Lately, I am at my most angry while waiting in line. Not because every establishment is understaffed, making the wait a bit longer. It’s because I’m always stuck behind an ass belch like you. Unfortunately, many places – courthouses and banks, for example – are guarded by balding men with guns. Even I dare not whip out a cudgel in the presence of such capable warriors. But it’s not hard to find out where you live, beef dangle, so stop pissing me off.

When the fuck did knowing someone who’s stupid enough to get caught become a topic of interest? If you’re reloading a penal calling card or sending money so your baby-daddy can get the precious USA Golds that will keep his asshole relatively virginal, shut the fuck up about it. Do your business quietly and get out of the way. Don’t ask the clerk if he knows how the program works, wax ignorantly about the unfairness of the justice system, or complain that your new boyfriend doesn’t want to put his name on Mr. Crackhead’s fetus when it finally emerges. Nobody gives a rat’s ass how trashy your life is. Go back to your gutter where no one has to look at you.

And how hard is it to take your ID out of your wallet? If that clear sleeve is too tight, don’t put the card there, fucksteak. You are completely unremarkable. Unless you have a distinctive facial tattoo, the teller will not remember you. And even if your odor is infamous, she still has to see your license. Pull it out and hand it to her. Don’t bitch about how inconvenient it is or demand to know what features have to be confirmed. And if you do somehow convince her to accept a dirty, half-hidden card with major damage, remember that I’m right behind you. I’m going to follow you to the parking lot, beat the shit out of you, take your paycheck, come back in and cash it with my ID. And guess what? She won’t check, just like you wanted. Asshole.

I’m a great supporter of public cell phone use. I have to keep the 1-900 girls in my ear at all times to drown out the chatter of the cow cunts around me. Otherwise, I’d get blood on my brand new blouse. (Six bucks at Ross, by the way.) But if I hear you above the moaning, you’re fair game. I don’t want to listen to you arguing with the married guy you’ve been spreading for because he doesn’t want to marry you. Newsflash. You’re not worth the cost of the cubic zirconia. I also don’t want to hear about how little Billy needs a bone marrow transplant or the great new church that’s opening where the university used to be. Muffle your cum sucker long enough to make your transaction and get the fuck out. If I remove and gently fold my new cotton-blend treasure, you’re already dead.

Basic manners and a sense of pride – and shame – should already be instilled by the time you reach adulthood. Children should be given a yearlong test when they reach puberty. If you can’t say something nice, or nothing at all, we cut out your voice box and give you a little notepad. If you can’t keep your fluids to yourself, you’re gently guided into the Castrotronic 5000. On the other end, eunuchs and potted meat products emerge.  If you can’t stand single-file and keep from being a flaming douchebag for fifteen minutes, you fail life and get to fucking die.

McUptown Girl

By Ashley Scrace

Following frightening consequences from other fat, greasy entities – the 1,600 pound Carol Yager springs to mind – McDonalds has decided it needs to shake up its image and go uptown.

Venturing to McDonalds is a hateful chore. The burgers are like roof-tiles; the chips are like twigs; the staff are arrogant and the decor is just awful.

Yet my most recent visit proved shocking and amazing, for it seems McDonalds had changed.

It was a warm evening, the temperature resting in the mid-teens, with the sun slowly burning in the west, sinking down behind the green hills of the South Downs, throwing an emerald haze across the simmering sky, casting lurid shadows across the ground.

A fine evening for a glass of Red Wine and pasta, it would seem. But the recession has forced otherwise, so to McDonalds it is.

I parked up, got out of the car and walked towards the establishment.

Carefully opening the door, avoiding the grease drenched handle, the sour repugnant smell of microwaved codswallop smacked me right in the face.

So no change so far.

I approached the counter, knowing full well what I wanted. I usually try and decide before I get there on principle – I simply hate the area in front of the counter where everyone stands around gawping up at the menus, frantically deciding what to eat.

“A Big Mac, please”, I said.

I reached into my pocket and was ready to hand over the money when the girl (allegedly so, only through my observations) behind the counter looked at me with disdain, her eyes piercing my very soul.

“Sorry mate but you’ll be better going through the Drive-Thru. I’ve had an accident.”

She stopped abruptly. Nothing. I said nothing – a sort of understanding silence. I did not want to question the accident; I did not want to hear of possible involuntary bladder movements.

It was as I was walking out I noticed the difference in the place. It had been redecorated. No longer were there red and white seats, with stupid veneered plywood tables. Instead there were sofas, hardwood sideboards, metal chairs, chrome strips and a clean tiled floor.

This was amazing. McDonalds looked smart. You can’t polish a turd, or so it is said, but this was rather shiny at least.

I turned round towards the counter. I looked for the girl. It must have looked pathetic, turning around in a similar way to a dog looking to its master for appreciation.

I don’t know what I expected to gain from this gesture, but never mind.

Taking the advice of my master, I went back to the car.

Going through the motion of clicking the keys through their various positions, I still thought of the Big Mac.

The car revved into life. Into first. Clutch up, gas down. We’re away.

Off to the ‘Drive-Thru’ – almost literally.

Speeding round the narrow lane designated for the on-the-go types, I almost crashed into McDonalds due to manic confusion.

Usually there is a little window where you stop and politely ask for a Big Mac. This time there was no such stage.

I could see what was ‘step three’: collect your order. ‘Step one’ must be decide what you want, so I’d seemingly missed out ‘step two’: place your order. Everything went a bit Travelling Wilbury’s baffling for a moment until I realised I’d overshot it. So let’s go round again.

Slower this time, eyes peeled for the window, I still missed where you ordered your food – as did the four or five cars behind me. It was beginning to turn into the 2005 American Grand Prix, dubbed ‘Indygate’ ever since – six cars aimlessly ambling around a mundane circuit.

