Lonely For Sex

I’VE NEVER MASTURBATED THIS MUCH IN MY FUCKING LIFE.... HONESTLY. I'm not kidding. I'm like a fourteen year old boy. this is FUCKED. PLEASE CALL ME. send someone out to Chicago and tell them they can stay here for free and they just need to have sex with me twice a day and then they can go and do whatever they want. and I'm pretty too. send them a photo. honestly. i don’t want to put this offer public cuz i don’t want everyone to know how desperate i am. i will only tell you. PLEASE HELP ME. CALL ME. TALK TO ME. I’M SOOOO LONELY. I GOT A LESBIAN DATE TONITE. there are suitors but i can’t deal with the dating bullshit. i just want sex. and someone to lay in bed and watch TV with all day. (you were good at that).

That was an excerpt from an email to one of my long-term ex-boyfriends who is now living in Southern California. It was written earlier today while I was in a sexual frenzy. I say “long-term” because I dated him for five years and he has been my ex-boyfriend for three years. I felt TERRIBLE writing that. But it is what I feel. I am so goddamned lonely. Mostly for sex. The past week, every fucking dream I have involves sex...of all sorts...sex with people I’ve been with, sex with people I wouldn’t go near with a flaming ten-foot pole, and sex with celebrities or whoever ends up being on the television that is usually blasting next to my head while I am sleeping. I am constantly waking up humping a damn pillow, or worse...my teddy bear, whom I have taken to bed out of loneliness, but who never volunteered to become a hump toy for my monkey ass. I have stuck some things up my orifices in the past week while drunk and in a sexual frenzy that, if I told you, you would probably really enjoy it, but I endangered myself, and let’s leave it at that.

This goddamned five-dollar candy-red vibrator that I bought as a joke years ago has never gotten so much action. That fucking thing is up my vagina about six full hours a day. And when that thing is not in, it’s the ass egg that I got on full-blast up my cooch. I spend more money on batteries than I do on rent. I pay rent just for regular, everyday, around-the-house activities like washing the dishes and watching Tyra. I am like a crazed maniac. I am a fourteen-year-old boy. You know, I guess it is true: I had always heard that women reached their sexual prime around this age, and I really never thought I’d live this long, but man, this is horrible.

And this shitty relationship (if you can call it that... I prefer “this two-year trail of tears walking knee-deep through dog vomit”) has left me so goddamned sex-starved, I swear to the Lord I’m glad there is not a dog around when I drink, because if it was a Chihuahua or a small dog, I might just try to shove it up there, but if it was a bigger dog, I think the dog might look like Prince Charming…and I am not into non-consensual sex...especially with animals…but I am getting desperate. One thing Precious (my ex) was good for was the fact that he had a penis. And he (like any good ape) knew how to stick it in the right hole and pump away. It was that sort of animalistic stupidity that I think I liked so much about him. The sex was a major plus to everything. Now I have nothing.

I mean, less than a week ago, a man was paying me hundreds to put him in a diaper...and now I’m ready to shell out the dough just for some dude to come by and stick their boner in me and blow a load on my stomach and leave. He doesn’t even have to wipe it off. I don’t care anymore.

I really hate having to do this. Like I said in the email, I don’t want to sound that desperate, because I am not. I have plenty of suitors and menz ringin’ my phone. But me being a bit on the eccentric side tends to draw the most fucking goddamned insane group of men possible who won’t bone and bolt. And I’ve done that several times, and that is ultimately unsatisfying unless you can work out a schedule. And then that leads to some kind of relationship, and that’s not what I think I’m looking for.

One possible suitor is very funny. And I know that this man would not only be great in the sack, but he'd go along with anything I said. He has been trying to get me for YEARS now, and whenever I had fights with my boyfriends, there he was, bringing me flowers and saying the right things. I must reveal a small detail about this man that makes the story interesting. This man is now approaching 50 years of age. In his prime, he was a very successful pimp. And when I say pimp...I mean PIMP. He owned a block in Chicago which is STILL one of the prime strolls we have for street hookers. In Uptown. He had four girls at one time. All the best hookers in the area. They were robbing, fucking, hustling, and selling everything they could to give him money. Four of the hottest white hos money could buy. He is black. But he prefers white meat.

