Friday, June 30, 2006


One of the most refreshing things is the calm of a summer night after a particularly scorching hot day when you've been baked by the sun and your skin is red in places. I'm remembering being exhausted by activities in the heat outside that you never noticed as needing effort to participate in, and the feeling of fresh sheets and cooler air coming in through an open window make lying and staring at the moon's glow in a dark bedroom fulfilling unto itself.

All the kids had left. My brother was sound asleep on the sofa in my uncle's living room, you don't move him when he's out because it's just not possible. Chuck was probably playing Atari up in his room, and the girls, well, they were somewhere out of my thoughts for the moment.

That day it was as if the adults didn't exist and we had rewrote the Lord of the Flies so that everyone in the world that we liked and who liked us spent time wasting the hours of our summer, free from pressing thoughts, or prejudice, or judgment. I couldn't speak for the older of our set, but being twelve has the benefit of naiveté and wide eyed bumbling was forgiven for the most part.

There was the noise of the summer bugs outside. The moon was almost full granting anybody who cared supernatural night vision powers, relieving the little bedroom of it's electricity addiction. If I listened hard enough I could hear my brother sleeping down the hall, and the sheets were luxurious if even my subtle sun burn made me lie a little more on my right than my left.

I was drifting off to sleep when I heard a knock at the door, a soft knock, one designed to awaken someone with their ear to the wood and not people sleeping at the other end of the house. Since I could hear my brother snoring I wondered who else would be down here, this was the spare room and nobody else was billeted here.

"Yes?" I asked, but I didn't get up.

"It's Hill, can we come in?". Hillary opened the door and peaked in. Her face was questioning and illuminated by the only the moon. She looked at me through the crack in the door with it ajar.

I nodded.

Hillary and Melanie slinked through the crack in the door without making a sound. Without making the floor boards creak as if they knew where every audible land mine was in this particular section of the floor. They both sat on the bed next to me. It was a queen sized bed, so there was plenty of room. Hillary sat up at the head, and Melanie sat down by my feet, both still with one leg on the floor.

"Hey Jeddy, we were just talking and we wanted to know if you were in love with Mel here."

My stomach dropped. If it were a little hotter I would have instantly started sweating. I considered my two options, one was to make a break for the door, the other was to bust through the open window and run to Barry's house where I could hide from my guilty truth. It was typically a damning and pointed question because in as much as a twelve and a half year old could imagine the concept of love, I was hopelessly and utterly under the spell of that girl sitting at the end of the bed. Had I not been tanned and a little sun blemished, my adolescent blushing would have betrayed my feelings like an untrained Jedi apprentice being interviewed by Darth Vader.

"ugh, that's stupid!" My voice was pathetic.

In my mind I'm surrounded by three rolling rings and the judges of Krypton were larger than life on gigantic video screens around me. One of the judges was Brando, and they were all speaking in turn.

"guilty" My heart beat faster.

"GUILTY" This time louder.

It's something I think of often, when the script doesn't match the scene but you do the scene the way the director tells you like you're reading porn to a baby in that voice that calms anyway, and if the script is as crap as it feels reciting it then they'd ADR over you and your body language will complete the scene anyway.

She knew my lying all too well, she'd studied my boy mannerisms since I was almost five years old. Her brain was far superior to mine, and her cunning was already semi-adult in it's development.

My tenseness must have betrayed me first because she reached out and slapped my bare chest with a loud smack. The impact was amplified by my mild sunburn and it hurt like a bitch. I rubbed my skin as Hillary leaned in and stared at me for an agonizing few seconds of threatening silence.

I realized even more so at that moment that the escape option was impossible. Both her and Melanie were my size, perhaps stronger, and they were between me and the door. My aunt and uncle were in the safe zone at the other end of the house, but they were probably asleep. I'm sure even if I could get free of their girly defensive line, they'd take me down enroute like a pair of lionesses taking down a gazelle buck.

No, I had to face this.

"oh honey, it's ok, don't make me slap you again. Just tell the truth sweetie." She sounded maternal, but her eyes were devilish.

"You want to kiss Melanie so bad don't you baby?"

I hated her, my cousin, she was pushing my embarrassment meter through the roof and I was physically prevented from avoiding her torture and mentally too deficient to defend myself. Strange as it was, my terrorized cortex had directed energy elsewhere, perhaps it was confused because as well as being the angry captive, I was starting to become aroused.

I looked at Melanie, she was looking at my chest where Hillary has slapped me, or at my stomach or elsewhere. Then I looked back at Hillary. She stared right into that private part of my mind where all of the dirty little secrets were. I could feel Hillary prying into containers that I'd hoped were watertight. Those containers held the deepest darkest information about my boyish desires. They held desires that even I didn't understand but which I was sure that if she could taste them she'd be able to use them to consume me.

I stared back more intensely at Hillary, pleading with my eyes.

"I am telling the tru..." Before I could finish, Hillary's cat like reflexes had reached out and put my nipple between her thumb and forefinger and she twisted hard. She smiled out as if she was revealing something.

With an upturned inflexion in her voice, "you're lying butt face".

I think the slow encroachment of my sexual arousal had finally made an impact because I could feel my penis start to stiffen. There is nothing so obvious as the state of sexual excitement in a toned muscular boy wearing only boxers. Even at half mast my penis was making an unnatural mound out of the cotton covering my groin and quite unlike watching the development of grass, from Melanie's position she could not help but notice it's sudden growth.

"Oh, my goodness!"

As if we were the same animatronic dolls in some demented circus ride, Hillary and I both craned our necks towards Melanie who was staring intently at my groin that was bobbing up and down in it's steady growth towards full surgation.

Melanie did not avert her stare but remained fixated on my crotch, "it's bigger than Steve's". She had a sense of wonder in her voice that did not help my state any.

"I want to take a peek." She said.

They were faster than me because they anticipated my flight before I had a chance to execute the plan. Before I'd begun to lift myself from the bed Hillary had pinned my arms with her knees and straddled my chest where she'd slapped and pinched me. Melanie had quickly sat on my thighs holding down my lower half.

They were sat like two boy crazy girly perverts on a tandem bicycle, only I was the bicycle and it seems the subject of Melanie's ride was my inner tube.

As scared as I was, I was also understanding that this was probably the most excited I'd been since they released the second set of Star Wars action figures a torturously long two years earlier. Despite the obviousness of my twelve and a half year old penis being not mature and adult as it might have been had I already reached fifteen like these two pedophiliac nymphs, it was still a decent size.

The terror subsided and I could feel Hillary's hands in my hair holding my head down and it was not a bad thing. I was enjoying her fingers combing over my scalp. My eyes were suddenly drawn to the sight of Hillary's little bald pubic mound sitting adroitly on my sternum. She wore no underwear under her long t-shirt and in her effort to jump on me that shirt had ridden up just a enough to afford me a peek at where the two folds of her opening met. It was a beautiful thing to see, and my panicked squirming only served to let her rub her opening over my chest causing the two sides of her lips to roll alternately together and apart.

Melanie had since she sat on my legs started handle my cock through my boxers. She was measuring it's size with her hands. For all it could be, she was caressing my shaft and little balls like she was massaging the back of a kitten's head and it felt sublime.

Melanie looked at Hillary's back still holding my covered tent with one hand and said, "I think it IS bigger than Steve's".

I didn't know who Steve was, I didn't care.

Hillary looked over her shoulder and even though I'd stopped squirming as soon as the sensation of Melanie's hand stroking my dick had paralyzed me, she still continued to roll her little hairless vagina and clitoris over my bare chest arching her back a little to get a better angle.

Slightly out of breathe Hillary said, "take it out and see then"

Melanie put her fingers under the elastic of my boxers and pulled the front down. She then gripped my cock with both hands and squeezed it lightly. She then gave me my first real jolt of physical sexual ecstasy. It was already wet from my own lubrication and she didn't seem to mind as she started stroking it up and down getting her fingers under the head and making a ring around the base of the shaft with her spare hand.

"Yup, Hills, he's three years younger and his dick feels bigger than Steve's to me".

Without realizing it I let out a groan of pleasure. Melanie was still pistoning my dick as she looked around Hillary who was still rolling her crotch on me. Melanie stared at me taking my gaze from Hillary's pussy directly into her blue eyes.

"Does that feel good baby?" Melanie spoke in a soft motherly voice.

Her suddenly searching eyes looked gray in the moon light, and her lips pursed together. Her nostrils flared, and someone put my reality on slow motion. Right then with all of my resistance was totally gone. That strange feeling I had welling up between my butt and the base of my shaft was shooting sensations up my spine like a bag of fireflies threatening to burst. The sensation started to solidify in the base of my skull.