Finally I found the problem: there was no window. Instead technology had usurped humanity.   

The ‘Drive-Thru’ (spelling not a forte of the McDonalds management) has always been very much human run in the sense that there is a person in his/her own little window who takes your order, another person who steals your money, and a final person who spits in your food.

This whole process of human interaction has been cut recently in favour of the cheaper and (supposedly) more effective method of talking into a microphone implanted into a solid metal pillar. You talk. Someone talks back. All very clever.

Whether this development actually benefits the whole ordering process though is another matter. Sure it is simple and takes out one stage in the interactive ordering process. However, it is somewhat disturbing to think that someone has lost their job to a microphone and a warm, clammy headset.

This type of Americanisation in the fast-food sector is new to us. I guess we British just like talking more than most. Look at the reluctance to install fast broadband – it’s deemed much easier and quicker to just go and talk to the person concerned.

And look at the shying away from fast rail links – again, walking and talking is quicker in the event of an urgent business meeting.

Anyway, eventually finding the pillar, I stopped to be greeted by a droning employee, not talking but merely dribbling the words from his droopy mouth.

“Ca’ I tak ya order pleez?” he asked.

“Yes, you can. A Big Mac. Actually, a Big Mac meal. Push the boat out.” I chuckled a little.

I don’t know why I feel the need to comment on everything I say and then let out a little laugh after. It happens every time I ask for something. Embarrassment I suspect. Or just a worrying high level of suicidal tendency, so high that I need reassurance in what I have just said.

The process was now simple: pay and collect. I did so.

My efforts had produced the most unhealthy, vile creation known to man: a Big Mac meal.

It was horrid.

But my trip to McDonalds was still worthwhile.

It is nice to see that the downmarket establishment-slash-global-rip-off-corporation has tried to improve its image.

But it’s a bit of a token effort really.

A trip to McDonalds is, ultimately, for the food. No matter what your opinion of the food, to buy food is the aim of a trip there. Yet although the facelift may seem all well and good, don’t be fooled by cosmetics – nothing has changed.

So it could be true. Maybe you can’t polish a turd.

Or maybe you can. What’s in a Big Mac these days?

Oh dear…

Well I am very clever.

This pointless entry is being made using the wordpress app for iPhone penis extension series. It’s all very fancy. Right now I’m falling asleep and am therefore just writing stuff. Talking of stuff, isn’t that a trendy comic? Like nuts but aimed for for people who toss over themselves owning the latest satnav, rather than than the wayhay! Brigade wanking over pictures of michelle marsh.

Well I prefer to read viz. It’s a much more sensible read and Roger Mellie is my hero. I would love to be him for a day, I imagine it’d be more awesome than seeing every northern rail board member getting locked on one of their shitbox trains and being taken on every fucking journey in there network, being made to stand whilst doing it- and charging the fuckers £80 a day for the pleasure. The lords of northern rail really are shit at their ‘job’.

This shit better add.

Lost the horizon,

Was it this draw or that?

Is it wrong to wish for

a horizon that’s flat?

Thats free from these mountains

That rip at my limbs

Thats free just to let me

Easily win.

Just me and my books and a thumbed deck of cards,

And accomplishments captured and arranged all in jars

And maybe a hammock, where I can sit back and tell

Of the battles and trials, the taste touch and smell

Does there always have to be another horizon,

Can’t i stay static

And still for a while?

Everywhere you look you’ll find some form of rating of a product or thing, sometimes this rating will be out of 5 other times 10, all the way up to 100. Obviously each one varies the degree of accuracy that the person (or persons) deem necessary. I personally use 10 when I give my opinion on something and always have done. The problem is I’m not the easiest to please and so when something new comes out, example a film, I’ll straight away form an opinion based on who’s in it, who directed it, and what I can deduce from the trailer I’ve just seen… and often that opinion is the film is crap. This forms the basis of a long running thing between me and my bro, because I say practically everything is crap, he’s flipped anything above crap (that could mean average) as being a compliment/a good thing.

But here is what I mean with my scale of fail/win;
10 – Excellent: Faultless, any complaints are normally nit-picking.
9 – Great: Almost faultless, a very small amount of tweaking and it’ll be excellent.
8 – Very Good: Needs tweaking, but it’s not far away from being something special.
7 – Decent: Good film, has a fair few flaws though.
6 – Above Average: It’s ok, nothing special.
5 – Average : It’s all a bit bland, too many faults but enough to keep it floating.
4 – Below Average: Nothing of worth.
3 – Poor: A lot of flaws, probably only worth watching if there’s literally nothing else on.
2 – Bad: Laughably bad.
1 – Crap: Makes you want to self-harm, it’s that bad.

The thing about my scale of fail/win is that there are a two groups that are tight together. That’s what the colours are there for (black is yellow, it’s just that yellow doesn’t show up well on white), to show how it all lines up. One group (4/5/6) is a very tight group with very little difference, anything that falls in here is balancing on a knife edge. You’ll notice that the scale is skewed also, this brings in the second  tight group (7/8/9), if something falls on the positive size of the line, the chances are it’ll fall into this group. But the differences aren’t so clear cut in here. What is clear cut is either end of the scale, you can tell a crap/excellent film straight away for example. But it’s also easy to determine how bad a film is too, which is why the negative side is better defined.

When the latest Star Trek movie came out I wasn’t impressed by what I saw in the trailers, I thought at best the film would be average. There was plenty suggested in the trailers why it wouldn’t be a great film, and certainly not worth the hype it got. My bro was the opposite he thought it looked great, and so after watching it he said it was brilliant and well worth the hype it got.

