“Take off crothes,” she says, in her crazy asian english.

“All of them?”

She nods.  I slip off my shirt and drop my pants and boxers in one quick move.  I’m not shy, and she made no effort to give me any privacy.  Not sure why hotel rooms are always freezing.  I stand there only slightly awkwardly for a moment as she gives me a quick scan, and grabs a few of the hotel towels and lays them on top of the bed’s comforter.

Today I was at the mall and while standing in a bathroom taking a leak at a urinal a woman with a mop, mops around me with absolutely no hesitation.  Who knows what’s normal to people of different cultures?  I never do.  I figure I’m like most people who travel and I attempt to pretend like I’m a cultured American, and that I am used to all of the foreign cultural abnormalities.  Most places outside the states are a lot more comfortable with nudity.  The point is getting naked for a massage in front of the masseuse doesn’t seem outside the scope of possible norms.

I lay down on top of the towels face down and the massage part begins fairly normally.  Well my ass is completely exposed, which isn’t normal, but the massage part is consistent with my experiences.  She moves to a position just above my head, and and slides her hands along either side of my spine from my neck down to just above my ass crack.  About ten minutes worth of back work, and she moves to my side and the most thorough ass massage of my life begins.  It’s pretty similar to my ass massage methods whenever a girl asks me to give her a massage.  I grab a huge handful of ass and start kneading and spreading like I’m working stubborn dough.  Usually using my thumbs to see how close I can get to her asshole or pussy before a protest.   I didn’t realize how good that felt.  I give really great ass massages.  I do realize that this is fairly abnormal for a massage.   The back is always the majority of a legitimate massage.  In the states it’s all about the back.  I even find myself getting anxious wondering if I even paid for a full body massage with the amount of time spent working on my damn back.

One of her hands starts moving across my ass to between my legs from behind.  Also one of my moves.  That feels pretty good too.  I don’t know what girls are always bitching about.  That feels a lot better than just an ass massage.  A few purposeful incidental contacts with my balls and she boldly runs her hand underneath me and strokes my manhood.  AWESOME!  She’s not about to get any objections from me.  I bet nothing feels better than a penis massage from a masseuse.  Well maybe a hand job from a chick drummer.  You gotta figure a drummer has great rhythm, and a good strong grip.  I mentally add that to the “women-to-do list.”

So a hand job while laying on your penis is pretty much retarded.  You have to kind of lift up your ass so the girl can run her hand up underneath you.  There really isn’t any way to adjust and be comfortable with an engorged penis and a cramping lower back from trying to maintain your ass lift.  I flip onto my back and she gets on the bed and sits between my legs.  Sitting on her feet, she leans over and after a few pre-cum producing strokes, she puts my throbbing organ into her mouth and starts the beautiful head bobbing motion of a blow job.  I lean back and enjoy the front row seat.  I am starting to develop a fetish for the tops of women’s head’s bobbing up and down.  Maybe that’s not really a fetish.  That’s more of a Pavlovian response.  I see the top of a chick’s head bobbing up and down and I’m hard.

After thoroughly lubricating me with her mouth, she looks up, goes back to stroking me and says, “how much?”  NOT AWESOME!  Timing is everything in a negotiation, and the advantage definitely goes to the person that literally has me by the balls, with my naked erect penis inches from her mouth.

You might think, what’s a good price is the first thing to go through your mind, but it isn’t.  The first thing I think is what kind of loser pays for a blow job.  The kind that doesn’t want to rape this girl’s mouth for stopping mid BJ.  Maybe this is how God intended it.  Most of my relationships with women probably would have been better if I just gave them some money for a good ass massage blow job and then sent them on  their way.  Love is paying to put your penis in the warm wet mouth of an asian masseuse.  I’m convinced that true love is lodged behind one of her tonsils.   If only I can get my penis back in her mouth to check.  I know you wouldn’t think to find it there, but at thirty I haven’t been successful finding it anywhere else, it sure did feel like I was falling in love with her.  Now that that’s settled I realize having never paid for a blow job, I’m not really sure what a good price is or how the negotiations even work.  Probably the same as a couple of drinks from the bar.  I mean I think that’s been the historical price I’ve had to pay.

“How much?” is what I decided to go with.  I don’t want to think any more about math than I have to.  After all she’s the one with all the experience anyway being the only blow job vendor in the room.

“150 Sing.”

That’s like one-hundred bucks.  As she waits for for my response she idly continues stroking my junk.  One-hundred dollars is a little more than I was planning on paying.  That’s like ten drinks at a nice Vegas Club.  My negotiating skills at this point are pretty much limited to head nods and random faces.  So I do all I can to muster a good counter offer, and I shoot back with a look of disgust.  Mostly the disgust is at myself since I know at this point I’m paying $100 for a blow job, but it’s all I can muster given the circumstance and the incessant pleasure brought forth by her nimble fingers.