With a resume like that, the man is a definite contender. And he wants to take care of me. He is no longer a pimp. He has like eighteen kids and lives with his sister. Our relationship came about because he was friends with my ex-boyfriend. And then we became friends. He’s funny and very smart. He is even cute. He doesn’t dress all flashy, but of course he used to back in the day. I mean, he was a real badass. The reason I see him now is strictly bidnezz. But it ain’t pimpin’. He wants me, and when he does come over it is hard to get him to leave once he comes to my house. He obviously does not want to leave without a piece. And in the rabid-dog sex-starved state I am in now...I just might let this old pimp fuck me. But I can’t. It’ll just bring problems. I remind him of his old hos. And he’s barely making it right now. I just know he’ll keep calling. And he’s not 30 anymore. He’s looking for something permanent.

Like I said, this is pathetic. I have already decided what happens to a gal like me. It is a six-step theory that I have come up with, and the sixth step is yet to happen, but it is in the process of unfolding. So I’ll share it with you. When you live the type of life I have lived, it is absolutely inevitable that you will end up a reclusive lesbian. This is why.

Step 1. Have a really fucked-up childhood and your first real relationship with a girl in high school. And have all kinds of fucked-up sexual things happen to you as a kid.

Step 2. Get on a TON of hard drugs and then start dating a fellow and turn him onto all of the drugs and live for three years with him in some insane, drug-fueled relationship.

Step 3. Get out of that relationship and mostly get off drugs, but get addicted to sex and start sleeping with any terribly diseased, cold-sore-pockmarked cock that will point my way. Meet a lot of shitheads in bars and have a lot of sex with them.

Step 4. Get sick of fucking shitheads, and go onto meeting the GRANDMASTER OF THE SHITHEADS, and start dating him. Make sure you move in with him RIGHT AWAY. Get into an abusive relationship with this shithead. Have him beat you and steal from you and treat you like shit.

Step 5. Get a job doing daily sex work and witness the craziest sex acts known to man. Allow this to sink in slowly, and along with the drugs, the abuse, the childhood shit, and everything, make sure you come out of it the best person you can possibly be.

Step 6. Meet a girl who also works in the sex industry and has a shitty boyfriend, and have her live with you and do videos and stuff only to make money, but become reclusive lesbians.

That’s my 6-step plan. I seem to fall somewhere in the beginning of Step 6. I have met my potential reclusive lesbian partner. Things just need to happen. They will. I don’t doubt it. Haven’t you ever watched a porno or looked at a magazine or had a fucked-up female friend and wondered, “Gee, whatever happened to Candy? I know she’s not dead, but where the hell could she be?” I guarantee seven times out of ten she’s become a reclusive lesbian.

That is my destiny. I have a date with the girl tonight, in fact, and if she is anything like me (since she is in charge of driving), she will not show up and we will talk several more times before we finally meet, get drunk, and inevitably hook up. You see, if you follow my 6-step plan above, she falls somewhere between Steps 4 and 5, and she’s living with this abusive, fucked-up retard. She needs a place to stay. Meg will open her house, her arms, and her legs to this wayward porno actress, and she can stay as long as she wants. And we will sit around, get fat, and eventually become BBW models.

The bottom line, though, is that I do not like girls, but there is an exception. Gender spans much further than just boy/girl. So when I say I’m not attracted to girls, I mean women, but then there’s all this other shit. You see, I LOVE boobs, but I am not sexually attracted to "girls"...but working at the fetish dungeon, I got to experience some ladies who are quite proficient with a strap-on, and all you dudes out there who think you’re the shit with your big cocks and great bodies...guess what...STRAP-ONS COME IN EVERY SIZE, SHAPE, COLOR, AND MATERIAL. If I want a glass dick, I get a glass dick. If I want SOLID GOLD...I can get SOLID FUCKING GOLD. Also, men have gross, hairy chests, and I know all you men out there agree that boobs are WAY the fuck better than their male alternatives. So honestly, there is no need for a male, I guess. I can get the best of both worlds.

