Street Carnage made it to Smut Cave. In your face world! Now we’re writing about him doing a thing on how we blogged about him. Hopefully this post gets mentioned on Smut Cave and we can talk about it here again.

Street Carnage made it to Smut Cave. In your face world! Now we’re writing about him doing a thing on how we blogged about him. Hopefully this post gets mentioned on Smut Cave and we can talk about it here again. The ultra meta death nerd thing of a thing in a thing in a thing goes to infinity and beyond!

Hat tip: Buzz Lightyear

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In my last relationship i used to be with a guy who was seriously into drugs and crazy sex. I would almost have considered him to be a sex addict, or maybe just a stimulation addict. I naturally had a lower sex drive than him, and although I

Dear Drew,

In my last relationship i used to be with a guy who was seriously into drugs and crazy sex. I would almost have considered him to be a sex addict, or maybe just a stimulation addict. I naturally had a lower sex drive than him, and although I tried to keep up it never seemed like enough for him. He often would make me feel bad for not wanting to have sex all the time, and threaten to break up with me on the basis that to him a relationship was nothing without constant and interesting sex. I always despised this view, and abhorred feeling bad about not wanting to have sex sometimes. Well, we’ve been broken up for about a year now. I now have a new boyfriend who is everything the other one is not. He is kind, gentle, sober, and reasonable. He always considers my feelings would NEVER pressure me to have sex. The only problem is that since I am lazy and have a lower sex drive, we hardly ever have sex!!! When we do have sex, it is mediocre at best. It is always very vanilla, and sometimes I cringe at the idea of having sex with him because it is so boring and normal. What is wrong with me!! Is it me that has issues with sex?? Or is the entire package of the ideal man just not possible!?

-Ariella D.

Ariella,
Hey, I hear you. Being in that position fucking sucks. You really like someone and you get along and it’s perfect except you guys sleep next to each other like that Asian woman in the Joy Luck Club does when she’s forced to mary that fat 12-year old prince, ‘just rike blotha and sista.’ If I was Dan Savage I would tell you to either break up with him and find someone you’re compatible with, or talk to him and see if you can find something that turns you both on. But that’s bullshit: talking about sex with your long-term boyfriend is like trying to talk dirty with your gynecologist when he’s got the speculam wedged up there.

So you’ll get resentful of your boyfriend and meanwhile you’re lying to him and the whole thing is just more trouble than it’s worth. It’s better to just stick to the shitty pizza so you don’t know what you’re missing.
Love,
Drew

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If you’re not familiar with Purple Magazine, you may know it as that magazine your girlfriend is really into that with tax will usually cost about $30. The price is completely worth it

If you’re not familiar with Purple Magazine , you may know it as that magazine your girlfriend is really into that with tax will usually cost about $30. The price is completely worth it because this biannual mag is the size of a coffee table book, except this one you will look at a hundred times more. This is the best of the best and in my opinion, one of the only worth reading. Anyway, Oliver Zahm, pictured above, is the man behind Purple and among other things, he has this natural french charm that will make just about every woman he comes into contact with either want to ravage him or at least flash him a significant amount of times while he photographs her. Lucky for us, Oliver launched the Purple Diary at the beginning of NY Fashion Week and has since been updating everyday with behind the scenes work for the mag, a front row view of the shows he attends and plenty of epic nights in several hotel rooms and bars. A brief look into what Oliver’s diary holds is below…

and what might be the best video of an editorial shoot ever…

x
Jen
Gnarlitude.com

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I’ve been getting into card tricks recently but I gotta tell you. They are way more difficult than you think they are.

YouTube version

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It’s funny, I’ve never technically fucked a whore. Here’s why I avoid that whole scene:

It’s funny, I’ve never technically fucked a whore. Here’s why I avoid that whole scene:

a) It seems dangerous to me – if not from the gay AIDS then surely from herpes or hep C or some terrifying shit like that. Imagine the condom breaks?

b) It’s expensive

c) What if you’re the one in a million guy that gets busted? You wouldn’t get the elliot spitzer treatment, instead you’d get the ZAXXON from Riker’s Island treatment, and get real AIDS in prison, while your wife moved the kids far away from you and nobody could blame her. On their 18th birthday your wife would go “I have something to tell you children…Daddy isn’t really dead.”