Then while still staring into her eyes I felt Melanie's smile merge with the love I felt for her in that moment. Her stroke became firmer and as she started a twisting motion in her grip I felt her immediately force pump my first real ejaculation into her hands.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

HNT 2 Michelle

My mind is sometimes like the television remote control that the cat has inadvertently sat on and his relaxed cat knee is firmly depressing the channel up button. Now that we have digital television and the "tuner" needs to calibrate the signal as it ships in through satellite or cable and takes two seconds to adjust, my cat on my mind's remote control sometimes gets me channel surfing my own memories in slow motion. The product of this is my incessant context shifting so follow if you can.

I have mentioned Michelle, she lives in the bay area and is terminally single. She's not single because she has a head like a shoe or makes cottage cheese dioramas with her thigh impression, she's single because she's detached and a commitmentphobe. Maybe she's my mirror image in femme form, maybe not.

Last night I was thinking about the weekend's plans, my first weekend off in a while, and as if she knew I was free I received a text message from Michelle. Here's how it went down....

17:55 (her) Saturday probably out. What about Sunday?

17:57 (me) Nah, gotta be back for early meeting Monday.

18:22 (me) How about late Saturday?

18:26 (her) If I don't go to Napa. Let me know your plans.

19:01 (me) hmm... I'm tingling thinking of doing all sorts of things to you. But if Napa is for you this weekend then I'll just have to picture my tongue in you and finish myself off.

19:02 (her) Not fair

19:05 (me) Yeah, but there's no rush... You'll still look good enough to eat in those little black panties next time, and taste as good.

19:06 (her) Jesus, I might be in a rush. I'm holding you to it.

19:07 (me) Poor baby.. You got an itch?

19:22 (her) What time!?!?

19:26 (me) 9, But I'd like to be in you with my hand over your mouth by 9:03.
19:27 (her) what else?

19:29 (me) Honestly, I'd really want to put you over your bed and listen to your moans while I hold your tits and fuck you deep... Too much?

20:01 (her) see you then, carb load.

See how she gets me to play her? She's changed her plans and now expects me to come up. It's really my fault, I know, too bad.

She does look good on the beach though.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


I'm picturing my uncle's house late in a summer afternoon. It was the same day that we'd seen E.T. Eight kids sat in a circle on our towels facing each other like a summer pool party version of King Arthur's court. This court was owned by Hillary, she was our leader in that she was an inch taller than me, had been to Europe and New York with my aunt and uncle, and could beat up just about any of us. Older by three and a half years, my older cousin and her brother Chuck who was my age ran their house like a summer camp. Their pool was the focus of all of Hillary and Chuck's friends, and unlike most siblings over ten and not quite the same age, they merged their cliques perfectly.

Back then water fights and waiting for the old people to hurry up with the hamburgers on the grill were part of that extremely long half of the year that was summer vacation. During days when my parents were at work I'd been deposited at my uncle's place with my brother every summer for as long as I can remember. The same kids would come over in the early morning and eat my family's food and drink our juice like it was their own. My aunt seemed to never be flustered by unknown children trolling through her kitchen asking for napkins or band aids or another bag of potato chips and every summer was the same brand of G-rated fun until that one stinking hot day in 1982.

After coming out of the cinema where she'd tortured my young brain for hours, the fifteen year old Melanie seemed to take ownership of my twelve and a half year old ass. It can't have been obvious because in my own bubble I was in full denial of the chemistry between us and therefore assumed everyone else was oblivious. There was no teasing, there was no awkwardness, and desperate as I was the prove to everyone that nothing was different from the last year, I was successful at least from my perspective.

At twelve and a half I hadn't realized how much I'd grown even though seeing my mother's height approaching like gas station on the highway and then slowly seeing her forehead drop below my eye line should have been a dead giveaway. I was just as tall as Hillary and all of her friends. My legs were shaped from running, my chest defined from the military routine my old man had subtly faked me into adopting on a daily basis since I was nine, and I had a muscular line down my stomach that defined me along with my jaw line and thick hair as unlike Chuck or Barry and more like Superman. Even the fifteen year old boy who lived next store, Robert, was shorter than me and blobby. Hillary called him Blobby Bobby and her and Melanie and her other catty friends would ignore him as if he was a mailbox that stood in his yard and watched them walk by semi-naked all summer.

Melanie had a long body with skinny arms and skinny legs. Since I have known her for twenty odd years I can rest assuredly inform you that she has never needed more than a thirty A-cup. She still has her narrow face, but always had good cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Her smile was broad and she had big white teeth that back then were probably too big. Since then she's grown into her face and became quite beautiful. Even now in her thirties she's an attractive woman in a modest way. I see her and her husband once or twice a year but In my own mind her long since gone dark Claudette Colbert bob-style haircut framed a face that my dirty old mind puts in that memory bucket that still makes me sigh and yearn for that new car smell of life. In that particular memory she's never older than fifteen.

We were sitting around on the towels talking about crap that only kids find appealing, how the bad guys came out on top in the Empire Strikes back, how hot it was that Mr. Drummond put an athletic black hunk in the same house as his virginal sweet daughter, at how our teachers sucked, football, baseball, Pepsi vs. Coke, Michael Jackson and the upcoming LA Olympics.

Melanie was lying opposite me on her front with her head supported by her arms. Every now and again she'd be stealing glances at me trying to lock my stare with her eyes. When she'd caught me looking back she'd beam a smile at me and then quickly look away leaving me with nothing while she went on to pretend that I didn't exist. Then she'd start the whole routine again, each time sucking me in deeper and deeper, making me look closer and closer to the way her lips moved when she spoke, or the way her dimples would crease when she laughed, or how even with her tiny breasts she was giving me my first cleavage show down the front of her bathing suit. When she was thinking she'd lick her teeth just a little, and it would trigger other chemicals in my body.

All afternoon Melanie played me going hot with her subtle body flirtation, then quickly ignoring me. She did this until she was sure that my own body language was begging her to pay attention to me again. That day, my mostly smart mouthed humor was deluged with that terror of confusion over if she was just messing with me or if she was determined to take me the way she wanted. In a carryover from "our time" in the cinema, I was rigidly locked in place lying on my stomach making sure that my obvious attraction was not to be noticed by the teenage peer group that would surely flay my twelve and half year old innocence alive had they known my developing penis was trying to dig it's way to China.

As wrong as it is, I still sometimes compare women's bodies to Melanie's skinny athletic mid-teen shape. I'm still too distracted by a svelte woman in a slinky orange one piece lycra bathing suit. It's especially potent if she's has a dark and square cut short hair and if her hips and longer than usual legs make the bikini line of the suit ride high over her hips. The deep core of my sexual image perversion subtly rests in the memory of a fifteen year old opportunist I met twenty four years ago that completely blew my mind out of boyhood and into adolescence.

In what felt like that last plane out of Casablanca before the Nazis arrived, my uncle loaded up his sedan with four of the eight kids and pulled out of their driveway taking them home after the long day. This left my brother asleep and snoring on their sofa in front of the TV, Hillary, Melanie, and myself.

Melanie was staying over.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Melanie and E.T.

I sat in the dark picture house intensely excited at the prospect of another Spielberg film about to twist my reality. If Indiana Jones, in my mind named after my state thusly being a cinematic prescient portent to the hero a young preteen from that very state could become, made me wear a leather jacket to school all year I was bursting at the seems to see what kids my age could do with a pet alien.

Air conditioning in the summer was also a good thing, as was copious amounts of coke, popcorn, and my older cousins and their friends. Pet aliens, Spielberg, junk food, and older girls, it was the weekend of a lifetime.

I was glad to be out of that crashing Indiana glare and mid June humidity that sucked the life right out of me, at least for part of the afternoon. No, scratch that, I was a very fit child, the summer atmosphere invigorated me and just as every morning since I was able, I went on that little two mile jog with the old man.

Relaxing in the theater and not really watching the still ads for car lots and hair salons my mind drifted again. That morning we'd stopped half way to do pushups and stretch as usual before the slog back to the house. An intoxicating smell made me think about how my father would point out and notice women that weren't my mother. While we were out running he'd tell me how pretty they were or how sweet their asses were. At first it made no sense. How sweet could an ass be as it neither looked like or as I assumed, tasted like sugar?

A year or so into our ritual, and it wasn't really a sudden thing, I'd started to understand his enthusiasm and noticed that he'd observe finer women when shopping or filling the gas tank just a little too enthusiastically. To my horror, I too was increasingly and magically drawn to breasts, or pert asses, or long legs, or shiny blonde hair.

Here's the fact of the century, I am my old man. My mother was prettier than he was so the combination went like a yin yang feng shui balancing act of the good parts of both. My father was tall, and lean egocentric, and a sexual deviate. My mother was thin, and graceful, and pretty and artistic. Therefore if you were to sum me up, I am tall and lean, graceful, egocentric, a pretty boy, and I'm just a little too artistic for my own good. Oh, and yes before you forget, I'm sexual deviate. Where I get the friendliness that people claim I have is beyond me. Maybe my mother blew the mailman while my father was inseminating her, who knows.