On Saturday my bro stuck the DVD in because there was nothing else on TV that night. Watching with my usual open mind, and it was clear as the film ran on that my pre-determined assumption was correct. It wasn’t average, but it wasn’t crap either, it was simply poor (3/10 then). Some of the notes on why;

1. For a two hour film, about an hour was filler and could’ve been cut from it, which would’ve probably made for a better film. My bro said that they actually cut a fair amount from the film, maybe they should’ve swapped out the filler for that.
2. For a two hour film that tries to build itself up for a spectacular ending, it actually ends with a pop rather than explosion.
3. The soundtrack seemed without the pomp of the “normal” Star Trek, it was a bit wimpy.
4. There was an annoying obsession with lens flair, it was everywhere. Clearly for the easily pleased. As to were needless tilted camera moments, to go with the parts seemingly lifted straight from the rather pants Battlestar Gallactica series (shaky camera et al).
5. Scotty, despite being a pretty big part in the original series, had a tiny bit part in this reboot… and yet this is where a lot of the hype for the film came from over here, because Simon Pegg played him, and the British press love a British actor in big hollywood films.
6. The whole enemy bits were pathetic, and also seemed to have a small part to play in the film. What’s the point of having the bad guys when their total appearance in the film probably equates to 10-15 minutes of the 2 hours (it was actually 127 minutes, so a little over two hours).
7. They must have blown their budget on sets and rendering of planets, because some of the special effects were a bit naff. I point you in the direction of the parachute jump as one example (the monsters as another, etc.).

The hype was no way deserved, and was only there because it was a reboot of a series with new actors (some are apparently going to be big stars), it had a $150m budget, and JJ Abrams is seen as some kind of god by critics because of Lost (a rather poor TV show too). This film has a 95% rating on RottenTomatoes.com (just used as an example, I’m not a fan of aggregate sites, they generally get it wrong because input errors, and people are idiots), that’s almost as good as Silence of the Lambs, Schindler’s List, 2001: A Space Odyssey, it’s only just behind The Godfather which holds a 100% rating. Those are drama films this is an action film, but even then it’s just behind Terminator 2 (98%), in front of Die Hard (94%), The Matrix (86%), and Robocop (88%). Boy are people easily pleased.

Two funny things to point out. In reality Kirk as a kid would’ve slid off the cliff  to his death in the beginning thus reducing the film to a few minutes. New Spock shipping Kirk to the ice planet/moon effectively spells death for Kirk (as he would not have been able to climb out of the hole he’s stuck in without equipment) unless he’s magically rescued, and also would’ve probably meant the end of the Federation as the bad guys would’ve made easy pickings wiping out planets and ships one by one (including the Enterprise).

Enough about this, I’ve got other things to do.

10 Nov 2009 Caroline Cartwright, 48, claims that she is unable to stop the loud shouting and screaming she makes during lovemaking with her husband Steve.

After neighbours, the local postman and a woman taking her child to school complained about the noise, the Cartwrights were given a noise abatement notice.

However, when Mrs Cartwright was convicted of breaching the notice, magistrates made her subject of an anti-social behaviour order as well.

She appealed against her conviction for breaching the noise abatement notice and the making of the Asbo, which bans the couple from ‘’shouting, screaming or vocalisation at such a level as to be a statutory nuisance”.

Jobless Mrs Cartwright used Article 8 of the Human Rights Act to argue she had a right to ”respect for her private and family life”.

She also claimed that she could not help making the loud noise during sex with her husband.

The hearing at Newcastle Crown Court heard that the Cartwrights’ nightly sex sessions at their home in Hall Road, Concord, Washington, Tyne and Wear, were making their neighbours lives’ hell.

Their lovemaking was described as ”murder” and ”unnatural” and drowned out their neighbours’ televisions.

Neighbours said the Cartwrights’ sex sessions would usually start around midnight and last for two or three hours, every night of the week, the court heard.

Specialist equipment installed in a neighbour’s flat by Sunderland City Council recorded noise levels of between 30 to 40 decibels, with the highest being 47 decibels.

Giving evidence, Mrs Cartwright said she was unable to control the noise she made during sex.

”I did not understand why people asked me to be quiet because to me it is normal. I didn’t understand where they were coming from,” she said.

”I have tried to minimise the situation by having sex in the morning – not at night – so the noise was not waking anybody.

”I may be sympathetic to it but it is not something I am doing on purpose.”

On Tuesday, a judge at Newcastle Crown Court upheld the original conviction and ordered that the Asbo should stay.

Recorder Jeremy Freedman, sitting with two magistrates, rejected Mrs Cartwright’s claim that she could not help making the loud noise during sex and that her human rights were breached.

”We are in no doubt whatsoever about the level of noise that can be heard in neighbouring properties, in the street and in the back lane,” he said.

”It certainly was intrusive and constituted a statutory nuisance. It was clearly of a very disturbing nature and it was also compounded by the duration – this was not a one-off, it went on for hours at a time.

”It is further compounded by the frequency of the episode, virtually every night.”

Mr Freedman went on: ”We are satisfied for whatever reason, to enjoy the sexual experience or attention seeking, we are satisfied it was not involuntary.

”Even if we were persuaded that this was involuntary we would not find that the making of the abatement notice or the breach of that in some way infringed the appellant’s rights under the Human Rights Act.”

He added: ”We do not find there is any infringement of her human rights in any shape or form.”

The judge ordered that the punishment imposed by Sunderland magistrates for breaching the noise abatement notice – a fine of £200, costs of £300, a £15 surcharge and the Asbo – should remain.

He also ordered that Mrs Cartwright, who is now living in a bail hostel in Sunderland, should pay £200 costs towards the appeal hearing.