Instead of dropping the price she gives me another quick suckle and looks back at me.  Aaannnd she wins.  Defeated I muster an “Okay”.  Her head drops back down and I start to enjoy my 100 dollar blow job.  Nothing too eventful just the constant repetitive, wet, in and out.  Not that I’m trying to make that sound bad.  Pretty much as long as there aren’t any teeth involved in the blow job, it’s pretty good.

After a few minutes of quality head bobbing, I start to think of how stupid it would be if head butting a person in the pelvis was an accepted self-defense move.

She sits up and pulls a condom out of her pocket.  I hate condoms, but at least she’s kind of clean, and doesn’t want my little Michael Phelps‘ violating various cells in her mouth.    She puts the condom on, correctly, and then hops up and begins to take her clothes off.  Maybe I’m getting more than a blow job.  I am immediately excited about my negotiating skills, mindlessly repeating my disgusted face.  She looks at me questioningly, and I just smile dumbly.  100 dollars for a wet warm vagina is a much better deal than a mouth.  The bra comes off and my hands immediately begin groping her breasts like a psychotic bread maker.

She straddles me and squats down sliding me inside her.  I’m a big fan of cowgirls.  I don’t know any cowgirls, but based on their sexual position I think I’m a big fan of them.

Something about paying for it really takes the passion out of it. I’m not here to make sure she has a good time, I’m here to make sure I have a good time.  And I’m thinking I need to have one-hundred dollars worth of a good time.  I’m not totally sure how to determine value in this situation.  I mean I’m technically only leasing pussy for the amount of time that I need to cum, so longer is probably a better deal.

She bounces on me for a while like I’m one of those bouncy hop balls we had as kids, except she uses my chest hair as the handle.  I make a mental note that my daughter will never own one of those hop balls and as I carry that thought out, neither will my son.  Fucking pervert toy makers.

She pulls me over and on top of her, so now I’m fucking her like a missionary.  I definitely like cowgirls better than missionaries.  There’s a lot of moaning and heavy breathing which is really encouraging and makes me less upset about doing some of the work towards reaching the climactic goal.  I think I’m doing a good job.  I like doing a good job at fucking.  It’s just one of those things that I think most guys want to be good at.  Time to hump her like a dog.  I’m glad human sex has lots of options.

I pull her up and move her to all fours, and somehow she instantaneously transforms from a cute asian masseuse, into a diseased hooker.  As I look down at my dick, I realize the creamy center of this infested hooker is creating quite the juicy condom.  I don’t want any of her biohazard to actually touch my skin.  Condoms should somehow create a barrier from taint to bellybutton so I might have continued enjoying this.  Now that I am immediately filled with paranoia over catching something, I’m less interested in fucking altogether.  I don’t know why the sudden change, but I think it’s the less personal dog fucking position, but she is no longer safe.  I start making shorter strokes so I don’t go too far inside of her, and avoid the creamy line from moving further down the condom and closer to uncovered skin.  I start thinking about how I ended up here, but my hard penis keeps interrupting me with thoughts of cumming.  At this point my goal getting off without catching anything.  It’s good to have goals.  Subjecting myself to this biochemical attack seems really stupid, especially given the organ I have thrown into the trenches, taking bombs.  It’s time to pull out of her, and figure out a way to doff this condom.  I decide if she pulls it off, my hands will remain clean, which should significantly reduce the risk of spreading contamination.  Seriously, how am I here right now?  She pulls the condom off, and I rigorously go to work on myself.  I have mad skills like a drummer chick and it doesn’t take but a few key strokes the way that I know that I like, and I unload.  With cockroach like quickness I escape her reach, and head to the sink and proceed to scrubbing the shit out of my dick with a brand new bar of hotel soap.  She jumps into the shower.  Help yourself, shit!  Paying for sex is just stupid, but throwing in a shower too!

The shower turns off  and she hops out and ruins a perfectly good towel, drying off.

“More massage?”

“No, thank you.”

It’s time for me, and more specifically you, to go.  I mentally take notes of everything she is contaminating with her hands.  150 sing later and I open the door before she can touch it, and step aside to let her out of the room.  The door shuts and a wave of relief hits me.  I tip toe with a ballerina’s  grace around the diseased sheets and towels now on the floor, and jump into the shower for a more thorough decontamination effort.

20 minutes of thorough cleansing, and I still don’t feel disinfected.  Mostly because I feel like I just put toxic waste in here, and now I’m trying to get clean amongst it.  I get out of the shower, and realize the hooker used my last towel, so I have to air dry  at arctic temperatures.  I hear you God!
I grab my bathing suit and head to the pool.  Surely the chlorine will kill whatever I haven’t yet scrubbed off, or drown whatever tiny creatures may be lurking in the bush.  A shiver of disgust at grossing myself out, and I head out the door.

