do with relative physical strength, and everything to do with female sanctity, and male scumminess, or males being subhuman compared to females, and guys get blamed for it."
[end excerpt]

==========

Comments??

 

[Marquis]

Wow, that was an interesting read!

 

[P. B. Walker]

PBW & CBM (and all of you who feel the need to intervene in their ongoing hostilities): I'm only going to say this once, and I'm being nice here, so please don't make me do this again and be a bitch about it--cut the shit.

I don't care who's right, nor how much you hate each other, how much you disagree, or who's supposed to be king of the hill. I haven't edited your posts to each other yet, but in the future, if this kind of behavior continues, I will.

Be well, everyone.
And Merry Christmas & Happy Kwanzaa to those of you who celebrate those holidays.

Best to all,
RS

That's cool. I'll back off. I suppose having an offensive and racist AV is ok, but posting something offensive and racist isn't. Unfortunately, it's not just his AV that is the problem. I see such AVs all over Lit. It's a pity that there is no quality control in that area. And stepping up to say you find them offensive and racist doesn't seem to matter either, but rather gets your hand slapped.

Anyhoo... message received. Over and out.

PBW

 

[rosco rathbone]

new appointment

PBW & CBM (and all of you who feel the need to intervene in their ongoing hostilities): I'm only going to say this once, and I'm being nice here, so please don't make me do this again and be a bitch about it--cut the shit.

I don't care who's right, nor how much you hate each other, how much you disagree, or who's supposed to be top dog. I haven't edited your posts to each other yet, but in the future, if this kind of behavior continues, I will.

Be well, everyone.
And Merry Christmas & Happy Kwanzaa to those of you who celebrate those holidays.

Best to all,
RS

I was going to appoint Mrs. Rizzasky (sounds like a hairnet lunch lady when you spell it that way) Town Deus Ex Machina but I had a better idea.

As town founder, elder, alderman, mayor, sole owner & proprietor, I appoint you as dogcatcher.

I will put up bail for the cbm, he's unpopular and funny and I like having him around. The pbw's many friends will have to hold a bake sale to raise his walking money.

"He's an appointed official; he couldn't get elected dogcatcher"-Queens Borough President Harvey Weinberg of NYC transportation czar Robert Moses, 1935

 

[Marquis]

Re: new appointment

... Deus Ex Machina ...

Did you ever play the game of similar name? Its one of my favorites.

 

[rosco rathbone]

There's a glorious perversity to the sight of a beautiful young girl blowing a gnarly old buzzard like this. I never liked to see two nice looking people sexing. Always beauty and the beast.

 

[RisiaSkye]

Re: new appointment

I was going to appoint Mrs. Rizzasky (sounds like a hairnet lunch lady when you spell it that way) Town Deus Ex Machina but I had a better idea.

As town founder, elder, alderman, mayor, sole owner & proprietor, I appoint you as dogcatcher.

Fine, but if you ever call me Mrs. again, you'll have to find someone to come up with your bail money, kiddo.

RS

 

[rosco rathbone]

Re: Re: new appointment

Fine, but if you ever call me Mrs. again, you'll have to find someone to come up with your bail money, kiddo.

RS

sigh proof once again that the dogcatcher runs the town.

 

[Cuckolded_BlK_Male]

PBW & CBM (and all of you who feel the need to intervene in their ongoing hostilities): I'm only going to say this once, and I'm being nice here, so please don't make me do this again and be a bitch about it--cut the shit.

I don't care who's right, nor how much you hate each other, how much you disagree, or who's supposed to be king of the hill. I haven't edited your posts to each other yet, but in the future, if this kind of behavior continues, I will.

Be well, everyone.
And Merry Christmas & Happy Kwanzaa to those of you who celebrate those holidays.

Best to all,
RS

Have I ever made mention of the incredible allure of a stern dictatorial woman? *shudder*

 

[rosco rathbone]

new year resolution

Purchase a jelly cock as long as an arm. A jelly horsecock with jelly balls. Beat her with the balls end until she cries like a child. A good cock lashing for a cock angry girl.

Purchase the largest jelly cock money can buy. Use it to administer cock lashings, especially to the face and head region. I have never touched a jelly cock but I imagine that you could beat someone quite savagely and painfully with one without causing too much subskin trauma. Note: marketing jelly cocks as interrogation tools to First World security agencies who need to minimize visible marks of "questioning". Reasearch this.

The "go out and cut me a switch, Laura" tactic would be more humiliating, I think, applied to jelly cocks. If one was kept as a punishment-only tool I could tell her to go and fetch me the jelly cock. Alternatively, I also have a thing about random whippings such as might be done by a bosuns mate with a rope's end on board ship, as the men were holystoning the decks. Passing through their number striking laggards. To carry a jelly cock for this purpose around the house. "Didn't I tell you to wipe the Venetian blinds today?" *whack*

The wobbly whack of a jelly cock. "He stood over her prostrate form, striking her again and again with a jelly cock, face apopleptic with rage", like Simon LeGree beating a recalcitrant runaway. The ridiculousness of a jelly cock would make a fine counterpoint to the undoubted pain it would cause. Humiliation of it all.