Unfortunately, what I am writing right now is all fantasy. Fortunately, it is not too far from reality. Like I said, my future lezzy friend has indicated she needs a place to stay for refuge from her apish retard of a boyfriend. The wheels are in motion. But in the meantime...I need SOMETHING. Cuz goddamn’, I’m a-humpin’ furniture here. I stand in front of the fucking window naked, hoping that at least some dude is gettin’ off to it. I do love my toys, and my legal pharmaceuticals, and my liquor, but I need a HUMAN BEING.

The pimp would have been GREAT had this been 20 years ago. These days he wants a lady to spend his elder years with. I can’t be that lady. If he was a strapping young black pimp I would be on that shit like a white runaway at the bus station to a black hustler, but now...it is different.

How does a girl like me find solace? I’m in my fucking sexual prime. Why in the fuck did whoever created us make males get their sexual prime when they’re like 14 and women wanting to do it all the time in their like late 20s, early 30s, if they KNEW that there would be a law saying that a gal like me can’t do it with a high-school dude? It’s just not right. I’d be trolling the high schools if it weren’t illegal.

Everything is pathetic right now. My stupid love life has never been an issue. It’s been like a revolving door. But now I’m secluded and agoraphobic. Oh, shit. It’s time to change the batteries again. What do I do, Ann Landers???? What would Tyra say??? How about that carpet-munchin’ Ellen??? I bet she can feel my plight. Someone give me some advice...or their fourteen-year-old son...or more batteries.

Sometime after writing this.... I had a very much needed and very sordid 48 hours solo on the mean streets of Chicago. Well I was an alcohol fueled, sex starved, ex whore who was on the rebound. It was a recipe for disaster... and I left many bodies in my wake.

It was spurned by an event that happened Friday evening my good friend and ex pimp who I referred to earlier, and will refer to as "Chicago" (that's his street name anyway, and you know you gotta be good when the place you live in names itself after you) was over. We were having a talk about how terrible and fucking dumb as bricks old Precious was. Chicago was comforting me by sharing stories about his stupidity that I had not been privvy to before. Mostly times where he'd been intoxicated and.....well the best story was about when a very drunk and coked up Precious told Chicago he would be allowed to have sex with me if he wanted, but Precious really didn't want him to do that. He told Chicago that he loved me too much and would be very sad if we were to have sex, but that he could sleep with me if he wanted. Yes. That happened. I know it makes almost no sense... but that is how much of a buffoon this man is. Really folks... It's indescribable. Even the most eloquent wordsmith could not fully paint the picture of the pure fucking goddamned idiot this man was. You just had to be there or be unfortunate enough to know or meet him to fully understand. I may sound like a bitter ex girlfriend. But aside from all of the bitterness... my last turd had the intelligence of Doogie Howser compared to him.

I bring this up because this particular night he decided to call me and harass the hell out of me. I'll spare you from all the terrible details of the phone call, although it was hilarious and a story in itself. But he starts to run his mouth, along with is 800 lb monstrosity of a brother. He was wheesing insults through the bites of the whole turkey he was probably devouring raw and the beer that he was inevitably spitting all over himself. "You (cough) thuching thut better gooddamned leave my bltorther alone... He'th gooth hith own lifthaehs." I put Chicago on the phone and tell him to act all gangster and say he's my boyfriend. He knows Precious, so he tries to disguise his voice as this white gangster. That moment in itself was classic. He is this seasoned hustler, and he gets on the phone trying to do his best impression of some fast talking white man. First of all, his pitch goes up to this really high voice and he says in his best White Man voice, "You better watch out buddy. You leave my new girlfriend alone or I'll get the mafia on you." I screamed "NOT WHITE GANGSTER BLACK GANGSTER". It was a classic moment. He was so unconvincing. But it was worth it to hear what he thought a white gangster was. Aside from that the entire phone call left me sick from anger and I KNEW I had to explode somewhere. After that, and a rather funny comment from Chicago asking me if I had teeth in my vagina (which I think I do). I had to depart from Chicago and get the fuck out of the house.