It’s a short trip down a couple floors, and out to the pool.  I take no time looking for a chair, any will do.  The main reason for getting here is to begin my detox.  I take off my T-shirt, and hop into the water, where I almost immediately go into shock from hypothermia.  Of course, it’s probably as good as hot water for killing any kind of nasty shit I just collected with my body.  After all any of the stuff would have been growing in the warm petri-dish of her vagina.  My penis has almost completely backed itself completely into my body at this point, only the sensitive head is really protruding from my body.  Good, you should go and hide.  Stupid penis!

I started writing a book about 6 months ago.  I’m not totally sure what that means, but it sounds impressive, and we all know that’s what is really important.  If you can’t be impressive – Sound impressive!  I’ll share with you the shortcomings of that project over the next couple of weeks.

Action Item: <- New feature on my blog posts.  In an effort to ridicule shitty managers, I am adding the overly used “Action Item” section to my blogs.  I am going to post my ideas for random things for people to try and I hope to hear the reactions.  I was going to see how many people I could get to open an account on cougarlife.com, but I’ll save that for later.   So for this first action item, I’d really like people to buy a Mole Skin Notebook, or really just grab a piece of paper out of your printer, and write something down.  Then start telling people you started writing a book recently on “insert topic,” and then share the reactions in the comments.

So my parents own a couple of finches, and they told me a funny story about them.  Of course, if you’re not a fan of birds, which quite surprisingly happens to be more common than I expected, you will not find this shit funny at all.  On top of that, you have to have a fairly reliable imagination, since you have to picture this in order to understand it, and I’m not about to claim my writing will be detailed enough for you to truly “see” it, so you may in fact need an amazing imagination.  Anyway, my parents own a male and female finch, which they quite domineeringly keep in a cage.  I mean we are the superior species, God put everything on earth to please us, so why shouldn’t we trap everything and keep it in a cage near us.  God forbid we get up and go outside and see something in nature, or rather what’s left of it after clear cutting it in order to put in a subdivision.

Ultimately this makes me think of two other things.  The movie Battle for Terra, and Living the G.I. (Glycemic Index) Diet.  The Battle for Terra movie is pretty much a movie that hates people, although claims that there are at least a handful of us that aren’t completely  whack.  And Living the GI diet, since I am sort of making fun of my parents having caged birds, which quite honestly I am envious of, have both lost over 20+ pounds and have kept it off using that diet, so I didn’t want you to picture this sloth like, morbidly obese couple eating bacon, and popcorn watching the caged birds.  

So they bought this box of string for the birds and put it in the cage.  The idea is that the male bird will layer the nest that is already in the cage with the string.  Basically preparing the nest for his girl.  So this bird having not bought a box of string himself, and therefore not realizing it’s to be lining, not to mention finding the pure quantity of string available to him daunting, has decided to completely empty the box of string and attempt to build another nest made entirely of string, next to the man made one.  I personally think he’s trying to weave a throw rug, or a welcome mat, but my parents think he’s trying to build another nest.  What is funny is that the female bird stands on the ground and chirps at the male the whole time he is attempting to build his nest.  His nest looks like shit, and not like a nest at all, and I can only imagine it’s due to his inability to concentrate because of the nagging going the entire time.

It was probably the female bird’s idea to make the nest entirely out of string in the first place, but you know she couldn’t be happy with just that, she also has to explain the exact way in which he is to fashion the nest, and now that the nest looks like ass, she is most likely claiming if he would have only listened to what she was saying it would have worked.

Officially since I know where I am, I am not lost, but because I’m not there yet, I can’t rightly say that I am here.  Really I’m over there.  Anyway, don’t worry, if you were, it won’t be but a little while longer.  Just try to be patient, and eventually I’ll get there.  And there is where I want here to be.  Or maybe I want there to be here.  Either way I think I am going to sneak up on me.  Even though there is always the anxious anticipation of arriving, we really need to find patients.  Patients, so I can create a practice of people trying to find themselves, and maybe then if we help each other, find each other, we can keep ourselves where we find ourselves, and then we’ll have time to catch up to ourselves.

Inspired by:

I’ve gone to find myself. – Customized by Nakila93
design your own t shirt online at Zazzle.com
Browse Quotations T-Shirts

So I watched a bum the other day ask a guy for change.  The guy said, I can help you out if you can tell me where such and such restaurant is.  The guy yells, “I DON’T KNOW!”  Like the guy asking for directions was asking too much, or like he didn’t have time for that.  I didn’t know what to think.  At first I thought it was messed up that the begger would be pissed, but then I thought some more.  Basically I think it’s okay to ask someone for change that looks like they might have change, but as a person with change to ask someone who looks familiar with the “streets” for directions is unethical.  Maybe it’s unreasonable to ask someone in that situation for anything.  I mean he already has nothing.  I don’t know.  I can’t imagine what that life must be like.  I have a hard enough time not having people to hang with all day, but if I didn’t have a place to stay, money for food, or a place to shower, I’d probably be pretty freakin’ unreasonable too.