Back in the picture house the smell dragged me away from an incredibly cool Marlboro ad. It wasn't horse smell, or leather, or grass, or even cigarettes. Cheating right now using that adult knowledge of useless fashion shit information I can tell you it was Chanel No. 5. The scent was purposely reacting to the air washed over the soft radiant skin of Melanie, my cousin's fifteen year old school friend who sat next to me. Barry sat to my right and Barry smelled like hot dogs.

I didn't need to understand the way air conditioning stimulates air currents in cinemas built from a cement loving architect's dream in the 1970s. Something made that aroma waft up my nostrils where it triggered impulses that raced into the prone cobra reptile part of my brain. It was into the bit of my gray matter that evolved just before we were all cavemen where it connected with my new found appreciation for sexual arousal. I could feel my recently developed post-boyhood become engorged with blood.

I looked at Melanie, we were sharing popcorn because Barry had his own trailer full of it on the empty seat to his right. She looked at me, and it was the same girl that had been at my uncle's places playing with Hillary since before I could remember, or part of me thought that. This time in the faded light the photons from the Marlboro ad on the big screen flickered in her blue blue eyes. Her nose twinkled making me think new thoughts about Samantha the witch and how her pants fit her really well. Melanie's girly lips raised and she smiled and giggled at something bringing my consciousness to a new level.

I had a raging hard on in public and this girl was looking at me laughing at something. Was she laughing possibly at the stiff pole in my basketball shorts? Was she laughing because it was sticking up in the cinema like it was inhabited by circus folk underneath? Actually I was horrified and embarrassed for no reason, she was not laughing at my erection. She was just like me, excited to be out on a weekend with a bunch of kids sitting next to this cute friend of her cousin's and sharing buttery salty goodness. Nevertheless, the darkness hid my red face and despite all that ferocious self consciousness I was still able to lock her gaze and feel her good humor scrubbing me clean of doubt and negativity.

My immediate feeling was the hold her gaze long enough for my woody to retreat back to childhood. As she laughed, I laughed, then Barry laughed, but he might as well have been the Marlboro Man dying of emphysema for all we cared, this was a moment we shared. Melanie was cute, even beautiful, and my boy crush developed in the duration of my erection to encompass love and yearning for her fifteen year old womanhood in ways that I suppose were fostered by my father's secret Jedi training without my permission or premeditation. There was no guiding or controlling this, it was chemical imprisonment and I didn't care for anything else in the world at that moment.

I was sure she had not discovered my rod's condition there in the dark. In the middle of our laughing festival she reached over and put her hand in my hair and mussed it up so that it was not way my mother had trained me to comb it daily. Immediately after retracting her hand from my hair, she'd leaned in and without thinking I had also leaned into her, and she said, "now that's better". All I could do was sit there and go, "dah".

I was glowing because she'd touched me, and her perfume was even more intense because her neck was so much closer than before. Just when I thought the world was perfect and this fine fine woman had accepted me into her secret club, she put her lips on my forehead and kissed me. She was still giggling and playing with the hair on the back of my head when the movie started.

E.T. was for me, my first two hour erection.

Thank you Mr. Spielberg.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

First Audition

I'm sat in the passenger seat of Estella's Jetta with my elbow on the open window ledge of the door. My usual mid summer tan was in full bloom. I admired my forearm, the way the ridge of muscle bulges on top of the bend and even though my arm is bent and there's a pit just above the joint where no flesh needed to form.

I was finally used to the cavitative drum beat of wind rushing into the back seat. I had tuned out the procession of of Spanish pop songs that had been washing around my head for the previous three hours, but I'll not go so far as to denigrate Mexican radio. I was flexing my hand as it caught the wind next to the mirror, and it made little take-offs and landings on the window frame each time I tilted my fingers. The leather was not lush and extravagant but beige and well worn, probably sweated on quite often in the heat of the central highlands, and not quite welcoming enough to invite me to take off my t-shirt and stick to the lumbar support.

Switching from the endless procession of decrepit towns and dusty landscape I looked over to my silent driver, silent for a choice. She'd not quite so much as run out of things to say or questions to ask, but we'd just arrived at that comfortable silent zone.

Her button nose supporting her cheap sunglasses, her hair tied behind her head, her understated earrings designed by some Incan wizard artist inhabiting her earlobes perfectly. I wasted about fifteen seconds scanning her profile, yet sat in my head during the experience of a good hour.

Her bubblegum lips transported me to the morning where I had watched her fill her mouth with shampoo and wash my penis with it, rinse out, then figuratively make it the dirtiest bone in her body.

She blinked and her manicured lashes crashed down on each other in slow motion. Her brown eyes had listened to my visual stories, watched the betrayal of my body language, and fed her ammunition for her drilling responses and rapid questions. Her eyes also displayed her soul and had told me more about her inner feelings than any of her words could.

She swallowed air or something, and the muscles in her neck moved. The same muscles I'd licked in circles while other parts of her were being stimulated by other parts of me. The same neck that I'd tightened my hand grip around while the rest of her body strangled my penis into submission.

The curvature of her modest breast moved out and in with each breath. The night before, the space between them was a place for my balls to rest while she moved her breasts up and down my shaft. They ended in nipples that were at that moment soft, yet able to willing to investigate any sensation on their feet at a seconds notice.

She suddenly noticed me looking back at her and as if I'd disturbed the peace looked at me and smiled. If there was any tension in my body, it evaporated at that instant. The silence, the inner comfort, the feeling that I was going somewhere worthwhile, it was a moment when Moricone should have stepped in an taken control of the music and put it into your head that it was the time worth living for.

She cleared her throat and through the noise of the radio, her little egg beater engine, and the rushing wind through the windows she asked, "Tell me about your first audition in California".

"oh you don't want to know about that". There was defensiveness in my voice and I looked down at her bare thighs for comfort. Thin valleys were etched into them from years of running, and her skin color, well, I've spewed enough about how I wanted to swim in her hue.

"Yes, I do, go on"

"OK", I shot her my fake confident grin, the one that made Drew originally notice me enough on a cattle call years earlier to get me featured for the first time.

"It was in the early 90s, you know when pastels were still acceptable"

"You do not know your fashion, pastels are still acceptable in Mexico"

With that I'm transported back to a time when I had less wrinkles and still believed I was the next Kevin Costner, that's how fucking tragic I was. Back then my New York agent Arty, who was short and fat and funny and who had never gone an hour without a cup of coffee sent me to meet this LA agent, a cousin of his, who was also strangely enough called Arthur. Arthur was probably the best most well groomed man I'd ever met up until that point. I didn't know LA scum back then, but this guy was a shark among sharks, or so I'd thought.

When I say I met Arthur that day I arrived in LA, I didn't actually meet him, I saw him through a door way. Sure I was on his schedule but some E-list actor had bumped me but he didn't want to miss using me because my headshots were 8x10 sex manuals for masturbating homosexuals. So I'm standing like a gumbah in Arthur's reception and I was intercepted by a sixteen year old girl with huge thighs and braces. She informed me that she was Mr Arthur's assistant Mindy.

Mindy had been hired by Arthur that day and already seemed to think that if she bent over the whole San Fernando valley would wake up and have reason to adopt solar power finally because there was another sun stuck in her ass. Mindy wanted to talk to me, but all she really did was give me a slip of paper, probably written by Arthur's doctor the handwriting was so bad, with an address and a time on it. That was it, my first audition was set up. I had no place to stay, just a rental car and a lot of clothes in the trunk, my clothes, not owned by some wardrobe department.

I was dressed like Gordon Gecko, you know, the power shirt and the blue/gray suit, it was magic. I was not sure why Arty, whom I'd fed loads of scotch to, would dump me in this pile of disinformation. I was warned by others not to mess with agents on their turf if I was a nobody, and by the time Mindy had finished her schoolgirl flirting routines, Arthur's door was shut and he was busy on a call or something.

Fuck Arty I thought, but really I was fucked, and angry, and scared. I had nothing to go on, just an address and a time and for all I know the best start to a porn acting career this ensemble veteran could find.

I was on time, and I was able to find the place. It was a nondescript office building in Burbank, nothing fancy, just a boring slab built in the 70s, a brick and pastel number. There was no reception, just a bunch of chairs and another frumpy teenage girl with a walkie talky. Eight other guys who looked like me were dressed like tradesmen, one guy even had a hardhat. There were four other guys in the room who were fat and balding with moustaches and they were also dressed like tradesmen.

The teenage melancholist took my name and scratched me off her clipboard, then one by one each of the other "actors" in the room went into the other room. Each time the door opened I knew that inside was a lesser version of Dante's inferno and as my number was to come up any time soon, I was dreading the torture that was in front of me.