After the conclusion of the appeal, a plea and case management hearing was held where Mrs Cartwright denied three charges of breaching the sex Asbo.

A trial date was set in December and she was released on bail.

06 Nov 2009 Commuters at West Ham station were shocked on Thursday night when, instead of the usual messages about delays, the sounds of a couple having sexual intercourse was broadcast over the tannoy

Passengers at West Ham station in east London heard a couple’s lovemaking antics being relayed over platform loudspeakers during the evening rush hour on Thursday.

“The noises heard by passengers were not from within our station. We believe they were a result of some sort of interference with our public address system,” a spokesman for Transport for London said on Friday. “It certainly wasn’t coming from our staff.”

He said the station’s public address system worked on radio waves and somebody must have been broadcasting on the same wavelength. He said staff had turned off the loudspeakers as soon as they realised what was going on.

But passengers had different interpretations.

“It was definitely a couple doing it there and then,” Laura O’Connor told the London Evening Standard newspaper. “He was grunting loudly and she sounded like she was having a great time. The driver must have heard it, too, as the doors stayed open longer than usual.”

Whatever happened to proper kid’s parties?

My daughter went to one of those fun-play-activity-factory-pubs this weekend for the birthday party of a school friend.  What a nightmare.  No drinks for the kids, not even water whilst they were playing, not enough food, plates or chairs for even the attendees of the party (my daughter had to sit on her mum’s lap away from the main party table).  Then they fetched out a plate of buns for the children (there were 50+ children at the party) on which were 25-30 buns.  What a disgrace!  In fact, the choice of words for some of these places (‘factory’) is quite apt, a happy child goes in, gets ‘processed’ for a couple of hours and comes out with a sense of “was that it?”.  Shame on these places, and to some extent, shame on the parents of the birthday boy too.

Will these parties ever be remembered?  Doubt it?

Will these fun-play-activity-factory-pubs stop purporting to host birthday parties?  Oh I do hope so.

I got rained on today. Soaked to the skin. And as I made the grim trudge to university, with all the water in the entire world converging on my freshly-washed linen shirt, I thought…why? Why is this still allowed to happen?

Humans have been rained on for their whole 200,000 year lifespan. It’s not a pleasurable experience, nor is it beneficial, and it took far too long for someone to do anything about it. 196,000 years, give or take. Still, I think everyone would agree, the umbrella was a step in the right direction.

But it hasn’t been a ’step’ at all. Four thousand years later and still the only answer we have to a monsoon is a flimsy piece of fabric held on a thin metal scaffold.

Next year is the first ever where we can legitimately use the prefix ‘twenty.’ It’s gonna be twenty-ten. That’s the goddamn future. But where’re the rocket-cars and nuclear jetpacks? If I look out the window and see rain, I should be able to push the button on my belt mounted bioplasmic energy shield without a second thought. What a jip.

Science has its priorities all wrong. Cure for cancer? Who cares? What’s the point of living a few years longer if you have to spend half of them wet and miserable.

...or indeed running

I haven’t run or cycled since doing the half marathon a few weeks ago. I can’t. I physically cannot run. And the chiropractor has banned me from cycling for the foreseeable. Until my wonky pelvis and feet are sorted, which may, nay inevitably will take some time…

As far as I understand it, I have a wonky pelvis and a left collapsed arch. This is causing all sorts of bother and discomfort.  So I’m seeing a chiropractor, which is just about bankrupting me – and have been advised it’s imperative I get referred to a sports podiatrist so I can have some proper orthotics made.  I will be interested to see how my GP responds to this request; my last GP obviously thought of running as some sort of luxurious commodity; the “medical” advice he gave was ’stop running then‘. Akin to a mechanic telling you to stop driving your car, if the steering starts acting up. Or perhaps refrain from eating if all food makes you barf. If it hurts your eyes to read, stop reading. I wasn’t surprised at this approach; on asking for help previously with severe hayfever, I was advised to “buy a car, like a BMW or a Mercedes; one that has good pollen filters” and that was it. I now have a different GP.

It’s weird not physically being capable of running; I was forced into an exaggerated gait yesterday to avoid being run over (what would have previously been a quick jog across the road) and I was in pain for hours afterwards. 4 metres across the road. That was all.

So no running or cycling. I don’t think people quite understand how difficult this is; partly I have been relying on my bike to commute at least twice a week and therefore cut my weekly expenditure. Not just that, but now I turn up to work sleepy, grumpy and clumsy – albeit with tidy hair. When I cycle, I arrive alert, happy and energized; the only grump related to Bloody Stupid Motorists. And I have sweaty bike-helmet hair (but I don’t care).

Without running, I have no reason to catapult out of bed, no opportunity to listen to random playlists  on my ipod and no excuse to wear lycra. The result is I have been quite low. I stay in bed until the need to go to work and/or use the loo is too urgent.

My chiropractor suggested I powerwalk, but this is too uncomfortable and I will feel like an utter pillock. At least when running and the feral chav kids shout abuse you are out of earshot pretty quickly; there is always the option of running away.

I haven’t been blogging due to this lethargy. I knew if I was let loose on a keyboard then this is what would happen – a general moan and feel-sorry-for-myself-fest which I can’t imagine anyone is going to feel good about reading. So I will stop now. And I probably won’t be writing again until I’m fixed.

I told you in my last posts about my first cuckolding experience and gave you a bit of back story to how my relationship evolved into a cuckolding one. I should have also mentioned that my teacher was also in a relationship(he told me they were not serious when they were away from each other, but serious when in the same area), and already knew that I was in a relationship(but not a cuckolding one, though I told him my man didn’t mind). This time I will tell you a bit more about my relationship that formed with my teacher.

