When I got this job, of course I did not know what to expect. I did say that I would be a slave for people, but as of yet, no one has come in and hurt me. I thought that I might sustain some kind of bruising from getting spanked or something. But this past week I have sustained two very outlandish injuries from working at this job. There is no insurance here, and of course no workman’s comp. I think I may have to change this because honestly, after this week I am starting to be scared. The worst aspect of all this is how the fuck do you explain to people how you got injured? Yes, I could say it was a job-related injury, and then of course whoever asks where I work, and I reply a fetish dungeon, I have no idea what they would think. And these two injuries that I sustained this week were not normal at all to the job. I think that some may have the idea (as I did when I first started working there) that there would be this constant in-and-out parade of perverts I would service nonstop and make shitloads of money. I have learned this is a fallacy. Most of my eight-hour day is spent isolating myself on one of the floors, opening a magazine in my lap so it looks like I’m reading, then passing out and drooling all over myself. NO ONE ever bothers me. They keep all the girls separated. Every two to three hours the telephone will ring or someone will knock at the door and I’ll wake up suddenly and get lipstick smeared across my face or get startled and act like I was doing something important like studying the ins and outs of bondage or practicing dressing up or how to whip people proficiently or how to aim my piss at a target or something. Who the fuck knows?
I should start lifting weights during my off time, because last week I literally threw my shoulder out spanking this “house slave.” Of course I had spanked people before, but this one was literal nonstop spanking for thirty fucking minutes. NON-FUCKING-STOP. I really don’t know how he/she took it. I thought it was great when it was going on, so I think I was ignoring the fact that I was getting massively injured at the time. I really was getting into it, and this little girl/boy took endless fucking slaps with this paddle. Her fucking ass was so red it scared me. But she kept asking for more. I was wondering how the fuck much could she take and was trying to challenge her, so at the time I guess I was ignoring the fact that I barely use my right arm because the most I lift is my gallon bottle of Sunny Delight to mix my vodka with at night. Or a pizza box from Little Caesars. It was very satisfying when it was all over. And li’l Amber’s ass was a bright shade of red. But as I was putting her sweaty corset and skirts into the laundry, I noticed that my shoulder was not working properly. I could not fucking use it.
This went on for three fucking days. I don’t mean three days where my shoulder hurt. I mean three days where I literally could not move it. Then there is the first major problem of my significant other, who knows what my job is but refuses to ever talk about it, and now suddenly I can’t use one arm, and what the hell do I say? Others don’t know what I do. I could say it was a job-sustained injury, but what could have happened when most people think I work at a paper place doing graphic design? At one point, after three days of not being able to use my arm I thought about going to the emergency room. I mean nothing was fucking working. I’m on a ton of pain meds and stuff and am not supposed to feel anything. I think someone could literally throw a knife into my back and I’d think it was a bug bite. I have a very high pain tolerance.
But this was horrible. I didn’t go in because I had no idea of what I would say. I’m not embarrassed of what I do; I think it would be hilarious to tell a doctor that I threw out my shoulder doing a half-hour of constant spanking on this 23-year-old-boy in a corset and a skirt after he spent two hours cleaning the jizz, ass juice, period blood, and old-man sweat off of everything in the three-floor fetish playground I work in. But I don’t have insurance, so I did not go. Finally today - nearly a week later - I started to be able to move it again. That was the first injury of the week. I think that they need to come up with some sort of workman’s comp at this place, because two out of three days I sustained job-related sicknesses and injuries. And it is just-so goddamned hard to explain to the public at large why I am suffering. What can I say?
The second injury came when a fellow came in for a golden shower. Like I have said, I have no problem peeing all over these douchebags, and I actually really like doing it. Plus it pays a lot to pee. Since I’ve started working there I’ve developed this complex now that every time I do urinate, I think, this is worth about $200 dollars and it’s literally going down the toilet. But there can’t always be some eager pervert waiting to drink your pee waiting under you. Some refer to themselves as human toilets. I would have one if they paid my rent. That would be great.
I digress. Like usual, I was up on the second floor drooling on myself when the phone startled me and I wiped the drool off my face as I answered it and I was told to start drinking water because I would be peeing on someone soon. Wonderful. I thought. I already thought I might have to pee, so this was good. I did have one concern. I was on my period at the time and I had not yet done anything like that and I know some people have a problem with that but I was instructed to put a tampon in and like tuck in the string and pee and I’d be fine. That seemed sensible enough. So I started drinking water. A fucking ton. I must have guzzled eight glasses in 30 minutes. Then I got downstairs to the basement where the man was. I had to give him an enema (another money-maker which is easy as hell) and was instructed I’d have to pee on him in 15 minutes. I totally was about to burst then. It sucked. But I kept drinking water. Now the fun part came. This fellow was to have just about every girl there pee on him. There were four of us to do it. All of us are extremely proficient in this.
I was up first. I had to pee so bad and I talked it up so much and to my surprise NOT A DROP would come out. I told him he had to beg. He started begging. I couldn’t. Plus there were girls after me who I was sure had to pee, so I just gave up my place in line.
The second girl comes up. She has been drinking water for an hour now as well. I’ve seen her pee on sooo many people. She gets the same thing. She can’t fucking go. She tells him it’s all his fault (of course) and tells him he’s not begging good enough. I’m thinking this is hilarious. So she steps out of line. The begging starts to get funny at this point. The man really does not know what to say. He’s like, “I want it so bad!!!! PLEASE I WANT TO BE A TOILET!!! PLEASE PEE ON ME!!!” The third girl comes up. Another proficient pisser, she manages to go like a drop in his mouth, and then it stops. She’s waiting over his face trying to pee. I suddenly get the urge that I’m going to fucking burst so I go over his genitals and am gonna just go all over them. But then I get stuck again!!! This has never happened. Then everyone is yelling at this poor man to pee.