"Mr Leland you're on deck". The girl with the power announced to the room like she didn't remember who I was.

I stepped up and walked in.

There were three people in the room and a camera. The lead asshole, apparently the assistant to the assistant to casting director looked up at me, shook his head, and the guy to his right yelled out, "thanks for your time", and that was it, my first audition in California. I later found out it was for the hallowed role of "Janitor" in Red Rocks West, which was shot mostly outside of California but it still counts.

I took up Estella's dangerous offer of eye contact and could feel the timidity in my voice.

"I'm still bummed I didn't get to be on that show because I'd have been best friends with Nic Cage by now and we'd be drinking champagne in Monaco and shopping for fine china instead of burning gasoline on this godforsaken road".

"awww, poor baby, but you know you're pretty enough to have taken that role from anyone."

She sighed, looked at the road, and changed lanes. Then she looked at me, pursed her lips, gained twenty years of wisdom, and gave me what was the first of many wake up calls she'd give me and said, "and it would have been better if you prepared beforehand."

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Black heart

I'm conceited and selfish and sometimes distracted.

I'm self diagnosed with attention deficit disorder when it comes to people. What seems great one day is simply a ruse that one part of my Sybillious personality has used to distract the other guy living in my head enough so that he can take over and drive the life a little like Thing Number 1 and Thing Number 2. Not to admit that I am schizophrenic, far from it, I refuse to entertain my mental multiplicity because any employer I swear fealty to will only pay me once.

So you get one Jed, who shifts around and generally makes life a living hell for all those people who would like to keep him near. I don't emotionally shiv people intentionally, I'm just living a life I choose to lead. Strangely enough it's the other misfits, my brother, a couple of really nutty actors, one really rich and fucking perverse director, and Drew that hang on. Sometimes I look back in my wake and see them all tied to the ankles with fishing wire while I drag the old jeep out of second into third and really test the way skin peels off their sardonically smiling faces sparking on the asphalt when dragged down the highway.

Poor Drew, you know I love the guy, it's hard not to, but he relies on me and it's quite possibly the most painful constant in my life. Of course nothing beats my memories for pleasure and pain. So I'm having a hard time working out whether Estella's penchant for violent controlling sex was mostly painful or mostly pleasurable, or the way I've fucked up people's lives by not being who I am today and making subtle underhanded promises to be someone I'm clearly not. Hey, it's the lot of an artist to shift colors and be who they're not, although I'm not really an artist anymore.

I know that Pre-Estella I was worse.

I have been getting a lot of feedback about what I am writing here, most of it hate mail. I'm not sorry one bit for the details exposed. What you read here, I'll likely spit out if the moment takes me and that bottle of J&B is on the homestretch to the landfill. I might recite Lelandisms and parodies of those assholes who choose to cling to me if I find you're interested, or if I could capture an audience. It's mostly because I'm probably the prettiest and sexiest singing and dancing monkey you'll ever meet.

Pre-Estella I was 100% ego, and it was in overdrive.

There was a time when you could not find fault in me. There were no gaps or guilt or face values that I had violated. You could watch me cut someone off in traffic and by the time I'm done with you it's clearly their fault. You'd come to me with a problem, it would be about my conduct and you'd work for Paramount HR and be intelligent and experienced and emphatically full of piss and vinegar about what's right and what's wrong, but at the end of our warning meeting you'd be convinced that I was the one being abused.

Pre-Estella I was a rampaging sex addict.

Sometimes aspiring ingénues or up and coming cinematic visionaries would work with me, or work me. They'd be utterly delightful and smart and articulate and witty and gorgeous. They'd be carrying around with them the stuff of life that magicked everything they touched. They'd circle around me, a tainted black hole and be fascinated by my ability to ignore it and them and every lovely thing their parents had told them they were. I'd be that one person they'd met that was totally non-plussed by their amazing raw energy and spirit and they'd be on a mission to conquer me where they'd ignore those saps who continued to breast feed them praise.

Pre-Estella I was callous and cruel.

I'll let you in on a secret that is probably not too deeply hidden, if you'd care to peel back the layers. My ambivalence was a ruse. Inside I was testing the structural integrity of my Calvin Klien boxers with my hidden desire to consume their bubbly beautiful souls. I wanted to take that little pop-tart and her sculptured tits and come-fuck-me purity and make a scratch mark of their effigy still burning on my headboard. I wanted take their smiling self-esteem filled grins and use their mouths to drain my balls like they were too heavy to carry around.

Well, I'm still a bastard dog asshole with a black heart and a taste for destruction. Like I tell most everyone nowadays, you probably won't like me, but so long as you can follow along maybe you'll be entertained.

Of course, why Estella is a post fact in my life is another story.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Red burgundy sheets

I guess I wasn't in control after all.

Estella's bed was insanely comfortable. It had a billowy pillow top mattress which was a good two feet thick which sat on a deep wooden frame made from materials that could only be considered expensive if you knew anything about furniture. I did not know much about furniture at all. I know quite a few losers who are self proclaimed furniture whores, who subscribe to a mountain of catalogues from Ethan Allen and all those ridiculous lifestyle stores. They gaspingly adopt the Pottery Barn lifestyle with their matching armoires and Thomas McKnight prints and make me sick to my core. I lost the urge to learn that behavior a long time ago, maybe it had something to do with the fact that my grandfather spent most of his adult life sleeping in metal bunk in a metal room on a metal ship and Feng Shui doesn't like metal so it was not good enough for the old guy fuck em. Also, even though I'd experienced the nicest of sophisticated design shit in LA over the years, my fascination with both the book and the movie Fight Club and it's early indoctrination about how the things you own eventually own you make me vomit profusely at the idea of being that guy.

I do love a comfortable bed though, and women need little projects on a day to day basis to stop them going insane over the fact that they're not pregnant again this month, so sometimes the fancy nest is one of those. Estella's little project on that hot smoggy day in Mexico City after work back in the innocent days of the summer of 2001 was my body. I love my body and it's the greatest instrument I've ever had the pleasure of using. Lying flat on my back strung out like a horizontal Jesus I had each extremity that ended in digits fastened to strategically placed Mexico city Police Department issue handcuffs. With my whole torso toned and extended, I must have looked fantastic in the failing afternoon light streaming through the bedroom curtain covered windows.

If you ever get the privilege of fucking a woman who has a tendency to prefer deep burgundy colored bed coverings, keep in the back of your mind that these sheets tend to stain less covered in blood. It was not me lying on that bed that day, chained like one of Calvin Klein's personal fantasies. I was able to drift in and out of being in the unselected state of Estella's death grip. At that moment she was the carving knife wielding, satin panty wearing, smoldering sex lips having, faux torture queen. I had what could have been an eleventh rib removal gash on my side spewing just a little dollop of blood onto the bed. I could easily drift in and out of the terror fantasy until it was all brought home by feeling of her legs on either side of me. That skin on skin feeling brought me back, her smoothness brought me back. Her skin felt like how you'd imagine that new Neutrogena girl's breasts might.

I still had the pillow case over my head and I was trying to work out what was going on in the land of those who could see in her bedroom. Just loose enough to taunt me with the prospect of escape, the handcuffs clinked as I adjusted. She must have been on her knees straddling my chest because she brought her bare ass down and winded me in retribution.

"Stop squirming and you will not die", she spat out as she grinded vaginal opening and anus across my bare chest secretly issueing forth an unknown quantity of pheromones.

When thinking of her accent, I can still hear in my mind how she put her English together. That could well be something that amazes me and me alone.

I must not have ceased my movements fast enough because, and as I now discovered she was sitting on my chest backwards facing my legs, she made a broad stroke across my groin and slapped my still erect cock. It only hurt slightly, like a wakeup call at three am when you're sitting in bed waiting for the wakeup call. What was important was that my dick resumed it's rigid stance immediately and she grabbed and pumped it a little.

She sighed and yelled dissapointingly, "I don't think this thing understands that it is my prisoner". She'd resumed her younger pre-teen voice.

Still feeling her weight on me, and still restrained with each limb I lay there and felt her moving around, playing with something, and then I felt the soft fabric of what must have been her hand covered in the satin of her now removed panties. Her free hand grabbed my balls and lifted them up, and then she wrapped her panties around my dick, and tied it around once more time. She then tightened it around my shaft under my balls suspending them just above where they'd normally sit like a bridle.

I could feel her knees sliding up my side and her shins lay across my biceps. She leaned back and pulled the pillow case up so that is was just across the bridge of my nose. I still could not see up but sitting squatting over my chin was her naked rear end, which I could see looking down over my body.

I loved her smell.