But those are really the only three reasons I haven’t fucked a whore. I have a nonstop aching in my loins to spread my demon seed over the faces and backs-of-legs of every girl I see. Jesus christ I just thought of my kids and whether I should still really be saying shit like that. I hate when that happens. It’s such a horrible conflict. Now I just keep thinking about them. I’m going to literally kill ANYONE that touches my kids. They’re never having sex with anyone ever. Over my fucking DEAD BODY.

Ok, I just took a break and had an energy drink so that I could clear my head and get back to writing about WHORES.

So I’ve never fucked one.

However, I have, as you may know, gotten dozens and dozens of handjobs (maybe over 50, literally) from asian massage parlors, russian massage parlors, and college-girl handjob joints whose URLs I can’t reveal to you as I don’t want the waiting rooms cluttered up by SAUSAGE.

Here’s a story about the time I hit rock bottom while chasing after a 10 second orgasm:

I was at work at my old job which was just a bit east of union square. I got started with the itch that afternoon just like I usually do – by seeing a bit of a hot chick’s leg, or a little neck skin under an earring, or a bra strap, and having it build a seed inside me that grew until I couldn’t concentrate on my fucking work.

There was no time to go to any of my usual standbys during the workday, so I started to search craigslist for a tug job near union square. I searched for handjobs using my work computer without using a proxy server during work hours, which is something I recommend everyone do as it is IMPOSSIBLE to get caught.

I found a little place with a grand opening special – paradise spa, or some shit, with a bunch of palm trees – grand opening! 60$ an hour, 30 for half hour.

30 bucks – jesus that’s cheap. To give you some sense of scale, the white college chicks charge 100$ for 15 minutes.

Yeah blognigger, but how did you know whether it was a legit massage place and not a so-called ‘rub and tug?’ Quiet down dumbcock, remember it was in the fucking erotic services section of craigslist. Plus, I don’t think there’s a such thing as an asian massage parlor that’s legit. They’ll pull ya off for a few bucks – all of em. Fuck it, kick the chinese delivery guy an extra 20 and he’ll pump you off right in your brownstone foyer – if you don’t mind the General Tao’s gettin cold while he knocks around your cock n’ nuts.

Anyway, I grabbed my friend – my ‘mongering’ buddy – a true addict who is always down, and we head off for the Paradise Spa. Turns out it’s a broke down little nail salon on the 2nd floor of some shithole on 2nd avenue. Little green neon palm trees in the window. Shocking, I know.

We walk in, and the place smells like nail polish and that chinese laundromat smell. don’t front. All of the manicure tables are empty, which I know is shocking as well. Imagine there were chicks in there getting their nails done? yeah fuckin right. Oh don’t mind us, we’ll wait here – she’s gonna rub oil on our manrods as soon as she’s done putting the cotton balls between your toes.

Anyway, the cashier woman – never the same as the jackoff girls in any operation no matter what budget – was broke down. Her face was revolting – kind of looked like that abstract Sunday Funnies Jewjoke. My boy and I kind of looked at each other like damn, but thank god she’s not the one doing the jackoffs.

Those “girls” were all in the back room- they started peeking out into the main room to see if we were cops or something, since we couldn’t actually be their first customers ever. We checked them out, and it was horrendous. They were all ugly of course, but in addition, all three of them had at least one severe bonus deficiency that was unique to her own special self. One had like, chemical burn skin – not like a burn victim – you know what chemical burn skin is, right? Like her skin is all shiny and red like she’s had reconstructive surgery? One was like, just extra-ugly, that was her bonus trait, and one was really big and fat with a tiny bleached chinese mustache and OLD. They were all pretty old – 35 or above – but this mustached girl – who my friend and I called “chewy” – she was at least 40. And Big!

We looked at each other and were all – you wanna stay? i dunno, do you? you wanna stay? So it was getting awkward with the girls starting to get offended – and you know, i don’t want to hurt anyone ever, but at the end of the day, I just can’t get it up for chewy no matter how cheap it is. (See, I’m still more black than jewy at heart.) So finally I just said, “ok thank you! we’ll come back” and we bailed fast with the cashier being like “….ah ok, see you?”