I had known it would be trouble when I got in touch with my 50 year old cab driver friend. Don't get me wrong, he is a wonderful influence, but I would be going out, seeing my old people, and I knew that the old life would soon come to me. I needed sex. I had one thing on my mind. My car did not even work but I was determined to get it 5 miles to my friend's house where he would enable me to get to a party where I could find a hard penis. This is always easy for a girl. I have complained in the past as to why there are no bathhouses for women, and it is unfair. But I must say, if a woman is determined to get sex, she'll get it. No matter how she looks, but I guess I am on the blindingly gorgeous side, so I really can't get anyone I want, but the guys I do get are descent looking at least, and that's all I need.

Absolute Disgust

Jesus. I guess there comes a time with any type of work where you start to question yourself and what the fuck you are doing with your life. Readers might play this off and say, “HEY, IDIOT, you’re in the SEX TRADE - of COURSE you’re going to question it.” But I know many different people ranging from welfare queens to lawyers, and each of them question what the fuck they are doing and why. I think it is a little more common in my biz since society seems to slam it into everyone’s head over and over that the sex trade is EVIL, and women who engage in it, unlike models or waitresses or trophy wives, are on a lower tier than other women. I have already gone on my tirade about how everyone’s a whore, so I will spare you all from that.

There have been several times I have questioned this particular profession. Especially in the past three months since I have been completely immersed in it. I have had several nightmares about the job now. I have been on the very brink of walking the fuck out of that front door - or rather, throwing a fit until I was “buzzed” out or shot, whatever came first. Today was the first day where I truly could not take it.

One of my friends who worked there told me of a rather disturbing session she had with a male who wanted to verbally humiliate her. She was not ready for it, and she had to stop the session and was bawling throughout the night. The man did not even know her, but he managed to hit some of her soft spots, and she collapsed. I always want a session where I get the humiliation like that, but the hours that I work sort of bring in the same people, and I haven’t gotten any sessions like that yet. I really think I could stand it, and I think I would like it. Since I have started here I definitely realize that I am NOT dominant and that I can’t take most things seriously, so I think my biggest talent is laughing at/with people and being a fluffer of sorts. I will not elaborate on that.

Today was different than most days, though. I had a session with this fellow they call Scott Darling. The name alone sounds like something out of Andy Warhol’s Factory, and this fucker is a real piece of work. I have speculated that he has some big-time job somewhere because he comes in usually in the middle of the day, blows about a grand, makes sure he cums, and then he’s off. He promptly puts his clothes on and gets the fuck out.

His behavior is a bit unusual. You see, most men who come in here want to stay as long as possible and go way over their money’s worth, but Mr. Darling likes to cum and leave as fast as he can. This bitch is totally a character. I love to speculate what his real life is and whether he acts anything like he does during the sessions. When he comes in, he acts a lot like a really super-swishy flaming Stewie from Family Guy (sorry for the Family Guy reference, but it’s honestly right-on). Everything he says is EXTREMELY elongated and faggy. He breathes every word... “AAAh yahhh ohhhh ouuhhhm she's a cuuuhhtie….OOh dahhhling, easy on the bahhhhhlllssss." Every sentence takes like a minute for this disgusting fuck to breathe out.

I have no idea why, but when I first started, the “headmistress” told me to just come in sultry like I wanted him. I followed her directions and usually I’m TERRIBLE at doing anything anyone likes, but as soon as I shoved my foot in his mouth he said in his most nauseating tone, “OOOhhhhh MIhhstrehsssss where ohhh where did yhhhou get thhhis one ummmmmmm.” At this point I really hoped that Mr. Scott DAhhhhhling liked being puked on, because I didn’t think I could control my gag reflex any longer. I NEEDED to fucking vomit all over this twat.

This was just the first time he saw me. The “headmistress” (I always put this in quotes because I fucking HATE saying it or writing it) told me how much SCOTT DAHHHLING enjoyed me and how it was so unusual for him to like new girls. So to my disgust, I would have to encounter this offensive blob several more times.