Backhanding someone in the face with a jelly cock. Has the especially humiliating nature of the backhand strike ever been discussed? It is far harder to hit someone backhandedly because the windup "telegraphs" the intention to strike; as they say in the arts. Furthermore, the backhand is far less efficient and powerful, biomechanically speaking. It is manifestly a method for striking cringing subordinates; or those who are immobilized such as Resistance fighters tied to chairs in a Gestapo cell.The unspoken message of the backhand strike is "you will accept this token of my contempt, you are not even worthy of a real blow such as I might strike a dangerous enemy". Yes, that's it precisely: it is the most contemptuous of blows.

Another painful and humiliating blow: open-hand slap to the back, or the back of side, of head. This one betokens exasperation to me. It's the way boys hit other, weaker boys. I had a fantasy about this one:

She's doing something at the counter. I approach from behind. She's wearing baggy shorts and a sweatshirt with a cute elf hood. I can see her pink thong pantie riding up above her waistline. I want to fuck her right there, from behind, but I want her to pull her own shorts and panties down; to hook her thumbs in the waistband and slowly present her ass to me for my use. She's busy and she also just hates being told what to do; says she's no trained monkey. Tries to turn towards me to kiss me and avoid having to present herself. I grab the elf hood and give her neck a good shake, using it as a noose. Exasperation overcomes me and I whack her in the back of the head with a hard open slap; where her hair is short and blonde and bristly like a boy's. It rasps my hand with a soft rasp. She tries to turn and duck but I hold her there with the hood and whack her twice more. I tell her to put her hands on the counter or I am going to get out the jelly cock and beat the fuck out of her with it. The back of her boy head is red under the short hair. The fantasy could go various ways from here.

 

[Marquis]

That was brilliant Rosco.

Also, what is your AV of?

 

[rosco rathbone]

That was brilliant Rosco.

Also, what is your AV of?

Thank you sir. My "av" or pic as I prefer to call it, is of some fool yuice hipped me to named I think "Master Steven", an internet persona in the world of online dominates and u boat missions. He has sites, toys, and such. I just liked the picture because it said everything to me about gnarly old fucks and young skanks in slings. Yuice tells me the guy is a total poseur and that his cock is probably not even out of his jumpsuit. I like to imagine that it is though; buzzard city.

 

[P. B. Walker]

Re: Re: new appointment

Fine, but if you ever call me Mrs. again, you'll have to find someone to come up with your bail money, kiddo.

RS

no Mrs? aren't you married? or am I missing something as usual? LOL

PBW

 

[rosco rathbone]

Re: Re: Re: new appointment

no Mrs? aren't you married? or am I missing something as usual? LOL

PBW

I thought she was married; that's why I Mrs'd her.

 

[RisiaSkye]

Re: Re: Re: Re: new appointment

I thought she was married; that's why I Mrs'd her.

Yes, I'm married.
Not to myself, though. Mrs. Skye would be, presumably, my wife.

Besides which, I don't use Mrs. Never have, never will.

Sincerely,
The Dogcatcher

 

[rosco rathbone]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: new appointment

Yes, I'm married.
Not to myself, though. Mrs. Skye would be, presumably, my wife.

Besides which, I don't use Mrs. Never have, never will.

Sincerely,
The Dogcatcher

As mayor I don't like to fetch coffee for my sub ordinates but OK, blankey blank rizzasky, what form of address do you prefer?

 

[P. B. Walker]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: new appointment

Yes, I'm married.
Not to myself, though. Mrs. Skye would be, presumably, my wife.

Besides which, I don't use Mrs. Never have, never will.

Sincerely,
The Dogcatcher

I'm lost. why is Mrs. Skye your wife? What would Mr. Skye be? Your hubby I assume. So why is Mrs. Skye not you? I think I am assuming that "Skye" is the last name for both you and your hubby. anyhoo... maybe this is some new fangled way of addressing people

PBW "Back to being lost"

 

[RisiaSkye]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: new appointment

As mayor I don't like to fetch coffee for my sub ordinates but OK, blankey blank rizzasky, what form of address do you prefer?

Risia or RS will be just fine, thank you.

And PBW--as hubby's name (here) is MasterMe, one would have to refer to me as Mrs. Me in order for it to make logical sense that one referred to the wife of Mr. M. Me. N'est-ce pas?

My, who would have thought there'd be so many posts devoted to this issue. Must be a slow news weekend, eh?

Best to all,
RS

 

[Ebonyfire]

Re: Re: Re: new appointment

no Mrs? aren't you married? or am I missing something as usual? LOL

PBW

PBW, not all married women are chomping at the bit to change their name. sheesh.

Eb