That’s really the moment where a good american businesswoman would have stepped in and said “Listen boys, you’re not gonna FIND a jackin for less than 75$ in this town. Now these girls may not be lookers, but I’ll tell ya what – old chewbacca over there can rub an airbubble out of an iphone cover – she a fuckin ninja – knows how to press the taint at the right instant and will absolutely have ya hittin the ceiling, guaranteed. Now get back over in there, open your wallets, and go have a good time.”

No such luck for the owner – Ross Perot’s wife wasn’t available to be a cashier, so all their asian madame could offer was “…ah ok, see you?” and then of course to go beat the 40 year olds with reeds for being so ugly and destroying the owner’s honor and his business.

So we bailed. We ran back to the office, laughing our asses off. Good times.

Couple days pass, and on one particular day I get that itch again – but 10x as strong. Writing about it now I feel stupid – just like the moment after ejaculation where you think “fuck that was dumb” – what can I say though – when that chemical builds up in your nuts, it just puts you under the influence. Makes you a different person – a cock golem.

So I’m at work, and I’m poor, but i’m jonesing: I know I have to go hit chewy.

I don’t tell my friend – I go solo like a real addict. Get back there, and fuck if the girls aren’t occupied! Got damn, men are pathetic. The cashier gives me this little look like “I tolll you! Now you hafta fucka CHEWY!”

Indeed Chewy was the only one left – and I was so high on the chemical, SO backed-up that I opened up my wallet, paid my 30$, and let Chewy take my hand in her furry paw and lead me back to the massage rooms.

This place is REAL low budget – it doesn’t even real massage rooms – no DOORS! It’s an open space with cheap walls between each “room” – curtains instead of doors, and no ceiling- the fake walls just stop about halfway up to the real ceiling of the building. Each massage “room” is about big enough to fit a massage table, and space for a chewy to walk around it. This was designed by god to allow me to realize what an addict I was, and make me feel like I was in an 80′s crackhouse going to get my hit.

Chewy speaks really really really no engrish, so she leads me into the room and motions for me to get undressed. They always leave while this portion is going on, and I’m not sure why. Honey, you’re about to rub my penis and balls extensively – you don’t want to see me take off a pair of pants? That’s where you draw the line?

Anyway, when she comes back in, she directs me onto the table face down, and starts to give me a wholly mediocre massage. While she’s doing that, I start getting another chemical reaction – for some reason my mind starts to ruminate on the fact that the place is new: In the next 10 minutes, instead of enjoying the pressure-point stylings of chewbacca, I begin to grow convinced that the place is too new to have paid their kickbacks to police or the mob, and that it’s about to get busted while I’m there. The paranoia chemicals are like the sex chemicals – they seem ridiculous when I’m reporting on them here in the morning hours of sobriety, but at the time, I was fully immersed in their visceral grasp.

It was as real as it gets – every sound I heard was startling, and I was just convinced that each one was the feds just about to bust down the curtains.

Fortunately, before I had a fully fledged panic attack, chewy did “the move” on me. If you haven’t been to rub n’ tugs and don’t know what “the move” is, I’ll explain: “the move” is that first brush of their knuckles on the back of your testicles. Is it was designed by wise chinamen in 6000 BC, and is the most powerful triggerpoint in the universe. It makes pre-cum instantly shoot out of your dick, even when your dick is still soft. Yes – it’s a logic defyer, and it was powerful enough to take my mind off the feds.

After a bit more of this, I was as hard as a subway pole, and chewy gave me the international hand-signal for “tuln-a-ova?”

I flipped onto my back and she started massaging my chest and calves, my gigantic floppy hard-on just splayed out all over the place. Finally, she pointed to it and gave me this raised-eyebrow look as if to say, “you lika I massage this big fuckin thing?”

I was like “you betcha, tlack!”

And then chewy gave me a look which I swear to christ I will never forget – she covered her ?nese mouth with a big furry paw, and faked this little mischievous up-n’-down chickle like a big 100 year old wookie schoolgirl.

Hang on, lemme focus: yep, I can literally see it.

Then she asked me, in the one-of-two phrases she had learned from the jackoff-providers guidebook “how much you pay?”