Another bizarre aspect of this fellow is that he is not the normal 70-year-old two-finger jagoff. He is a good-looking guy, sorta like Woody Harrelson, with a cute li'l gap between his two front teeth, and if it wasn’t for his acting like he was constantly doing an impression of the two British drunken fashionistas from Absolutely Fabulous, he might be all right. I had to see him a second time. He speaks to the other “headmistress” as if I am not in the room. “OOOH looohhk ahht her, she’s ahb-so-loot-lee gorgeous, she’s RAVAGING.”

OH MY GOD. I FEEL LIKE I AM IN A BAD ANDY WARHOL MOVIE PLEASE GET ME THE FUCK OUT. How did I get into this, and why won’t it stop?

Fortunately my encounters with this fellow were not more than fifteen minutes long, and he is not one for hanging around later. Like I said (THANK GOD), he’s a two-pump chump, and he gets the fuck out. But today was a different story. Today I wanted to die. I’m in a goddamned dungeon and I can’t find a single thing with which to PERMANENTLY hurt myself...as in to end my life...I would have used ANYTHING. If there had been a drill, I swear I would have given myself a lobotomy today.

I get there and am still reeling from my fucking terrible breakup. And then I hear possibly one of the worst things that could enter my brain; it’s like nails on a chalkboard: Miss Scott Darling is coming in today, so get into some lingerie and get ready for him. The mere mention of his name made me vomit in my mouth. The terrible anticipation of the ooohhhssss and aaahhhhsssss and daaahhhliings and cuuhhhtiee-pieees made me vomit into my mouth a little bit, but then it turned into a full-on gag into the toilet—similar to the toilet that Scott Darling must have crawled out of. But it all got worse from there. I had to enter the room, and the new girl was with him, and he liked her a lot. He, I gather, likes to be called a slut. I have no problem calling him whatever demeaning name possible. “Slut” is far too nice of a word to call him, but I refer to him as such anyway.

This monstrosity has this terrible ego and does the same thing each time: He gets three girls and then takes one and plays with them and then really apishly throws them to the side and grabs the next girl and then says some stupid shit to her and then throws her to the side and grabs the next girl and constantly does this his whole session. You can tell he gets off on the fact that he THINKS that he’s really turning the tables on the whores who dominate men. He likes to demonstrate his power while wearing panties and being a little bitch. He, of course, does have the power because he is paying, but this man is just sick. And from what I see here - I mean I see some very “sick,” terribly disturbing stuff—I don’t think hardly any of these men are “sick” per se. They just have a fetish. But this one is an absolutely foul, subhuman turd.

I was supposed to tease his ass with some little vibrator thing. He’s making me increasingly sicker, so I just take the fucking thing and shove it up his asshole as hard as I can. He jumps up and says, “EASY EASY EASY,” and then the “headmistress” quickly grabs the thing out of my hands and gives me the Death Eye and tells me to start sucking on his nipples. Oh, God. I want to die. I get down and start biting. I want to hurt this fucking stupid faggot for calling me a bitch. I bite down as hard as I can, and he instantly jumps up and disturbs the whole four-person scene a second time. “EASY!” he says. I get very doe-eyed and say in my most ironically polite voice, “I’m sorry you can’t take it, slut.” This little bitch pushes my head back down to his chest, and this time I get a chest hair in my mouth. This time I actually DO gag.

From this point on, there are two endings to the story. First is what actually happened. Second is what my fantasy is of what SHOULD have happened in a perfect world.

First, the real ending:

I gag on his chest hair and it is just so fucking sick, the whole room starts spinning and I completely forget where I am. He finally asks me specifically to leave and I am so happy. I am extremely disoriented at this point. Flashes of everything that is happening are spinning in my head. I go up to the third floor where there is no one, thank God, and I realize that I HAVE to leave. Immediately. But the terrible thing is that I am locked in there. I cannot leave without someone buzzing me out. How the fuck will I get out? I then start to feel really trapped and start hyperventilating and have a horrible panic attack. Everywhere I could possibly go is a dungeon room with fucking whips and stretchers and cages, and there is no safe place to go. Everything is so scary all of a sudden. I feel like I am in a nightmare. I instantly take some Xanax to calm myself and am praying it works soon. I am wondering if I should just start banging on the front door and yelling at people to let me out. I REALLY don’t know what to do. Plus I KNOW that I will have to deal with getting in shitloads of trouble for fucking with that retard and ramming the thing up his ass as well as nearly biting his nipple off. I just don’t want to deal with it. I just sit and stare for what seems like ten minutes but is actually an hour, and I calm down a bit. I am called down to get into trouble, but I just explain that I thought that he liked rough stuff. I guess they were able to get him going again after I was out of the room. It was horrible and almost my last day.

I was just glad that I ENSURED that I will never have to see this horrible DARLING again. WHAT A JIZZBAG!!!

Now the fantasy ending:

I gag on his chest hair and I puke all over him. Since all I have eaten is methadone and Coca-Cola and coffee, it is mostly bile, but a bunch of brown chunks.

There is fucking puke EVERYWHERE. He starts to scream just like the little girl that he is. (Scott Darling is in real life a germophobe.) I quickly take my top off and start rubbing my bare tits all over his hairy chest while getting the bile chunks stuck in his forest of chest hair. “OH MY...OH FUCK…OOOHHH LORD PLEASE STOP...” Scott can barely speak. He can only fucking whimper in his faggy little sissy voice. He has never experienced anything like this in his life.

I pull the condom off of my strap-on and puke another gallon in it until it’s filled like a huge water balloon. I don’t tie it, though. Little Darling knows just where this puke is going. He closes his mouth, but I hold his nose until it’s open. As soon as I get it opened I dump all puke in until he is gagging and cannot talk anymore. He looks sooo terrified.

The headmistress is terrified as well. It looks as if I’ve finally gone crazy. They always knew I had it in me and that it was only a matter of time. And this Scott Darling piece of human shit was the one to bring me to these acts. I then grab him and the headmistress, and my coworker friend and I tie them to the toilet in the bathroom. Since virtually every girl who works in the Dungeon HATES Scott Darling, and most of them can’t stand this particular headmistress, we all take turns shitting all over them.

Since Scott is a germophobe, this would be his worst nightmare. But in real life this headmistress was in the military for years and is a sadistic crazy bitch. I’ve watched her whip the shit out of men, and she gets soooo turned-on. She’s told me she was a sadist and could NEVER even play a sub. She said she tried it once and it fucked her up for a really long time and she has to be dominant in EVERY situation. So ANYONE having control over her would be totally devastating.

They would be covered in shit, which would be devastating to both of them, and then we would put them on leashes and put pony bits in their mouths, and we have these two amazing butt plugs with curly pigtails at the end, and me and my girlfriend who I work with would ride down Michigan Avenue on their shit-smeared pony pig backs while the sun sets. We then high-five each other and I take the two naked, shit-covered pony pigs into my neighborhood and drop them off on the corner. I live in a really bad neighborhood, so who knows what happens to the pussy fag and the sadistic crazy? Something bad. And then my friend and I go back to my house and start a lezzie relationship where we get the clients to come to my house and pay us to humiliate them and then we rob each of them, but they keep coming back and giving us all of their money. And we live happily ever after and have hot lezzie sex twenty hours a day.

Sploshing For Fun and Profit

I remember a drunken night I had a few years back. It involved a very obese pockmarked hideous cruisin’ pervert dude, an extremely attractive but a bit weird and creepy male childhood friend, and myself. This was the first time the fairies of gay destiny had ever assembled us together in one place.

The whole situation happened when my childhood friend Lee and I were at a party, and being the EXTREME party animals that we are, we got TOTALLY BLASTED and were in no condition to leave the party when it ended.

Cue the fat pervert. In he waddles, wheezing something to the effect that we were in NO condition to go back to our houses and that he lived just a couple of blocks away and so we should really just “crash at his pad.” Yes, I remember him using that exact phrase, and I remember he was talking a lot like Pauly Shore way past the point when Pauly stopped being “cool.” But honestly, how could I not accept that offer? A morbidly obese nerd trying to be Pauly Shore and obviously cruisin’ to take advantage of our nubile, intoxicated nether-parts.