"your tongue is out now Mr. President"

She lowered her pussy onto my face and proceeded to reverse fuck my mouth using my dick as some sort of video game controller. With one hand she was holding her self improvised panty-reins, and with the other smothering my pre-cum and lubrication mixed with her spit over my exposed helmet.

By this time her body had pushed the pillow case off my head completely and I easily found her clitoris with my tongue. I angled my head so my nose was nuzzling just inside the outer lips of her vagina. I wanted to bite her clitoris, possibly to attempt to retake control of the situation, but in my current state I was not sure what she would do if I reversed the pleasure to pain balance too far.

She came twice in that position in the space of a few minutes grunting like a female body builder trying to out bench me. After that I sensed that she was bored with it for the moment and there was a visible shift in attention.

"oooh, you are still bleeding, let me fix that"

Deliberately she angled her head down where I was still leaking blood, although not so profusely as before. Ramming her crotch back onto my face harder she put her lips over the wound on my side. She then started sucking the blood out of my body while jerking my dick up and down with her panties.

I can assure you that my tongue spent one hundred percent of this time as far into her pussy as I could extend it. I was desperately searching her insides, tasting every inche and feeling everything as deep as possible.

I loved her taste.

Between breathing stops I was trying to suck enough juices from her in the vain hope that she'd climax vaginally from my enormous tongue fuck. Back then my ego was probably out of proportion with reality, which is not suprising because it definitely is now.

With a mouth full of blood and her pussy smothering my face she must have known by the way she controlled the up and down motion of my dick wrapped in her underwear that I was about to climax. She abrupted moved forward and placed her mouth over my dick. Then in the most amazing display that only a gay David Blaine could have accomplished, proceeded to put my entire shaft in her mouth and throat until my balls held captive by her panties were all I could see of my dick. Using the back of her throat she milked my head three times and I almost blacked out as I sent forth a weeks worth of cum directly into her throat. She kept pumping up and down until she was convinced that I was spent and licked all around my dick. She then looked at me, in my face, hard eye to eye contact.

Still restrained and despite just having experienced the most mind blowing orgasm ever, I wondered where exactly the cum had gone too. As she at grinned at me with a face that took her all the way back to her innocence again, flawed only in the fact that she still had blood from my side on her cheek, she softly said.

"I love you."

As amazing as all of the things I have done and all the depravity I have seen in the world, at that moment I realized just how fucking sick I am.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Tim Tam

Here's a brief word from our sponsors..

Her lips puckered as her breathing got heavier. The warmth of her finger tips eroded away the time at which she could put this off any further, and her grip on the cookie had to remain firm enough to stop it from escaping, yet soft enough so that she wasn't sinking into the outer covering.

Like a praying mantis she swiftly put the tip of the tim tam in her mouth, just the end of it, the business end, the part where chocolate is on five sides not four. She couldn't help but lick the end of it as her lips enveloped the thick slab of cookie and chocolate and the creamy caramel delights inside. Her perfect white teeth must have contrasted ideally with the brown solid internals of the cookie as they sliced through the whole end, decapitating it cleanly.

Repeating the process she forcefully rotated the cookie and slipped the other end into her mouth rubbing the chocolate coating on her lips again to moisten the area where her teeth would invade it. Again the tip of the cookie was separated, however this time she kept it in her mouth and lowered her head so that the other side was in her coffee.

Her neck pulsed, her shiny hair bobbed, and because she'd lost 5 kilos this week her skinny waist and perfect unblemished ass tingled with joy as she sucked the coffee into her mouth through the maimed cookie. Now that the tim tam was engorged with hot liquid, it's insides were partially melting, and the climax to this event would be the ultimate reward...

We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming...

Friday, June 16, 2006

A little nick

To describe Estella's skin as Mediterranean would be unfair for her mother was the fairest and whitest Belgian to ever grace the new world in wanderlust. Even though Estella had a deep wash of southern European burn all over her oliverian skin, the Anglo-Saxon with Gallic flavored white genes mixed with her father's lineage of Spanish with Moroccan sun drenched brown like the finest vanilla bean infused coffee blend. The combination let her dance on the earth with a aura that bled an angelic glow from nowhere in particular that you could define.

Her unblemished feet stood apart, a perfectly balanced stance with the left slightly behind the right. I noticed that she'd painted her nails recently as my eyes drifted up her shins to her knees and over her toned thighs, my gaze went over the speed bump of her panty elastic as my eye caressed her pubic area still covered in white satin - the same satin that I knew was soaked with her wetness. My scan got as far as her navel, which was sometimes covered by her little t-shirt, but what got my attention was the long blade of the carving knife she held close enough to her body to control where it went, but angled just enough at me to ensure I knew she knew what she was doing with it.

"Rape me would you?"

I knew she was play acting, but I suspended the disbelief and backed up a step still pants less, my erection swinging in the breeze not quite sure of the fight or flight conundrum my imagination was toying with.

I raised my hands in symphony with my confused penis.

"you better know what you're doing with that." I looked her directly in the eye and she did not break eye contact.

"shut your mouth you beast and turn around". She was using her accented application of English in just the way that I liked it, stretching out vowels and rounding words in unnatural ways that having grown up in the United States would never consider to be the way to express oneself, yet it just added to her indescribable differences.

I turned around slowly and stood facing the doorway to the hall where I had entered.

Estella closed the gap and I could feel her breath on my back.

"I have this knife pointed at your kidney, you know what that would feel like if I pushed into your side? First the blade would part your skin like melted butter then the shaft would push itself into your body and you would feel through the pain like it was the blade itself sucking the lifeforce from your useless soul"

I nodded and let out a hurried "yes" and I could still feel my heart racing. Certain parts of my consciousness were starting to believe the game was real, and I could feel the danger endorphins releasing slowly.

Her free hand was tracing the lines of muscle in my back, smoothly stroking each valley with the tips of her fingers in exactly the way a police body searcher wouldn't.

"I think it's time we worked out what you have that I can take"

She traced her fingers down the small of my back and under my butt, bending over slightly she reached between my legs and made circular motions with her index finger on my balls that were, I was happy to admit, freshly shaved. I could still feel the dull metal of the carving knife on my side, she was resting the blunt side on my skin. She extended her reach to hold my balls like marbles, firmly squeezing them just enough so that the cloudy pain of compressing them together was not quite agonizing enough to overcome the sensation of touch.

"What do we have here?" she commanded, increasing her motion pulling my sack down as well as up against the lower shaft.

Pulling her hand out from under my legs she stroked my side with the blade and reached around me. I could feel her soft hair on my back and her cheek against my lower spine as she gripped my shaft. In perfect synchronization with her scraping my side with the knife, she pumped my cock which was now over it's confusion about whether to run and hide. The mock terror of a woman ready to insert a thirteen inch blade into my organs was winning in my manufactured war of the realities and my dick was responding to the heightened sense of danger sucking up the adrenalin. Internally I could feel my arousal becoming sickly close to overcoming my ability to control it, this was quite possibly the hottest experience of my life.

"mmmmm" She moaned like she was being fucked. "Yes, this pole will do just good."

For what seemed like an hour she stood there ready to stab me to death, licking me up and down my spine, and reaching around her hand was doing it's best to milk my rock hard cock of anything my testicles had created that week. In reality it was something like thirty seconds and about twenty strokes of her tongue, the knife, and her masturbatory excellence.

She tightened her grip on my dick and increased her up and down speed and warned me, "if you cum, I will kill you instantly". She could feel that my balls were ready to explode all over her tiled floor, and she knew the finer art of sexual torture better than anyone.

I groaned and closed my eyes, some part of me believed that if I did ejaculate at that moment it would be the most surreal and perfect death by stabbing one could have. What kept me from trying it out was that I was unsure if one could actually enjoy that experience and see the night through to desert.

"Good, you seem to know now that I am in control, move!" She purred as she released my dick and stood upright. Right then as she changed her posture behind me, I felt the tip of the knife nick my flank, a small cut.

She had stabbed me!!!

I did not come back to full reality. Just as it happened, I really didn't care about the cut. Despite the lack of tactile stimulation on my dick, I was still ready to blow my load on the floor just as if I was fully inserted into her tight wet hole ready to cram her full of my semen. The surgical cut she had just made only served to increase my enjoyment of the terror.

Her hand was now in the small of my back and I felt my own wet lubrication in her palm as she harshly pushed me forward into the hallway and on into that sublime chamber that was her bedroom. She guided me all the way to the left side of her bed and violently pushed me up against the wall next to it. This made a lamp and an alarm clock fall off the nightstand and crash onto the hardwood floor as my knees bumped the furniture. She reached over and took a pillow and somehow still holding the knife at my bleeding side, she took the pillow out and handed me the pillow case.

"Put this over your head and lay down on your back on my bed slave boy."