I’m not accustomed to haggling while someone literally has me by the balls, but after some greystoke-style head-shaking and nodding and shit, we managed to settle on an extra 20 for her without me losing my erection. Shut up – I know it’s not much, but I’m part jew and man you shoulda seen this bitch. I don’t know what wookie wankoffs go for on endor, but I think 50 bucks total including tax and gratuity was more than fair.

So the next part is censored for your hetero-enjoyment: She hit fithy gear till I made a mess. That should be enough detail unless you’re literally gay.

Here’s when I reached rock bottom:

With whitesauce all over my chest, wheras most slanty providers will retrieve a hot towel for a wipedown that is arguably the 2nd climax encore of the session, chewy did no such thing. Instead, with a delicate little bow, she passed me a loose roll of charmin. Not even charmin – it was the scratchy budget shit that we’d still be using at home if my stay-at-home wife wasn’t bringin in a couple extra hundy a month by filling out tortuously boring online surveys.

Now here’s what you need to do: visualize someone handing you a roll of toilet paper, ok? You’re holding the roll, right? How do you get paper from it? Your right hand takes the paper and pulls it, right, while your left hand holds the roll itself. With me?

Where are the fingers of your left hand? Think about it – try it if you need to, I’ll wait. In order to let the roll rotate and dispense paper, your left palm will be balanced against the roll, and your first two fingers will be in the hole of the cardboard roll itself.

In the cardboard hole: That’s exactly where I was putting my first two fingers when they landed in a small glob of another man’s semen.

I gagged. I felt dizzy. I scratched them clean with more toilet paper. I gagged again – I made deathly sure not to sniff it, and almost started crying.

I’ve touched another man’s semen. That’s where addiction leads you, Sam.

I didn’t even begin to explain it to chewy, who was still diligently observing my clean-up process. I pushed the suffocating cancer-causing feelings of dread and fear into my stomach, where they have remained until this moment.

As I continued getting dressed, like a stifled broken zombie (hand not washed yet) – I remembered the police. I really hoped to jesus they weren’t out in the waiting room getting man manicures or some shit, waiting to bust me and my cumkissed two left fingers.

I was really dizzy. In a last-ditch attempt at calm, decided to start be extremely nice to chewy, not just for a little human companionship, but also because it seems to be a pattern I fall into during stressful situations – like anytime I’m dealing with cops or going through airport security. Like in case secretly they’ll think I’m a good guy and maybe cut me a break. I guess subliminally, I was hoping chewy would show me a secret batpole exit down to the street to let me avoid the fuzz.

I made eye-contact with her and said “Thank you so much!”

She looked around, I guess deciding me that that had done it – I deserved to be given the secret tip-off, and she said to me in a hushed sort of whisper: “No poppers.”

Another psychotic rush of fear went through my nervous system.

“What??”

“No Poppers!”

FUCK that’s what I thought she had said. She was obviously looking out for me – my strategy had paid off. Maybe there’re cops in the nail lobby and she’s telling me to dump any drugs I have so that I don’t get taken down on both charges.

I had to ask her – “No poppers?? Why – who’s outside??”

She pointed to me: “you a thank you”
She pointed to herself: “I a no poppers”

OH no PROBLEM, OH thank god, thank god! Thank you chewie, you’re a great friend.

The adrenaline of learning that everything is fine is the strongest rush of all – it flooded into my head and my tingling hands.

Everything’s fine.

Except that I was still addicted to the release and my hands we’re drenched in the aura of semen. I washed and scrubbed my fingers, scrubbed my soul, and finally admit to myself that I had a problem.

I went back to the office realizing that it had all gone to far. I had reached rock bottom and I had to change. It was a depressing and horrible feeling, so powerful that it made me stay away from those places for good.

Or rather, for about 6 months, until last week, when I caught a glimpse of a mom’s bra as she bent down to adjust a stroller wheel while riding a subway.

That was it – I had to go back for the release. This time at least, Chewy was gone. Or busy. This time my girl was younger. This time it was $60, but they used a hot towel. Worth it. They got it under control – and so do I. I can live like this- as long as I don’t have to touch another man’s semen again, I can hack it. Everything’s lookin up. no chewy; no scratchy paper; no poppers.

No related posts.