So after that first incident we started hanging out a bit more, I moved out of my sharehouse and ended up having to move north again with my mother – 3 hours away from my teacher and my classes! So he let me stay with him while I had no home, we shared the same bedroom and same bed even. I can’t remember how things went after then, but we were kissing a lot and hands were wandering under each others clothes.

More clothes came off and he started to play with my pussy, rubbing my clit and getting my pussy nice and wet before slipping his fingers in and out of me. He slipped his boxers down and rolled on a condom, this time, to my glee, he pushed his hard cock into my tight wet waiting pussy. I was so happy at that moment, as last time there was no penetration, I prefer penetration. He moaned and told me how tight I was, panting as he thrust in and out of me, fucking me hard and fast, cupping my breasts and I cummed over his hard dick just before he came. I loved that I got fucked.

Afterwards we just watched TV and went to bed. So things carried on that way for a while and then eventually the “L” word came into it, he fell for me and I got caught up in the way he treated me. He treated me like a princess all the time, the way my cuck made me feel important when we first started dating, but teacher made me feel this way every day. I couldn’t believe it because I never thought I would love another man, especially not while I was with my boyfriend! My cuck was not surprised as he believed I could.

Everything was peachy and rosy until I found and moved into my own house, with my cuck! Then what happened? Find out next time… Comments?

Please vote in the poll in my sidebar.

XOX

How is it Thursday again, almost Friday because it’s perilously close to midnight, and I haven’t posted for a week? Where does the time go?? Yargs.

(I have decided that that is probably my new favourite word. It sums up nicely my sense of exhaustion, frustration, and complete lack of will to do the dishes. Again.)

Anyway, just a quick moan and then I’m off to wash cutlery so we can eat breakfast. Joy and rapture, in equal unparalleled measure.

Good night.

(After I’ve done the dishes, obviously.)

((Yargs.))

As per request of CuckyD I am going to tell the tale of my first experience of cuckolding. I haven’t had much experience so there is not much to tell at this point, for now I am focusing on getting the fantasies part down and getting into the right mind frame before I consider being with another man again. So here goes the story…

It was about a year ago, I was studying at uni in my 2nd year and living in a sharehouse. My flatmates were nice enough, one male, one female, though all flatmates drive me nuts(which is why I now live alone). I had a young lecturer who had just graduated and was currently studying his PhD. He was very funny and easy to understand, a lot of the people in the class added him to facebook, as did I. Then he added me on MSN and we chatted every now and then about regular stuff, hey how’s it going and so on. I didn’t think anything of him.

Then one night both of my flatmates had a parent over, the television was in use due to footy(which i HATE!) and I was stuck in my room because the other parent was organising a party with her daughter for her husband. Needless to say I was bored and wanted to get away, desperately! I talked with my teacher some more online, he was doing the sound engineering for the classical music society monthly concert held at university(I love classical music). We were joking around and he invited me to come out to him, so I did. The music was great, we didn’t talk much because of the concert. Then afterwards we went out to a bar, I left my car at his house because I couldn’t drive after drinking, so we had a few drinks, met up with some of his old friends, then went back to his house.

We talked for a bit at his house then he dropped me off at my house, leaving my car there to pick up when I was sober. He tried to kiss me but I turned my cheek to him, and he didn’t persist. After that it took me a while to try and open the door with a key while drunk, so I decided to come in the back door.

The next day I went and picked up my car, chatted some more, and he demanded a hug as I left. Since then we chatted a lot online, he was flirting pretty heavily and I flirted back, no harm done. I started hanging out with him a lot, watching TV shows together and hanging out at uni where no one would see us. Then one night I was at his house and we watched TV, it was cold out so we went to his room which he insisted was warm from the heater so I agreed.

Before I knew it we were kissing and stripping, he went down on me and gave me some oral play, licking and sucking my clit and fingering my wet pussy. I didn’t cum though, I slipped his boxers off and wrapped my hand around his hard cock. I made him moan again and again as I sucked his cock and wanked it with my hand, then he exploded onto his stomach.

I remember thinking while I was playing with his dick, that he was going to penetrate my awaiting pussy with it… but he didn’t. I was so disappointed. I love a man to be dominant so I myself didn’t think to do it, I expected he would. Unfortunately he was worried about what I was ok with and thought that I would not be ok with penetration. He cleaned himself up and told me I was welcome to stay, but I didn’t want to. I had a massive urge to get far away from there as soon as I could, so I left and went home at 3am.

The next day when I told my cuck(who back then I hadn’t agreed to be in the cuckold lifestyle) and he was incredibly horny. I told him all about it over the phone and he played with his cock, cumming over the thought of his little slut bunny pleasing and more importantly being pleased by another man.

That was my very first experience. If you’d like to hear more let me know. Next update with pictures. Comments?

XOX

ja, was glaubst du? dass das internet und somit alle möglichen leute nicht wissen, dass du dir grad porno angeschaut hast?

link moan my ip.com

This one is a little longer than the others, I believe, but I like it better.  It’s based on true story form my family before my great-grandmother, Nellie, came from Ireland to America.  It isn’t done yet (I mean, the day is only half way through), but I’m hopeful for it.  Even though I don;t have the setting down quite yet.

The Day 3 Generations Died

There was a cool chill to the air when Nellie woke up, the sun peeking through the window and touching her face. Suppressing a shiver, she got out of bed, dressed quickly, and scurried out of the little room she shared with her two younger sisters, Mary and Bridget. Since her older sister Katherine had married last spring, it was Nellie’s job to help her mother take care of the family.