I think my most popular blog post currently is about the six women every guy should date.  I’m thinking about writing about the six women every guy shouldn’t date.  Although, I can’t think of too many types of women that I would suggest not giving a try.  That also assumes like Men’s Health, that there is a way to thoroughly and wholly define a woman with two adjectives.  Not to mention everyone needs love sometime, right?  I read that there about 3.2 billion women and 3.3 billion men on the planet.  That means there are about 100,000,000 men on the planet that aren’t getting any love at all, or a lot of women with multiple partners.  Of course you have to figure some percentage of each of those are gay.  So maybe it all works out.  Maybe homosexuality is a necessity in order for the numbers of people being loved to be even between the sexes.  Not sure if there are more lesbians or more gay men.  It would have to be a lot more gay men for the numbers to work out.  Then there are prostitutes too, which I would think satisfy a significant amount of men.  I don’t know.  There’s a huge amount of very lonely, very unfulfilled people out there.  How shitty is that?

Well I’m in a dimly lit place in my mind right now, and I don’t really want to turn on the lights out of fear of something crazy being written on the wall with bodily fluids.  Yikes!

So what do I know about Chicago? I only know a few things about Chicago and they involve politics. For instance, I hear politics are pretty cut-throat in Chicago, which puts people in some funny situations. For instance, I hear that if you’re not careful you can lose your seat in the Senate by forging a bunch of petitions to get on the ballot, and then running against Barack Obama. Of course, with enough money you could probably buy that seat back, but only if you know the right guy.

In other news, what do I know about Improv.  Basically if you’re a witty smart ass you’re pretty much good at improv.  That is improv.  You basically take queues from someone else for material and then quickly and comedically use it in a skit, or if your a smart ass, to belittle and humiliate a person.  The comedy improv at the iO, “Chicago’s Best Improv Comedy,” may be completely different since I’ve never been, but let me know.

Seriously though, Jimmy Pennington is wicked funny.  So funny in fact he made my top 10 list of funniest people I know and I know like at least a hundred people.  So he’s in the top 10% of the funniest people I know!  Which means he’s pretty funny… Actually, that’s not impressive at all. That’s like saying hey I know you 2 people and you are the smartest people I know.  Not to mention, who the hell am I?  What gives me any authority?  “Yeah, I know I’m funny because this one guy said I was funny.”

Please, if you go this weekend mention you read about his comedy show here, and then tell him what you like to drink, and then leave a comment about it.

• Greg Huether
• Doug Just
• Jimmy Pennington
• Felix Martinez
• Megan Hahn
• Eric Yurgartis
• Wynn Everett Albanese
• Jason Homan
• Rob Czyzewski
• Wil Nocon

Feel free to add to the list.  It’s not really all about me.  It’s all about the people, people… and the glasses, but mostly the people, and even more specifically the funny people.

So I was running through the city and I must admit that the worst part of running around the city is the occasional waft of human piss.  I tell you what, when bums mark territory, they really mark territory.  I mean who needs street signs, gang logos, or anything else to mark streets, you can just post some bums at the edge of areas to mark it off.  You’ll walk along catch the odor, and know you’ve entered a new area of the city.  By the way, there really is nothing like running at the max of your physical ability, gasping for air through your nose to avoid cramps, and then a wiff of that.  Man it pretty much gags me and my whole body starts to shut down, which sucks because that is the exact point in which I wish to quickly get away from the smell/area.

I just realized I lost my water bottle.  There’s nothing natural about carrying two beverages, and I find when I do that it’s very often that I will lose one of them.  Subconsciously I can’t be seen like that so I will quickly put it down somewhere, and then move away from it, but my hands are sneaky like that.  They do it and I don’t even realize it, until much later when I think how nice a mouthful of water would be, and it’s nowhere to be found.

I read this article today in Men’s Health, or as Andrew calls it, “Out Magazine”, about the six types of women you should date.  After reading it, I don’t believe I’ve dated any of them, which makes me wonder whether I live in an alternate universe or the writers at Men’s Health do.  The six type of women are:

• The Urban Sophisticate
• The Artsy Hipster
• The Vegan Yoga Gal
• The Alpha Female
• The Intimacy Junkie
• The Happy Homemaker

So if all the women reading this would kindly put themselves into one, and only one of the above six categories I would really appreciate it.  Then at least I could say I know women in those categories, or if I do in fact live on planet earth, and not in a reality TV show, you could tell me that too.  You can click the links to get a description of the type of woman each is.  Please don’t hesitate to tell me I’m the idiot; don’t let me go on living in my ignorance.