Blognigger,

Alright, here’s my sob story. I’m a forty-one year old dad that lives in Park Slope. I’ve got the two greatest kids in the world and my wife is my best friend. But let me get right to it: It’s become clear to me over the last ten years that I am gay. Not bi-sexual, gay.


Astute Reader Franz the Fake writes:

Blognigger,

Alright, here’s my sob story. I’m a forty-one year old dad that lives in Park Slope. I’ve got the two greatest kids in the world and my wife is my best friend. But let me get right to it: It’s become clear to me over the last ten years that I am gay. Not bi-sexual, gay. Of course I used to think that I was bi-sexual and even got married under that self-perception, though without admitting what i then felt were just “homosexual tendencies” to my wife.

I’ve always known that I was at least partially attracted to men as I’ve been having sexual thoughts about men for my entire life . For as long as I can remember. As the years have gone on though, I see more and more that I’m living a lie, and at forty one (you might be too young to understand this but I’m taking my chances with you since you seem to have wisdom beyond your years on so many other topics) at forty one, I’m starting to realize that despite my overwhelming desire to provide for the ones I love, the idea of living a lie might not be something I can ultimately life with.. The idea that another 10 years will pass, and then another 10, and I’ll look at the mirror every morning and think that while it’s been filled with love and meaning – it won’t have been ME that’s been living this life.

Does that make any sense to you?

I would never want my children to end up in a position like this. Where they feel their entire life is an act and a lie – and I know that the truth will hurt them and tear up my family, but how can I lead them by example while living a lie?

If this is making any sense, I’d appreciate any of the unique wisdom i’ve come to expect from you blognigger. Go ahead and print any and all of this if it serves your purposes. I’ve changed all the telling details already and my email address is a one-off, so go ahead and do whatever you like.

Thanks for listening…

Franz the Fake

Hiya Franz,

Blognigger

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It’s not often that a writer sits down and candidly discusses his morning erections. If you’re a male, I’m sure you’ve had a morning erection. If you’re a female, chances are you’ve accidentally bumped into a morning erection. What are we to make of it all?

Scientists—who rarely know anything about writing—call the phenomenon of sleepy-time erections “nocturnal tumescence,” and I think I saw them open for Cannibal Corpse about ten years ago. Scientific theories abound for why men pop boners while asleep, but if you take a good look at most scientists, I wouldn’t trust them to know anything about sex. So I—a man so unbearably sexy, I stink up the room—am left to roam the dark perimeter beyond polite society and ponder morning wood as if it were a philosophical dilemma. The idea that men are slaves to their dicks is a social truism. The notion that men are powerless to contain their gorilla urges is a popular one. More than one girlfriend has told me that because I’m a man, I have absolutely no control over my sexual impulses. I like to think this is untrue except in the case of the morning erection. For that, I have absolutely no explanation. And this is why it upsets me. I look down, and there it is. I can’t rightly deny it. It’s a proud sunflower reaching upward toward all the warmth and light the world has to give. It stands like a gleaming rifle cocked to blast through the nearest little white dove. It leads me around like the big steel handle on a little red wagon. It’s big and sturdy enough to ride away on like I’m a witch on a broomstick. It’s my proud stalk of Hawaiian sugar cane. My bold Mongolian fighting stick. Ready for action. Ready to penetrate. Ready to rip, mangle, and pleasure. Ready, whether I like it or not. And that’s the problem.

Now, the wake-me-up blowjob is an entirely different beast. An unexpected mornin’ beej, in which a man rouses from slumber to find his member fully swollen and nestled within his partner’s eagerly slobbering mouth, is one of the finest things a man can experience in this cold, dreary life. But although the wake-me-up blowjob may be involuntary on the recipient’s part, this is more than compensated for by the fellatrix’s bold, decisive action. At least there’s a good dollop of the ol’ triumph-of-the-will involved. The wake-me-up blowjob is an existential act.

What disturbs and upsets me about morning wood is its involuntary nature.

I haven’t had a sexually graphic dream that I’ve remembered since I was, oh, four years old or something. I get all of my action during my waking hours. Or maybe I’m having dreams that are so perverted, I blot them from my memory before I awake. But to the best of my knowledge, waking up with morning wood has no immediate antecedent in my nocturnal fantasy life. I honestly can’t remember the last time I awoke from a dirty dream. But I wake up every morning with a nine-pound hammer between my legs. It defies me. It’s the very model of determination.