The last thing I saw as I obediently put the pillow case over my head was that on each of the four posts of her bed were a set of open handcuffs.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

The kitchen

The living room was mostly deep earth tones, reds, browns, and some subtle yellows washing together. The windows were floor to ceiling, the drapes parted just enough to allow streams of afternoon sunlight penetrate the veil and let the furniture augment it's coloring with the warmth outside. The whole apartment smelled like her bedroom which was airborne with her perfumes and pheromones, just the right allocation of clutter and neatness to suggest a sane mind and a healthy state of flux.

It took every part of my willpower upon entering her bedroom not to strip down naked and lie in her bed rubbing my permanent erection on her bed sheets. If I had, then they would quickly be soiled, owned, and then for me to drift off into sleep under the assault of the aroma of this woman's every day existence. It felt like paradise, her bedroom, altogether too erotic to stand alone and maintain my auto-erotical abstinence lest I save it for her to return from her day working. So I followed the ebb of her scent trail and put myself in her living room where the sunlight and soft colors created more of a relaxed feeling. In her living room, pictures of a fit old man sat on the side table eyeing me from three different pottery barn-like frames.

I fell asleep on her sofa and dreamed that I was eight years old, the day my father took me to adopt a puppy. This time we were not in my Dad's truck but in my jeep. It wasn't my father who was driving me, it was the man in the pictures who watched me while I slept who took me. In my dream he spoke like Ricardo Montalban. He informed me that raising a pet took patience and dedication, and for some reason their every whim had to be satisfied or he'd be angry. My dog from my childhood was also in my dream. We took her from the ugly shelter and as soon as we arrived at my jeep the dog took the car keys in her front paws. The old man from Estella's pictures was gone and the dog sat in the drivers seat and proceeded to drive me across town. She explained in soft barks how I am wasteful with my gas mileage, and it all somehow made sense to me at the time.

I awoke with a the sound of a click and a door opening. I was surprisingly awake for being just out of a complex dream, although I was unsure exactly how long I'd been asleep. I could have been out of REM for an hour. From across the tile floor came the tapping of heels and then keys jingling. A shadow crossed the shaft of light coming from the hallway and into her kitchen. I was not seen because I was flat out on the sofa.

Standing up, I stretched and walked barefoot into the hallway and peaked around the corner. She was standing in front of the granite kitchen island surrounded by cherry cabinets and dark stone. Because the kitchen had no windows, just the light from her dining room windows streamed in from the far side.

There was enough illumination to see her form with her back to me standing not six feet away. She wore her little jeans fitted to her slim butt creating just enough hang to fill out it's petite proportions. Her ass firmly gripped and owned the seam down the center and that seam disappeared between her cheeks as it curved under her. She wore a dark gray athletic sweater over her coat hanger shoulders that was zipped down the front and with a hoody. She was complete with red stripes down the arms.

Her hair was up in a bun and even in this light I could make out the subtle muscles of her neck extending her head forward so she could read the mail she'd obviously just collected.

I stepped forward and because I had no shoes I made no sound on the tile floor. She didn't hear me move until I was right behind her. As I was a lot wider, and taller than she, I wrapped one arm around her and put my hand in to where her top was unzipped and felt for her right breast. I put the other arm around her, raised my hand up and grabbed her under the chin, thumb and forefinger on either side of her neck. I then titled her head to the right bit her on exposed section of her jugular without any real pressure so she could feel my teeth and circled my tongue around on the flesh between my lips.

She instantly tensed up in shock, then relaxed with a deep exhale and sank into my grip, the mail dropping to the floor.

I nuzzled up to her ear and breathed, I could feel her heart increase it's rhythm and her nipple stiffen as I massaged her breast.

"You should be careful who you let in your home miss", I whispered into her ear, not really sure if it was menacing enough.

"oh no, what will you do tooo me Senor?" Her voice was more childlike than usual, an affect that made my already erect penis throb as I used my hips to push it up against her butt wedging her little body between me and the kitchen island.

"I'm going to rip your clothes off and make you lose your mind in ecstasy"

She moaned and wiggled her hips up and down firmly lodging my erection between against her firm behind, "noooooo" she whelped, "and then what?".

"Then when your body has totally given up the fight and I own you, I'm going to fuck you and inject you with every ounce of cum I have".

"no, you cannot", her little girl voice was tainted with her accent, pronouncing "cannot" in a way I can't describe that made me almost lose all patience. She pretended to try to escape but I held her with my left arm grasping her breast and my hips holding her firm against the island.

Relaxing my grip on her neck I reached down and unzipped her top all the way, then unbuttoned her jeans. The fly zipped open on it's own and I slid my hand in between her legs. We'd backed up a little from the island and were now standing in the middle of the kitchen.

She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her jeans and pulled them off her hips as I slid my hand under the elastic of her little white satin thong placing my finger on her clitoris. She bucked forward to get her jeans off her ass, which then fell bare flesh with just the little T of her thong in the small of her back onto my crotch in perfect position where she continued her up and down faux struggle to escape.

With one finger playing around her entrance, this was the wettest I'd ever felt her. Her panties were saturated. She moved one hand down and held it over the mine lodged between her legs. Then she reached around and unbuttoned my shorts and let them drop to the floor, I was not wearing underwear and now my rock hard shaft was feeling her bare ass ride the ridge on the underside. This was almost unbearable, and it was probably only the concentrating on keeping my finger on the bud of her clitoris that kept me from blowing my load all over her back there and then.

Without warning and in a deft move, she reached forward over the island and grabbed one of the carving knives that sat neatly arranged. Pulling forward in the same motion she swung around, which served to detach our embrace and held the knife at me.

"Now mister, you do what I say".

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


When thinking about Mexico City you can't just envision Bogota or Lima or some other dusty godforsaken place and think it's another pit of Latin America. Many people consider Mexico to not be a rich country, but realistically there is still a lot of money in Mexico, it's just not spread out very well.

One thing that is prevalent is branding. Billboards all seem to be larger and more prolific, and all of the familiar sights of commercialism are available to be seen on the roadside. People wear their logos and colors with pride, and outright materialism seems to be the new God of the New World. Most of this commercial paganism is either American or European copies of American products. America owns the world through cultural hegemony, everyone just hasn't woken up to the idea yet.

Benito Jaurez International airport is way across the city from San Angel and I spent an hour in the Volkswagen deathtrap listening to my driver sing a Madonna medley with tremendous energy and verve, but with utterly imperfect pitch. There are a few expressways that dart across the city, and although we took the most direct route as it was a flat rate we agreed on, it felt like I came off one freeway and got on another too many times to count.

While singing along to "Like a Prayer" or "La Isla Bonita", my driver gunned the car up to 45 miles an hour and straddled two lanes. He used the gaps between cars to dart in and out in front of those he wanted to pass. He was an expert at staying in third gear, maintaining speed, steering with one hand, messing with his CD player, and craning over the gap where the front passenger seat was and telling me things in some sort of Spanglish. For the record, I loved this experience, all the way up to point where he seemed to take interest in my shoes, bending over to take a closer look while still managing to change lanes.

There was no seat belt and there was a good chance I was going to die, at least that was the rush I was feeling. This human creature did the drive torture every day of his working life. Even if I didn't appreciate it, he was the living expert in driving around Mexico City and staying alive. I'd be one hundred times more likely to die in a collision had I rented my own car. Just as we get on a roller coaster and trust that the tracks and the engineer that built the thing knew how to keep us alive, we can revel in our fear of death and just enjoy it.

True to my pact with the worst Madonna impersonator on the planet, I was delivered to Estella's apartment through the smog and high altitude oxygen. The driver even got out of the cab and shook my hand. His English seemed to break down at the mid point of our journey. I figured in the end he probably had seen me on a re-run or I looked like someone famous, but he was probably enthusiastic about everything and it was just my vanity making me believe he was genuinely proud to serve me that day.

Not quite out of place in the neighborhood was Estella's apartment building. It was a glass and cement mid-rise amongst a modest display of landscaping and was complete with a set of parking bays to the side displaying an assortment of BMWs and Benz's that would not be out of place in Beverly Hills. It wasn't an isolated compound either, there was another fancy building on either side, and across the street. There was a decent looking shopping complex nearby, some sort of PF Changs ripoff with valet parking, a Starbucks or something like it on a busy corner with people sipping lattes in sunglasses, and to top it all off the streets were clean. I could have been in LA, the suspension of belief held tight despite the cleaner streets before me in the moment.

The doorman was handsome, tall, and wore a clean well fitted suit. Once he acknowledged that I was the guest that Estella expected he turned his command presence, or policeman-like demeanor into a more welcoming and smiling stance. He informed me that just as she had told me, that Miss Estella was at work and would not be home until later in the afternoon. He then handed me a white envelope containing a key and directed me to the elevator where I was to go and let myself into her apartment.