Once in the kitchen, Nellie found the various pots her mother had pulled out for her start breakfast in. Every morning her mother was the first one up. She got what Nellie would need to start breakfast, and then she would go for a quick walk around the block, stopping at the market for anything they might need. Even now that her mother was eight months pregnant, she never wavered from her daily routine.

Setting the pots of water to boil for the porridge, Nellie heard her father stirring upstairs as he got ready for work. Taking care of their large family was a lot of work, and she knew her father was tired of his job doing construction. He would come back at night, tired and grumpy. And especially now that their mother was pregnant, he was often worried, and he was easily upset. He was a big man and could be intimidating if he wanted to, so all the children would try to stay out of his way. If you got him angry, you were on your own. Not that he was ever mean to them, they knew he loved them, but he could be so gruff, and had a way of cutting you to the core with a look. But when he was relaxed he made everyone joyful.

Nellie left the kitchen and went back to her room to wake her sisters. Mary was ten and was in charge of helping little Bridget, the baby of the family, at least until the new one came, get dressed and ready for school. As soon as they moving around and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, Nellie went to make sure her brothers were up.

Three of her four brothers shared a room not much bigger than hers. It was worse when her older brother John slept in there, too, but after Katherine moved out, he got her little closet room in the back of the house because he was the oldest. Eventually when he left Nellie would get the room, though she thought she would miss listening to her sisters’ calm breathing at night. It was one of the few times they didn’t bother her. But here her little brothers were curled up in little sleeping balls. William had his own cot on one side, while Paddy and Kevin, the twins, shared the bigger bed on the other side. It took more cajoling from Nellie to rouse them. They were much more stubborn than her sisters in the morning, and by the time they had stopped whining and actually gotten up, she could hear the sounds of everyone moving around.

She went back to the kitchen to stir the porridge just as her mother was coming through the door.

“Good morning, Nellie dear,” said her mother, a little out of breath and shutting the door. “Are you brothers and sisters awake yet?”

Nellie told her they were, but noticed that her mother’s cheeks were a little paler than their usual rosy red. Her mother continued on doing her work in the kitchen. Putting things where they belonged and cleaning things, but she did seemed slower. Nellie assumed that being pregnant was finally catching up to her mother, who hated having to be still when she could be doing some work.

“Has your father come down yet, dear?” her mother asked.

“No not yet, but I heard him moving around.”

“Well I’ll just go check on him so he won’t be late for work.” And she huffed her way out of the room.

After she left, Nellie’s brothers and sisters started coming in to get their food and do their chores. John was the first one, saying good morning and getting his food so he too could be ready to join his father at work, where he had just started. As the oldest boy, he was typically their father’s favorite. Mary and Bridget came down next looking a little messy, but not too bad. Then came the other boys, pushing and shoving to get their place at the table. They were all talking and making noise now, but Nellie thought she heard a cry come from upstairs in her parent’s room. She thought she was making it up, till she caught John’s eye across from the table. He had a little frown on his face, but didn’t make a motion as if to leave.

It was as Nellie and John were trying to get the kids to clean up that their father came rushing into the room. He looked slightly frantic and nodded to John, who put down the bowls in his hands and left the house without saying a word or even grabbing his coat.

“Hey, where’s he goin’,” asked one of the boys.

“Oh nowhere, don’t you worry,” said their father, forcing a smile on his face. “But I have a treat for you kids. How about today for lunch, you go to your grandmother’s house?”

The kids all exclaimed and smiled at the idea of visiting their grandmother. The mother of their mother, she lived in the city with them, but on the other side of where they went to school. Although they saw her often, for she liked to visit them, it was still fun to go to her house, especially for something like lunch. Only William, the next oldest after Nellie, looked as concerned as she did about this sudden new plan, but their father was trying to hustle all the talking kids into leaving for school, and she had to help so she would be ready, too.

The morning at school passed well enough, but Nellie couldn’t help be worried. Something about her father’s look made her nervous, and they never went to Grandma’s house unless their mother couldn’t cook for them, which rarely happened. She was sick once. And another time she was visiting a friend in the next town over, but other than that she was always home, there for the children. It dawned on Nellie that her mother must be having the baby. It was too soon, but there was no other reason for what was going on.

As soon as school let out for lunch, Nellie hastened to collect all her siblings, with William helping her, anxious to hear any news from home. Getting to Grandma’s house wasn’t too difficult, as the kids were excited, and she welcomed them hugs and kisses. She sent them out to play while it was still warm, asking Nellie to help her finish lunch in the kitchen. As soon as they were alone, her grandmother turned to her.

“So I’m sure you know that your mother is having the baby, right?”

“Yes, is everything okay?”

“Well it’s difficult for her. It’s early, and she’s much older than she was when Bridget was born, and you know your father was worried about that. Of course, nothing ever bothers your mother, and she just goes about her day no matter how many times you tell her to take a rest, even with you and even Mary there to help her.”

“But everything will be fine when it‘s over, right?”

“Oh I’m sure it will be, my dear. John ran for the doctor and came to let me know, and then he went to go tell your sister Katherine before he went to work. She should be there now. Now come help feed your brothers and sisters before they tear my house apart.”

Nellie helped serve everyone and took a small plate for herself. She felt better talking to her grandmother, who like her mother never stopped going, although she too seemed to be slowing down as she got older, but she really just wanted to be home, sure that her mother and the baby were safe. The kids finished lunch and Nellie helped her grandmother clean up. She hugged them all before sending them back to school.

But when they had almost reached the school and knew the bell was going to ring for them soon, Nellie came up with a plan. She was worried about home, and she wanted to be there. She knew she could help. So when they reached the school house, Nellie sent them in without her. William tried to protest, but Nellie used her best Katherine imitation.

“You hush. I’m older and I know what I’m doing. Now go back to class or you’ll get in trouble. Don’t you worry about me.”