I don’t typically enjoy morning sex. I usually need a swig of vanilla-mint mouthwash and feel like I have to take a shit. I’m all groggy and cranky, and until I get some coffee and eggs in me, I’m a potential serial killer. Given those parameters, I hardly ever want to have sex when I wake up.

But that doesn’t stop the morning wood. My body has other intentions. It wakes me up with a hard-on that bypasses my mental functioning—that whole imaginary blob the experts call my “sexuality”—and simply wills itself into being.

And because it occurs with a seeming lack of will on my part, I’m highly ashamed. Mind you, not much embarrasses me. I’m not even ashamed of the fact that I use emu oil when I’m shaving my balls or that I sometimes let my wife stick her finger up my ass, but I’m ashamed of my morning erections because I have no control over them. I don’t necessarily have to use emu oil when shaving my balls, and if I don’t want my wife to stick her finger up my ass, I can just pull it out, but I have no control over whether or not to wake up with a bone-bone. And that’s highly embarrassing to a man of my mien.

It’s as if my cock is telling me, “See me? I am your fundamental project today. I don’t care about you and your precious ‘plans’—go ahead and stick me somewhere pronto.”

We like to think we’re driving the car, but the morning erection is a runaway bus that careens along with us trapped inside. It’s sad to contemplate that in the end, our bodies don’t give a fuck about what we think or feel. Our bodies wind up killing us every time.

The only sure thing I could do to prevent morning erections would be to sever my penis, and I don’t think I’m ready to take that step.

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Hey, all you masochistic, self-loathing male worms who enjoy being battered and shat upon by dominant females—open up your wallets, ’cuz there’s a newer, simpler, more thoroughly degrading game in town!

Hey, all you masochistic, self-loathing male worms who enjoy being battered and shat upon by dominant females—open up your wallets, ’cuz there’s a newer, simpler, more thoroughly degrading game in town! Variously referred to as “financial servitude,” “financial domination,” or “financial slavery,” it’ll erase your self-esteem and bank account quicker than you can say, “Yes, Goddess.”

Basically, this is how financial slavery works:

HER: “GIVE ME YOUR MONEY, YOU WORTHLESS MAGGOT.”

HIM: “OK.”

And that’s it! That’s all there is to it! The man allows himself to get fucked financially without the slightest promise of ever getting fucked physically. This is domination—and, in a broader sex, all “sex work”—distilled to its abusive, exploitive essence. There is not even the pretense of reciprocity. With regular sex-industry cash exchanges, as with most things on our unfair planet, one typically winds up getting less than what they pay for. But in this case, the sellers don’t even pretend—part of their appeal is an insistence that you aren’t getting anything tangible out of the deal. Traditionally, dominatrices at least give some kind of performance—they clamp nipples or step on throats or put out cigarettes on scrotums. They are at least required to do or say something before they collect cash. But with financial domination, the act of taking cash is the only work they have to perform. As one online financial-slavery dom puts it: “You pay me money, I give you nothing. Got it yet?” How fucking brilliant is that?

Well, I suppose one could say the man gets something in return, if being called a faggot and a maggot and having your “tiny cock” endlessly derided is something you consider worthy of plunking down hard-earned dollars. And if it sexually excites you to reveal your darkest secrets to a calculating shrew who openly threatens to reveal these secrets to the WHOLE WORLD online unless you continue paying financial tribute when she demands it, then the bargain must be especially sweet for you.

Financial slavery as it’s practiced on a staggering number of websites strips away all promises and is refreshingly honest. Its practitioners openly threaten to “rape the wallets” of their “pathetic scum” clients, leading them to “financial doom” while Li’l Miss Goddess spends their hard-earned dough and laughs. “I don’t care if you live in a cardboard box,” writes one financial-slavery dom. “All lavish living is all for me and your ass will work hard so I don’t have to!”

Financial slavery is a perfect meeting ground for man-hating women and the self-hating men who love them. These sassy gals make clear their utter lack of sexual attraction for these men, indulging a systematic process of financial exploitation and “ego reduction” until all that’s left of these guys’ balls is a shiny pink nub. Derision. Scorn. Contempt. And the guys pay and pay for it. One dom’s online “slave gallery” shows photos where a male financial slave poses nude, drinking his own piss and eating a bar of soap just as she instructed him via email. And her photo captions are mercilessly cruel. And he continues to pay her.

