It was Midnight and freezing. The trip from Morgantown to Welch takes five hours, if you got your own car. Hitch-hiking had consumed the whole day, and home was another fifteen miles away. Who would pick me up here at this hour on a Friday night?
It happened right outside of Cookeville (TN), in the Summer of 1977. Didn’t mean much at the time and later on, when it did, figured nobody would believe me.
The pickup had broke down. On a good day it took eight hours to get from Welch to Dickson, but now there could be no telling what time we’d arrive at Mamma Bertie’s house. Wanted to see my cousins. Daddy sent me to hitchhike to the next filling station. Said he’d better tend to the truck. God damn lazy if you ask me.Read the rest of this entry
Friends, a spectre haunts our world; one that threatens the very survival of the human race. That’s right. I’m talking about Gluten. Our numbers are growing, but hear me out. We are not the only ones who are gluten intolerant. Ann Wigmore (may she rest in peace), once said, “I have seen the Gluten Intolerant and they are us.” The entire world is gluten intolerant. The onus is upon us to save mankind from this looming devastation. Let’s take up arms against this enemy. United we shall not be defeated. Read the rest of this entry
It’s November 3rd again, time to remember my fallen comrades shot, five killed, by the Nazis and KKK on this day in the Greensboro of 1979. Every year I write some commemoration. I was nineteen then, now I am middle-aged. I tell myself that young radicals of the Occupy Generation need to know the story, so they “don’t make the same mistakes”. In so doing, I arrogate to myself the role of “Wise Old Revolutionary”. What bullshit! Who am I fooling? These Occupiers are much more politically savvy than I ever was, and it is likely that I am repeating the obvious. Despite that realization, I will go on writing anyway. Perhaps it is guilt that drives me, like someone who shows up at a funeral s/he doesn’t want to attend. Perhaps it’s force of habit. Certainly those figure, but this year there is also another motive. I need to get a few things off my chest. As such, I am writing this extemporaneously, without edit, for fear that some of my thoughts on the matter might get excluded from a more coherent narrative. If so far this sounds more like the onset of a paroxysm on a scale befitting Oprah, than a thoughtful memoir, you’re right. Bear with me. It only gets worse. Ha, here I am in the first paragraph, and I’ve already committed a faux pas. It is an unwritten rule on the Far Left to never be humorous or self-deprecating. This is serious business, after all, and we are always right. Maybe that’s part of the problem which I will address here.Read the rest of this entry
Nota Bene! Sexually explicit material. Do not read if you are a minor or offended by such material.
When the lash hit, I welcomed it. No more waiting. Then the second, third and fourth. No harm done. Finally she released me from the bindings. I felt gratitude for having survived this dreaded event. I felt gratitude towards Madame Ming.Read the rest of this entry
Who if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. -Rilke
Madame Ming: So, can we talk?
Her voice was not as expected. Definitely Asian. Nasal. But Madame Ming wasn’t Fresh Off The Boat. I had imagined her voice to be more like that of Veronica, a recent Chinese lover of mine. Veronica talked dirty in broken English. I would return home from work to find a message like this on my voice-mail:
Hello Thomas. This Veronica.
Veronica need the Thomas’ cock.
Call me, o.k.?
Alright, call me. Bye, bye.Read the rest of this entry
[Read At the Hands of Madame Ming, Part 1 of the series]
N.B. NOT WORK FRIENDLY. Do not read if under 21 years of age or offended by sexually explicit material.
Her response came the next day. This time it was business-like:
I have attached a document to this email. Before we meet, you must take the course called “Beginning S&M”. You’ll find a phone number for the place in the attachment. Book immediately. There is an upcoming class next Wednesday. The instructors are knowledgeable. It’s only three hours long. After that, you will know enough to answer the questions asked in the document. Fill it out and send it to me upon completion of the course.
No mention of my prick. Read the rest of this entry
[Authors Note: The memories of pleasure and pain awaken me at night. This is a San Francisco story, and like any real San Francisco story, it's about sex. It is also about much more. This post contains explicit sexual content of a personal nature that might repel you. If you think that might be the case, or if you are underage STOP READING NOW! It is a true story. Only some names have been altered. You have been warned. ]
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I hooked-up with this woman from Berkeley. We met in a dive bar in the Mission District.
Here’s the thing. There are no dive bars in the Mission, only candy-ass bars intended to look like dive bars. Such places provide hipsters with the simulacrum of authenticity they crave. Let me explain. Hipsters don’t have the dick to lead authentic lives, so they cosmetically imitate people who do.
“The Ponderosa”, that bar off the side of Highway 52 between Welch and Roderfield, now Read the rest of this entry