We leave the party with our new wheezing monstrosity who is offering us a place to “crash” but who really just wants us to fall asleep between the place where his stomach flops over his extremely shrunken wiener. It wasn’t much time before this man coerces our bombed-out asses into some kind of sexual activity. It was oddly reminiscent of the episode of Diff’rent Strokes when Dudley and Gary Coleman get lured into the pedophile bike-shop owner’s house with promises of cookies and candy. But this man was an older version, and I was not a black midget orphan. I digress. Truth be told, at first I thought he just totally wanted Lee out of the picture to shove his little ding dong into my very-asleep orifices, but in retrospect I’m pretty sure he wanted a piece of Lee’s hot ass for himself as well, although he’d never admit it. Another closet homo.

I, sadly, start to sober up, and then Lee completely passes out, and my stomach sinks when I start to come to the horrible realization that I am now pretty much a prisoner in this fat geek’s “pad.” It was totally a “pad,” too. I remember he had a flat-screen TV WAY before they were popular, and he had like eighteen computers. It was a really faggy, geeky house. He had terrible DVDs. As soon as I saw that he had the Fight Club boxed set next to a copy of Requiem for a Dream, I already knew way more than I needed to know about him and immediately wanted to jump out the window. I quickly grabbed his bottle of Maker’s Mark (ugh) and guzzled it just to stop feeling so dirty.

Looking around, I did notice there might be a plus to this whole endeavor. I noticed photo lights in his house and several cameras and photo stuff. I was really into photography at the time, and usually if you’re able to get a fatty in front of the camera, you can’t go wrong. And what do fat gross men like more than jacking off their tiny peni with two fingers while being lonely and crying…but food? This obese monstrosity would not have to busy his two little fingers tonight. I had some plans of making him a very happy fat man.

I quickly forged through fatty’s pantry, throwing cans and pasta bags around like a mad scientist. He asked me what the fuck I was doing. He was obviously upset because I was fucking with his precious food. But from talking earlier with him in the night I had told him of my various photo projects and that I was currently in college for photography, so I told him we were going to take some amazing photos. And that is what we did.

I started to open every can, looking at the consistency of the particular substance inside. I told him that we were going to take some photos with this stuff and he obliged, and who the fuck wouldn’t? I was about to fulfill his every fantasy (in my superficial mind...fat people *heart* food/sex), and little did I know that I was about to invent something that I never knew had an actual name or crazy following at the time. All I knew is that we were going to have fun taking photos. The only fuss Baby Huey put up about the food/sex was the mess, but luckily he had a tarp to cover the floor. He said he used it for camping, but I really think he was a bed-wetter. He just seemed like the type. Don’t ask me what the type is. I guess it’s fat.

I wake up my attractive companion Lee, and in his half-dazed eyes he had a look of terror mixed with surprise mixed with interest when he saw the tarp on the floor, me topless, and about ten cans of food open and noodles cooking on the stove. I told Lee we were going to take some photos. He looked even more perplexed but interested nonetheless. Like I said, he was a creepy pervert himself.

What followed were hours upon hours of sliding around all over each other covered in every type of food substance that fatty had in his house - and I don’t think that I need to address the fact that we all know about those fatties and their food. Theyz keepz themz kitchenz stock’d. I got about a half-gallon of baked beans dumped all over my ass. That was my favorite part. It made for an AMAZING photo, and the beans were extremely fun to play with. They were sooo tasty and slippery, and if you think about a can of baked beans and the possibilities with these things, they’re endless. I mean, these slippery little bastards can get into about any nook or crevice you could imagine. And then add an obese person into the mix and you have sooo many folds and orifices, I bet Baby Huey alone could hold about three pints of baked beans in his hot-dog neck alone....OH, the fun we had!!! And to top it all off, it was all photographed.

I’m not trying to do product placement here, but I can’t help it. We had SpaghettiOs, mac and cheese, Spanish rice (which I think was responsible for later burns on my asshole), tabouli, spaghetti with red sauce, cheese, bologna, raw eggs...it was a Gourmand Feast!!! A fatty’s wet dream and also the source of many of my wet dreams thereafter.