I understand the incentive for the women, but what sort of man would this appeal to? Why, man? Why would you want to do this to yourself? Fuck, I have no respect for guys who pay for 51% or more of a date, but this is ridiculous. Masochism is not appealing in either gender, but it seems peculiarly disgusting and unnatural when indulged in by a man. So I absolutely, positively, resolutely, flat-out refuse to feel sorry for these saps. It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who acquires brain damage after repeatedly hitting himself in the head with a hammer.

I also bear some contempt for the heartless, shallow, predatory vadge-pits who suck financial balls dry for a living, but it’s tempered by an admiration for their business acumen. It’s hard to see what the downside is for the women. What a great way to make money. She DON’T work hard for the money. Nice work if you can get it!

I need to come up with a scam like this, one even a tenth as clever as this one. For this first time in my life, I wish I were a woman.

EDITOR’S UPDATE: Visit Mistress Prima HERE

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2. STREET BONERS AFFIRMED ON MERGER WITH TV CARNAGE: STREET CARNAGE IS BORN

Seriously, what the fuck is up with a story about bestiality that is written so poignantly that you have trouble trying not to get horny while reading it?

With no trace of the raunch or degradation I’ve learn to expect from contemporary porn, these stories told instead a tale of seduction and intimacy, often from the animal’s point of view.

Consider for example, this excerpt from “The Watch Dog” when Matt, the German shepherd, finds his owner left unfulfilled by an impotent lover.

“Matthew felt a strange, yet powerful, awareness begin to kindle beneath his powerful furry flesh, a weird and exciting knowledge that had somehow come to him out of nowhere — the comprehension that this human, his mistress, was a female in every sense of the word, as much for him as for this man she seemed to fight with even now… A strange new found warmth crept over him at the realization that his mistress’ nakedness was no different from the sensual offerings of a female dog in heat! This beautiful woman, this human female, was burning up with that peculiar heat of unfulfilled lust!”

After that sexy stare down in which Matthew and the reader both come to realize that we are all the same, human or canine, he proceeds to give her the tongue-fucking of a lifetime, culminating in “a savage snap of his haunches that thrust his tapered cock all the way up into the wetly-gripping confines of her empty cunt!”

Compared to a video of someone’s dog fucking their sad aunt on the carpet, this is surprisingly romantic and lust-inducing. And for that reason alone I should never be allowed to read these books again.

Love,

Jessica

Related posts:

1. THE IRAQ REPORT: ME SO HORNY
2. DEAR STREET CARNAGE: AFRICA AND STREET CARNAGE SCAM
3. DEAR STREET CARNAGE,

Dear Lesley,

I am in a bind and am hoping you can help. I hooked up with this guy about a month ago and we’ve been sleeping together about five times a week ever since.

Dear Lesley,

I am in a bind and am hoping you can help. I hooked up with this guy about a month ago and we’ve been sleeping together about five times a week ever since. Pretty exclusive but nothing “official” has been declared. He is super hot, makes me laugh, and is fun to go out with. My friends like him and he has a large penis.  Problem is, he is ALWAYS broke. He is in a band, and builds sets supposedly but I’ve only known him to work two days total in the time we’ve been seeing each other. As far as I can tell, he smokes pot and hangs out with his bros during the day (who also have a great deal of free time, apparently) and then goes out with me at night. He’s never taken me out for a meal, and I am starting to feel like a sugar-mommy each time I pay for his beer or dinner.  I am 30 and have a full time job, by the way. Do I drop him? I am dying to have a boyfriend who actually takes me out on a G.D. date!

Where are all the real men? With jobs!

By the way, he is sooooo hot (I think I mentioned that.) The sex is awesome too.

Sincerely,

Flummoxed in Flatbush

Lesley

If you are confused by your sexuality or are considering cheating on your boyfriend or are addicted to cocaine or just had yet another abortion or don’t like your friends anymore… Ask Barfin Arfin what to do. She’s over 1,000 years old and went to rehab a bunch.

Email sbtvc at streetcarnage dawt com with “Ask Barf” in the subject.

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