And with that, she began to walk home. She picked up her pace as she got closer, and she was almost running by the time she got to her street. She didn’t know if her father would get mad at her for coming home, but she knew she could help. Quietly, Nellie came in through the kitchen door. The house without her mother bustling about was eerily unwelcoming, and the tension was oppressive, dangerous. Nellie could hear quiet murmurs coming from upstairs. She recognized her father’s voice talking to who she assumed was the doctor. Occasionally she thought she heard Katherine’s voice. Every once in a while there was a loud moan of pain.

Suddenly, Nellie didn’t want to be home. She was feeling sick. She wanted to be back at school with her brothers and sisters, waiting to hear about their new brother or sister, not knowing what the house felt like right now. And then the screaming started. She could hear the voices and footsteps running around, taking care of her mother, helping her, and Nellie was frozen to the middle of the kitchen floor.

It was hard to breathe as she heard the agonizing screams from of mother. There was so much pain in those cries, and Nellie couldn’t listen anymore. Not thinking, she ran across the floor to the small kitchen closet and threw herself in. She squeezed the door shut and slid to the ground, crouching among the brooms and mops, the rags and boxes, the dust and cobwebs. She was terrified. She knew she wasn’t brave or strong or loud like any of her siblings, but she didn’t think she was this much of a coward. She couldn’t even get herself off the floor to help her mother in pain.

Another scream came muffled through the door and she covered her ears, trying not to cry. Why wouldn’t it stop? Why was her mother hurting so much? She was too young to really remember her other siblings being born, so she didn’t know how bad childbirth could be, but it didn’t seem like it should cause her generally stoic mother so much pain.

She didn’t know how long the screaming lasted, but it seemed forever. Finally, when they subsided, she took her hands off her ears. Silence. Carefully, she opened the closet door and crawled out on her hands and knees. She sat on the kitchen floor, ear cocked towards the doorway for any more sounds.

Once she thought she heard a feeble baby cry, but she wasn’t sure, the silence of the house obstructing her ears. And then she heard something she never imagined. An anguished wail like no other came from her parents’ room. It barely sounded human. It was a man sobbing his heart out. Her father was crying. She had never heard her father cry before. Nellie wanted to go back in her closet forever, because she knew what it meant.

Another thing I dislike* about my wonderful, chosen, profession as a college teacher is the fact that I can rarely enjoy a day off during term time. There is always homework: marking, prep, reading. Or thinking about homework. Even when I make time to do something else, the work that needs to be done is percolating in the back of my brain, nudging me, making me feel guilty about walking the dogs or taking photographs or working in the garden.

When I was in grad school the second time around, while continuing to work at least half time, I worked out a system whereby I did as much school work as I could, morning, afternoon and evening for six days a week but always reserved Sundays for myself. That worked well, but I don’t seem to have the energy these days for evenings, so the work time bleeds into the day that should be “off.”

Oh well, in another ten years or so I can retire… and probably then, I’ll complain about not having enough to do

*Sorry for the moans today and yesterday, but I’m feeling a bit tired and under the weather…

We are stoked about this show coming up. Plus I’m a huge fan of Idle Warship. I just love the way that music genres are meshing and how there is less of a divide between style and artistic expression. If you feel like Hip Hop is moving light years ahead of where listeners are willing to follow, you had better learn to change your air wave frequency. Judging from this line up, music is going, going, gone…out of the realm of constraints.

Sex and sexual ways are always intriguing as each one act and react differently during lovemaking. No ways could be defined and imposed on the act of sexuality as it purely depends on the circumstances and mental situations. There are some common behavioral patterns observed in the act of lovemaking just as panting, moaning etc… You may ask this question quiet naturally that why do women moan during sex? Is it because of pain or pleasure? Or is it a way of communication during sex?

Well, Women moan for different reasons during sex. First of all it is a communicating or expressing excitement and pleasure. Some women and men moan as a signal to let their partner know that the sensation feels good. Others utter sounds and let their bodies move freely as they “lose control” and allow themselves to be part of the sexual and satisfying experience.

Movies, television, and music present us with idealized sex scenes or lyrics of people moaning and panting at the height of passion. In reality, some people are vocal and may moan and groan, other folks may muffle any sounds with a pillow, and yet others may not make a single peep. Some express themselves by twitching or moving their bodies rhythmically as a response to sexual pleasure.

Moaning doesn’t only happen during sex. Some people make small sounds while kissing, giving or receiving a massage, or snuggling. Others don’t have to be sexually excited to make a sound. While humans don’t typically purr, some people may make a soft moaning sound when their hair or head is stroked — just like a cat might if it were being petted. There are also times when someone might be eating something really fantastic and a light mmm… sound might express the way s/he’s feeling as s/he is savoring the taste.

You may, or may not, want to expand your moaning repertoire. However, if you’re a screamer, you might want to be considerate of your neighbors and think about turning it down a notch.

Some people drink or do drugs to alter their states. Other people meditate or chant to alter their state. Some people do power moves or jump and shout to alter their state. Then there are those that use BDSM to alter their state.

First, though, I want to briefly talk about alcohol and BDSM, or at least SM, because that is relevant to my current experience. Big play parties that I go to, alcohol is forbidden anywhere near the play space. It dulls the senses and can lead to bad judgment and injury. But I volunteer at a club where people experiment with corporal and electric play, bottoming to the completely sober crew while often under the influence themselves. We are careful to gauge their level of intoxication, and even more careful to do no harm regardless.  But I wonder about what it takes to get drunk and then want to do a scene. Some think they need the liquid courage, I guess. Some just don’t realize the danger. And I imagine some just don’t realize how drunk they are. Personally, I can’t imagine mixing alcohol with the sensation play we do. Occasional drunk sex, sure, but SM while dulled and out of control makes me shudder.