Some women make me feel I'm back in my mid-teens standing at my date's doorstep on a Friday night. Back then the hormone levels were sky rocketing and everything about girls was the freshest and the newest most exciting chemistry to experience. Estella was one of those women who just completely turn me on in my own head without really having to do anything. She wasn't even home, but while I walked down the corridor to her door I felt an erection coming on and endorphins flood into my system, I was actually excited to see her place for the first time.

My mind raced with images of the way she cocked her head to the side when acknowledging my bullshit stories. The way her lips retract from her teeth when she smiled. The way her nipples become erect with the slightest whisper of a touch, and that small of her back the way her perfect butt ends and the way she wears a thong. Then I'm hearing her laugh at me, in my own head, at how sometimes I'm just dumb and screw up the simplest things and she's laughing at me and I don't care because in those moments this amazing women's attention is wholly on me, and that's like being in the sun.

So it's probably understandable that approaching her front door alone was one of the few times, as I held the key in my hand, that my palms were sweaty and I was nervous.

As I turned the key, the door opened, and I stepped inside.

Monday, June 12, 2006


What are you?
How are you perceived?
What do you say when you are animated?
What do you hear when you listen to people?

My friend Jon invited me to come to a "pickup seminar" with him last year, a seminar held by someone he called a genius in our time. I won't mention names, but Jon is wealthy. You have seen him in quite a few television commercials, and he seems to pop up in a movie once or twice a year. He is also fat, glistening with that John Candy syndrome where people like him but women never took him seriously, and so, as he claimed, the seminar was by a pickup artist who would revolutionize his life, and because he's got every single woman who's ever fucked him through his connection with me, he decided to pay my attendance fee for this seminar.

I liked Jon's enthusiasm, and he almost convinced me just over the phone that he was going to go from fat to phat in a weekend, or possibly a couple of months. Further recollection told me that I'd not quite bought it, but anyway, here's what happened.

We went to a hotel lobby at a specified time and met up with a guy who used a dumb pseudonym, we'll call him DPN. He was sharply dressed,and sported a goatee. His hair was really short and he looked like he was wearing makeup, actually, he looked like the coolest guy at a Dungeons and Dragons convention.

Here three other guys of various shapes and sizes, the blobs, appeared. I don't need to describe them all that much because they were generic nerds, the types of guys that we shook down in high school for small change. Nevertheless, I like nerds now because they're up with the internet and stuff and they don't get in my way. Regardless, it was me, Jon, and a trio of nerds with DPN and his sidekick, who happened to be a shorter version of DPN, no goatee but with a ponytail. I figured sidekick was more like the main player in the group, the guy who knew all the monsters stats and that DPN was the dungeon master.

DPN had a huge ego and as soon as I came into view seemed put out, like a nerf ball expanding after being clenched too tight. The dynamic was interesting, since my study of body language from acting school is precise I'll try to explain it in easier terms. DPN was always faced away from me, and if he ever spoke to me he'd do it over his shoulder. He was singling me out because I was the dominant male in the group, even though he was the instructor. I later found out that this was all part of his instruction. Honestly, I didn't like DPN or sidekick at all, they were 100% fake and completely unnatural.

There were routines we had to memorize. There were subtle insults to throw. There were women in bars to approach and test out various attitudes and concept with, all scientifically drawn, and all 100% fake.


Since Jon was also an actor he pretty much sized up the whole seminar as I did, although one thing it did give him was a structure to work with, a protection attitude to run with, canned skills to approach women cold and get a favorable result. So in DPN's honor, I'd have to say that for people who can't do it naturally, fake works.

The problem is that fake doesn't last. The one concept that I totally believe in is the cat-string theory, but I didn't learn it from a pickup artist, I learned it from watching women in school throw themselves at me like idiots when all I wanted to do was workout and score some pot.

So if you want to know the art of pickup, just run with this concept. The less interested you are in someone who's already interested in you, the more she's going to burn to get you. As soon as you turn over and become more interested in them, you're fucked, especially if she's a really attractive woman.

So if you're an attractive guy, good bone structure, good build, you're automatically going to attract someone who's hot. If you're unattractive, and fat and lazy, you're fucked. If you're in shape, no matter really how ugly you are, you're going to attract a hot woman. Think of it the other way around, if you're in a bar and an unattractive woman is there but she is in superb shape, you're still going to want to fuck her. If that same woman is 35lbs overweight, you're going to get a softy and pass her by. Women think the same way on a subconscious level.

If most people regard you with respect and admiration, then the women you naturally attract will also regard you with respect and admiration. If you are used to people respecting and admiring you, then you will carry yourself like someone who gets that respect and admiration and women will see it. Why? Because an average woman is ten times more aware of your body language than the average guy, and you're going to bleed the confidence of "expecting" people to continue to respect and admire you, she and most other people will mostly automatically follow your confident body language by falling into line.

If you have a life, if you are passionate and interested in what you do both at work and in your personal life, then your character is armed with a lot of interesting, at least to you, concepts and experiences. When you talk about your life and what you're about and if you are that passionate or interested in it, no matter if it's llama herding, you're going to be animated in a way that will make others interested in whatever it is. Consequently, they will be interested in not only your passions and interests, but by association, you also.

When others speak to you, do you listen to what they say or do you just project what you hope they'll say and actually brush their ideas aside in the vain hope that they'll start talking about what you are about instead? You have to become interested in other people's passions and interests, you have to reflect what they say to you and stroke their egos for being so wise in their applications. If you can get a woman to talk about herself, and keep her going at it, you'll make her attracted to you because she's speaking to you about someone she's in love with, herself. If you can make her feel that love she has for herself while she's looking at you then she'll relate you to that experience. If you can listen, if you can participate without making it about you, then you're already the man of her dreams - at least for right now.

Summing it all up, no matter what anyone tells you, the guy who is attractive in some way, who is well regarded and respected in life, who has his own projects goals, and passions and can express them, and who can listen to let a girl indulge herself in herself good or bad is a catch. Feel free to refute any of this but I know that no matter what anyone's told you in the past, yes figuratively, the lean good looking cut guy will always get the girl's eye, whether that lean cutness is flesh and bone or something etherically beautiful, doesn't matter.

-This post dedicated to Charlie Brown

Wednesday, June 07, 2006


I don't know how appropriate this is but WDKY has something called half naked thursday, HNT. Figured I'd play along.

Happy days!


The 405 is a bitch in the morning, especially southbound. Don't get me started on the end of the 10, let's just leave it at the 405 and it's ability to pack in the most numerous asshole count along a confined corridor in my known world. My jeep gets disgraceful gas mileage, and contributes it's lifetime share to the marine layer in one of two months when I'm driving normally, but with stop-start and being tempted to drive over the guy in the Porsche roadster, you've seen him, the one with the toupee, I'm lucky I'm my calm self. So the freeway was horrid five years ago, it's still bad today.

The exit ramp for Sepulveda Blvd is popular. You take it via the Howard Hughes Parkway which is the shortest most pathetic parkway in existence. The ramp is LA's equivalent to the candy floss line outside the magic kingdom at Disneyworld on the July 4th weekend, and exactly like that, with a bunch of ugly strangers in parallel, children screaming in the backs, road rage just about to boil, although at Disney it's more like "I hate my family building up from years of selling out and compromise-rage", actually guys commuting on the 405 have the same issue. As much as I love LA, I don't enjoy being that ephemeral snake's dinner waiting for this line or that line, even at 6 am, even after the music video Everybody Hurts, and I don't think a Maserati would make it feel any less demeaning even though it would compliment my hairstyle.

Cut to the airport. I know that the plane I took is still flying today in 2006, even though it was half decade since I took the flight. The plane must have had a history of taking off in Des Moines and landing in Minneapolis, or freezing at Logan airport and landing in Albuquerque, all the while soaking up the smells of fat middle American businessmen and tourists and their demonic children. Old American planes go to Mexico to die, or retire, or work as senior citizen at Wal-Mart. If airplanes have twilight years, they're spent working for Aeromexico. Somehow in it's dilapidation, the FAA and the Mexican equivalent allowed it to rattle down runway 23, and Aeromexico 18 left LA at the ungodly hour of 7:20 am.

I'm good with turbulence even if I knew the pilot earned his chops flying ancient planes in the Mexican air force. I'm good with middle of the road pilots who look like Tom Cruise Top Gun wannabes. I'm ok with even with their porno mustaches and oversized mirrored sunglasses, so long as they do three things, take off ok, fly straight, and land ok. Turbulence is not a problem even if the pilot accidentally catches a few zz's listening to the San Diego tower hand him off to it's southern counterparteros. One thing that does bug me is the constantly opening overhead luggage bins, and people who take groceries on flights, that freaks me out. Our Boeing 737 was probably the first model of the 737 class ever sent down the tarmac, and it tended to rattled in places I dare not remember just now. The wing wobbled with each bump just a little too much, and I'm thinking back to that outer limits episode where Shatner's combating the gremlin on the wing, and I don't see anybody with guns strapped to their ankles. This I suppose was a good thing in our age of the terrorist.