We shot about eighty photos of our naked food pervert fest. At the time I was in art college and was trying to dream up a way to convince my teachers that photos of a fat man slathered in spaghetti, noodles going in and out of his folds, or my breasts with scrambled eggs on them could pass as some sort of college project. My particular teacher at the time was not one for conceptual perversity, which was what I tried to sell it as. Now, I know that she was just a stupid twat and that I thought up, without even trying to, a totally real fetish that not only exists, but has its own erotic magazine and is followed and practiced by hundreds of thousands of pervos all over the world.

This terrible college professor of mine who claimed to know everything about all types of art did not even find my idea amusing. I remember that she was supposed to refer each of her students to some artists to look at. The only one she could possibly come up with for me was Annie fucking Sprinkle. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fine, but HELLOOOOO...I had made up “sploshing” on my very own. Sploshing is amazing. It involves eroticizing, bathing in, and slathering yourself or others with food. It is so fun.

There is even a British magazine called Splosh! that has been around for about twenty years. In this adults-only magazine (which almost never contains any nudity), it is very common to see a large woman’s clothed ass COMPLETELY covered in baked beans. WHERE HAVE THESE PEOPLE BEEN ALL MY LIFE?? At the fetish dungeon where I work, we made one of my favorite regular toothless trannies into a human cake for one of the girl’s birthdays.

The trannie started to say that this was not the first time she “sploshed” and that she’s played with all types of food. I was so intrigued. I covered her in whipped cream and cupcakes and even lit candles onto her. We made a GIGANTO mess. I jumped right on top of her, and frosting went everywhere.

Some of the ladies were a bit concerned because there was cake and frosting everywhere and this was in the “sexy bedroom” room. But now it was COVERED in blue frosting and cake. I really did not give a shit, and my only concern was that I did not have enough sticky cake and mess all over myself. OOOH, how I longed for baked beans and spaghetti. When the cupcakes and goo went down the trannie’s panties, it was a sight to see. The frosting had this strong blue dye in it that made it look like she had shit a Smurf.

After this I researched sploshing more and realized that there are entire role-playing scenarios that involve people making a huge mess. Now, just like any fetish folks, sploshers take their fetish very seriously, but the whole basis is on slapstick comedy. Scenarios such as “The clumsy waitress who drops the spaghetti all over the most posh lady in the restaurant” are played out. There are videos and sequential photos that tell these slapstick stories. Like I said, it is somewhat rare to find a lot of nudity in a splosh spread - it depends on where you look - but most sploshers get a bigger kick out of very well-dressed ladies totally ruining expensive outfits by getting them completely messy. The “victims” in the photo or video scenes are never upset that they get messy. The conclusion is usually a shot of them covered in whatever substance, shrugging their shoulders and smiling as if to say, “Oh well, it happens” and suggesting that they actually seemed to enjoy the entire “accident.”

This entire idea of these scenarios is absolutely hilarious to me, and the throwback to slapstick humor is unmistakable. The Three Stooges, Benny Hill, and even pies in the face and my clown fetish play into this one. It’s all about fun and letting yourself go. It has been speculated that it was sprung, as many fetishes are, from childhood’s forbidden desires. The fact that we are encouraged never to throw food or play in the mud or get our shoes dirty - all this stuff is so taboo when you’re a kid, and adults just want to go back and do all the things they were forbidden to do as children. That’s why the image of a very sleek high heel smashing into a cupcake is so fucking appealing. Think about it. It makes sense.

I have only had one sploshing session so far. It sucks. I NEED TO DO IT MORE. I’d totally even just do it for free in my personal life. Last week I came into work and saw these stains all over the floor in one of the bedrooms and inquired what they were. One girl told me that they had a session a previous night where this guy just wanted raw eggs thrown at his ass, and it ended up ruining the carpet. She looked pissed. I was pissed as well - not because of the mess, of course, but because I wasn’t there to throw eggs at this man’s ass.