All that aside, the altered states provided by BDSM in and of itself are amazing. I’ve talked before about surrender. Other spaces I enjoy are rope space, sub space, pain space, service space. At least that’s how I can best name them today.

1) Rope space – I’ve talked a lot about rope, described scenes and fibers and all. The space that rope creates for me is one of warmth. No matter how cold the room is, the first run of rope on my body instantly creates warmth. If there is rope tied around me, I am warm. It is a soft space, my body gives in, relaxes. The tie might be restrictive, painful, gentle, or loose, but my body molds to it, making it part of me. I have to be careful of this when I’m doing suspension. I have to pay attention because I’m learning the ties. I have to be aware of my body so that I don’t sink to far into the ropes and hurt myself. But even then, I can find my rope space and enjoy it thoroughly.

2)Sub space – People use this term a lot, to mean different things. Today, to me, it is the space of being deep in a scene, letting go of my will in favor of his. It is a quiet state for me, when my mind goes still, and I am at peace. In this state, I can still say no, I can still safe word, but only when absolutely needed. I will not resist simply because I don’t want to do something. I will do my best to do whatever he wants me to. I will take whatever he gives until I cannot take anymore. This state sometimes turns into surrender, but not always.

3)Pain space – I am a picky pain slut. But when I am getting the pain I want, enjoying the pain I’m getting, I slip right into pain space. Pain space is an intense state for me. My body is buzzing and my heart is pounding. I am gasping or screaming or moaning. I lose my sense of the word and just exist in my body, in the sensation being given to me. I can feel him even if I cannot touch him. This is the hardest state for me to come out of once I’m there. It is the one that leads to drop most often.

4)Service space – This is my D/s space, the space that I find outside of scenes. The space that makes me feel warm and fuzzy when I’m helping, being useful, doing for others, but especially doing for him. I get a little bit of this in scenes when I’m Service Topping as well. When I am giving pleasure to others, and sharing with them or teaching them.

All these states are delicious to me. Not to mention Far more appealing that drunkenness or getting high.

Looking through a TV guide for next week this morning, and I came across the usual plethora of adverts. As you’d expect, many of the adverts relate to TV series box sets and movie releases, but it’s something that’s always niggled away in the back of my head. Why would someone buy a series box set for say £100+ when the program hasn’t even finished yet and you know that box set is going to end up being extended in the near future. It really is a mystery, although it’s the obvious choice for the “suits” to come out with seeing as their jobs are to milk the gullible for all their worth.

For the first time in a while I actually went through a whole day following a plan I set out in the morning. I’m still slowly reversing my brain rot, just wished it went a bit quicker, but I guess every little bit helps. Anyway, another naffter piece is complete and so another will be started today and possibly completed too. I attempted to try some digiscoping yesterday, but it failed, you really need a bracket to do it properly, two tripods aren’t good enough.

Been playing around with GIMP again, and I have to say it does get more and more impressive the more you use it. My only qualms now are the speed, or rather lack of, at which it does plug in based operations, although it’s no big deal. Photoshop still wins hands down in that department. I’m on the hunt for addons for it, hopefully bringing it up to and over the bar set by Photoshop. I’m so happy with the way I’m finding GIMP that I may even start creating naff toons/webcomics with it.

Talking of naff toons, over the weekend Slayer (I’m a big big fan of the band) and the publicity machine of their label allowed the listening to of the new album (World Painted Blood) and viewing of the bonus DVD which comes with the deluxe edition of said new album, over on Myspace. Album sounds great, as good as (if not better than) Christ Illusion, which puts it as probably the best album they’ve released in the past 15-20 years. I still have a gripe about the guitar tone, it’s too thin and brittle, and the soloing really has gone to pot now (love them to go back to their old style solos, not just randomly assorted wah noise [which works some times but not all the time] and non-scale runs), but actual singing is back!

With our (Liverpool) defeat on Saturday still haunting most fans, I find it hard not to rip into the fickle. But I must resist, because it’ll be me just stating the obvious, and the obvious is oblivious to the fickle. Talking too much sense will get you nowhere. Either way we must move on, despite our massive injury list (it was 11 players on Saturday, a fact overlooked by the fickle when they questioned the team sheet). I fear our title race is as good as over, but there is still plenty of time for those above to slip up and us to regain form. But I won’t hold my breath, I’ll just take every game as it comes.

The other day when I moaned about this particular time of year, stating that surprisingly “bonfire season” hasn’t happened around here this year. Well I spoke too soon, they’ve been going off pretty much ever since. Seeing as it’s Bonfire Night on Thursday, no doubt there’ll be more going off the coming days, that is of course providing it isn’t raining… which it’s highly likely to be, so that’s a plus… sort of.

Back to whatever it is I was doing.

WHOREMOAN RIOT: Jacksonville, FL: Smoshed: CD

5 songs (including the secret track) that will convince you that Jax punk is a force to be fucked with. Basic by the books 80’s style hardcore(Wasted youth, Dag nasty) with a southern shed punk twist. .  Funny and insightful lyrics that run the gauntlet from personal self destruction to a bona fide anthem for all women: “Unified Bleeders”.  They mesh well as a band and you can tell. You can feel each member chugging along, learning and conquering their instruments and its all captured for you on this handy little CD.  The packaging and lyric art is also really snazzy( you get 20 cool points), looks like a high school kids note book.  Except instead of the Twisted Sister logo you got the Whoremoan Riot Skull. 5 songs. Highly Recommended. (Scottanimo Bay)

WEBSITE:http://www.myspace.com/whoremoanriot