Surprisingly enough the flight attendant spoke English. Of course any Mexican with constant contact with seedy gringos would know English, I'm just naive. Why is it that someone from a non-English speaking country fed up with being ramrodded with foreign culture and language hasn't grabbed the insurance salesman from Topeka on vacation in the stupid golf shirt with his man-breasts, pushed him up against the wall and screamed at him to speak Spanish or French or German... come to think of it, I'm sure the Germans have done this once. Despite disheveled condition of the plane's interior, complete with decade old coffee stains near my priceless groin, the in flight service was immaculate. I just had coffee that morning, and I feared the attendant would probably have exceptional glute- fitness with all the bending down to pickup random cabin baggage from overhead bins or spastic passengers, but at least it was good coffee. It didn't warrant second cup, and it didn't keep me awake, but it was a highlight of the four hours I spent in that flying Mexican prison.

My mind drifted off somewhere, and I'm in mid conversation standing on my deck three days before.

"Do you know Mexico City?" Estella was speaking to me via cell phone in her concerned tone, but her voice was still pure sex, or Mom, or a shampoo commercial. She was messing with my emotions without knowing it, or did she?

"I've been there before, I have your address, I'll find you, and plus there's one other thing."

"What's that?" I could see her changing her posture and sitting upright with that question.

"I can take care of myself, you know I'm a big boy."

"oh si, I know that." She giggled a little.

"Ok, cool, so get a cab to my place and we'll work on your Spanish". Her cool came out like a French maid saying asshole, only in French. "Coo- ewl" will have to do as my phonetic memory and spelling of such doesn't give it justice. Estella's voice inhabited a room in the same way that a fresh baked apple pie aroma sits in a kitchen. It's strong and enveloping, but pure pleasure and comfort. When she spoke I felt she could make all the pain go away, except I hadn't just fallen off my bike and scraped my knee and I wasn't five years old.

The old Boeing landed like a sack of bricks hitting a rubber floor and as soon as we stopped at the end of the runway the air-conditioning switched itself off and I could feel the heat outside sucking the coldness from the cabin. Aeromexico does this so that the interior of their aircraft becomes uncomfortably warm by the time it reaches the gate. This obviously makes for a speedy deplaning for all people except the huge woman with the groceries in front of me. I'm sure it's a good time for bacteria to cultivate in large numbers, although that might just be my racist subconscious trying to get me to stay out of unclean countries, nonetheless, Mexico City is even by LA standards, dirty.

Out of gate 32, I never check baggage, I motor past a bunch of Mexican frat boys, a couple of nuns, and an incredibly short pilot wearing mirrored sunglasses and an oversized moustache (cloned perhaps) and clear the secure zone into the main terminal area. I searched my memory, found my shades and headed for the ride of my life.

Other than Estella oozing electricity, this was the other part of the trip that I looked forward to, and it's all legal. If I'm ever stuck at MEX, or arriving for whatever reason, I go straight for exit door number seven, cross the incredibly long and bland pedestrian walkway up the stairs, and go to the hidden taxi stand on the other side of the parking lot. Had I been less than adventurous, there was another taxi stand nearer to the terminal with more comfortable air conditioned cabs with larger seats and sane drivers, but I always have to do things the hard way and this was the experience.

I arrive at the forgotten taxi stand and there were a dozen people in front of me. Twenty or so ancient Volkswagen beetles with quaint little taxi signs lined up in front of the rank. The fattest Mexican dude I have ever seen, with enormous sweat pits under his arms held a clip board and was ushering people into the encroaching death trap taxis like some grotesque college kid working the two headed dragon coaster at six flags.

El rapido, the taxi attended, flailed at arm at me and asked me a question in Spanish. It's the same animal you find at LAX or LaGuardia, the body language is identical and even though my Spanish is on the level of a cocker spaniel understanding the finer elements of Madame Bovery in it's original French, I just smiled at him and muttered.

"San Angel por favor."

He laughed a little to himself, ripped a ticket off his clipboard and handed it to me. He went up to the next "cab", and I use that word lightly, and shot out something in Spanish to the driver and handed him a similar ticket.

The taxi attendant looked at me, he must have been two hundred and fifty pounds and he had tattoos on his neck. He then opened up a smile containing the most complete set of white teeth I have ever seen, whiter than Jessica Biel's. I recoiled in amazement as he grinned and said "Have a nice day senor".

I climbed into the backseat of the little green Volkswagen, the front passenger seat had been removed for ease of entry, and felt the luxury of 1940s Nazi German engineering at it's finest. The driver had an obvious interest in passenger comfort because I think the blanket he'd draped over the back seat hiding whatever damage was underneath was the same one my niece used to put under the saddle of her prized farting pony. The car had a new car smell, which I know came from a bottle, and the same type and color "Air Freshner" that you'd find in a Newark New Jersey taxi was stuck to the front dash.

The most complete Spanish I know is how to tell a taxi driver to get somewhere, call it surviving in Latin America or whatever. I have been told that my Spanish sounds more Portuguese in accent. I prime myself each time I have to make an impression on the natives down in Mexico because I'm really not a great person at languages.

Trying to get the scenes from "The Mexican" out of my head, more specifically Brad Pitt trying to speak Spanish, I think of the last time I saw Jimmy Smits on a film set. The way he carries himself, his bulk which is immaculately hidden, his perfect hair, the way people of both nationalities take to him, and think how would he sit back in this carrion infested cab and direct his "driver". A couple of seconds later, I'm relaxed, I am Jimmy Smits, I am cool, comfortable, a fluent speaking native of Mexico, ready for anything and I'm about to give the driver the audition of my life for my big break on Telemundo and he leans back over his seat and looks at me.

This is where the wheels fell off in my head, because he's this wiry little guy with a three day growth, horrible acne scars, and a matted mullet like he grew in an Arkansas trailer park that had no shower facilities. He looks at me through his left eye for his right eye was lazy and was investigating the torn roof fabric or whatever. I thought I was prepared for anything, but here sitting with me in this tragic version of a cab from hell was the Mexican version of John Merrick. I nearly spat out my gum.

I couldn't see any teeth when he smiled, but he looked me up and down and said in a southern California accent, "where to dudester?"

The world righted itself and my need for Spanish evaporated. I gave him the directions for Estella's place and with the world's worst English accent I'd ever heard gunned the little car out of the taxi rank onto the bumpy road with a "Rightyo guvner".

Monday, June 05, 2006

Casual thing

I have a special friend and we have an unspoken agreement. This has been going on for over a year and for someone like me to be attached to someone after this long means something is going on above my level of comprehension - usually after a year I'm bored. I'm still at a loss as to how she gets under my skin, but she blurs the line between the friend-zone and the casual fuck thing so finely, I think I'm being played into marriage like a slow war of attrition and I am unaware of the news.

Like I wrote, it disturbs me just how horny Michelle can get me. It disturbs me just how different she is and just how normal she claims to be but can be anything but normal. She has the ability to casual call me and get me working to play her, even though, I'm sure at the end of the day she's been playing me all along, and mostly she gets what she wants.

Michelle is a little 5'5. She's a long distance runner, so she has shapely legs with toned thighs and calves, and a tight tight ass. She looks great in jeans and heels and I've stood behind her walking down the street admiring the way her buttocks move with each step. When I'm with her she seems to be always horny.

She also lives in San Francisco, so I'm not always around her.

We have had this habit of meeting up after she calls me. I would just jump on a plane and go-see some people trying to curry favour with some producers that prefer living in the north of the state to the south, it's convenient. Some things stick in my head more than others, like once I'd visited her and she lives up by Alamo Square, and she was not home when I got there so I waited on the stoop. Once she got home, one thing lead to another and before long I had my hand in her panties and was pushing her up against the wall kissing her.

"You've become wet down there" I said as I inched a finger into her.

"I was wet the moment I saw you" she replied grabbing my hand and pushing it deeper.

Still, sometimes as I am a flake I don't respond to her when I know it's awkward. Sometimes she sends text messages from a few hundred miles away taunting me. Sometimes she leaves a voicemail that I could have got from Drew. Sometimes she calls me after dates and gives me descriptions of the guys.

"You know, you can't send me an email with too much information, and suggesting medical tests that have you on edge and NOT pickup the phone when I call". In saying this she blurs the line somewhere. She cares about me as a friend, she doesn't care that I fuck casaully, but she still uses me like her pony whenever she wants it.

I know I'm not the settling down type but I don't know what she thinks. Am I friend, long distance boyfriend, a constantly passing ship, muse, what?