All of a sudden it goes silent and the man yells in his most desperate voice, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME!??!?!?!?!” At this statement I have to duck into another room because I am laughing so hard. But I am starting to get this terrible headache and am like totally fucking waterlogged. I really don’t know who’s more frustrated, myself or this man. I am ruining my bladder for this motherfucker.
Finally we decide to get out the potty chair. We put it over his face. It’s my turn again. It has been decided that if we are sitting maybe the peeing will be easier. I still can’t fucking pee, and now I have added a cup of hot coffee to the mix. At this point I am saved by the tampon. All of a sudden, he starts squirming and says, “NO, NO, NO, PLEASE PLEASE NO!!!” It’s really hard to tell in these cases if they’re actually serious or not because they always say no, and there is a code word for when things get too out of control and he’s not using it. He starts to say, “NO, YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD... I CAN’T.” Thank Fucking God. I got out of that one. The three other girls are still struggling, and a small trickle of urine ends up on this man. It’s hilarious. I have never seen anything like this. It was beautiful. My period totally got me off the hook with this one.
This was a time when I REALLY wish I had the tape recorder, though. It took literally everything in this man to yell, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME?” It was classic. I felt a little bad for him for a second. But it was more funny than anything. Then I had to deal with this crazy headache.
Of course I could not tell my significant other when I came home that I had a headache because I was waterlogged because I drank too much water to try and piss on this guy and couldn’t. My brain was fucking drowned. It took me two days to get rid of the headache. I never knew this job could be so dangerous. I asked one of my coworkers there who is a med student, and she said that it was a long-term “brain freeze” type thing from drinking a ton of cold water and then hot coffee and that I had to stay out of lighted areas and relax as much as I could.
Jesus Christ. These people are the ones that are supposed to hurt. Not me. Luckily I got paid for that golden shower. He was the wiener that was scared of a tampon. Dude, if you have four chicas fucking pissing straight into your mouth and you’re swallowing it, why in the hell would a non-bloody tampon bother you? People are so goddamned weird. You like shit, you like piss, you like enemas, you like ass-fucking, but girls on their period...that’s just a little over the line. What a weirdo.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Tampon Dave
Here is another curious story of a weird-ass yokel who came into the sluthouse where I work. First, I must ruin some type of illusion. I really wish that it was CONSTANTLY a barrage every minute of every shift of each of these fellows, but for the most part there is a lot of time where I try to hide and sleep. Then someone finds me and tells me to do something, and I do it. Don’t get me wrong—I meet one of these extremely bizarre lovely fools almost every shift, but unfortunately there is usually only one or two. This will increase soon if I do keep this job and they put me on the website, and then weirdos from all over can call and pay unheard-of amounts of money to get barely an hour of my precious time. And they will, and I will get many more bizarro wastoid fat plugs cumming all over their bloated stomachs for me. But here is this week’s highlight.
OCTOBER XXX, 2007, SESSION 1 OF THE DAY.
TAMPON DAVE.
This cute little monster was already in with one of the other girls. I was to come into the session merely to take Polaroids. I walk into my manager’s office, and she over-excitedly asks me, “Are you on your period?” I say no. And all her perkiness leaves her. I am already getting excited about who the fuck I was going to get to see this time. Turns out, if I did, I could have sold this gem of a fat lovely man my used tampon for a cool $200. Imagine how much money all these girls are wasting just menstruating and fucking throwing their tampons in the garbage (or in the toilet like I do, only in other people’s houses) when there are men like Tampon Dave who will pay good, hard-earned cash for them. The man is a tampon collector. I already love him. I think it was the first time I really wanted to be on my period in my life. As a side note, some of you may or may not know that I lived with a man who stole my tampons, but it was more in a stalker-psycho sort of way. And it was very much the fact that they were MINE. Tampon Dave collects many ladies’ tampons, and don’t ask me why the hell he does it. But I think it’s great.
The Manager (I call her manager, OK? She is the Head Mistress, but I just hate all this Mistress talk) then starts to give me a summary of the gentleman I am about to see. It is short. She tells me to lie to him and act as if I am way younger. She just tells me that he is very obsessed with describing the inner workings of the cock as well as the vagina. I honestly thought this was some bizarre exaggeration and sort of put it in the back of my head, right up until I knocked on the door and barely introduced myself while his cheeks get really rosy and he excitedly grabs the diagram of the penis pump he is currently wearing and starts to explain EVERYTHING to me.
I, of course, am interested, but I act as if I have never seen a penis before. I just try to go with this one and get as much info as possible. I ask him, “Does that thing make it longer or what?” He gets excited and says it makes it hard and then starts to divulge all sorts of info about the cock. He points everything out on his little diagram, like where the urethra is and where the head of the penis is. He explains why sucking on it is called “giving head”—because you’re sucking on the head of the penis. I always thought it was because you were using your head. But I have no fucking idea. I just act like he knows everything. And I do not hesitate to continue to ask, as I would love to listen to this man talk about the functions of the cock all day long. As he talks, though, I start to get the impression that not all of his information is completely correct. In fact I am sure of it. This makes the situation more hilarious, and I continue to ask him questions and listen to his outlandish answers.
I notice that he has several bags and one is filled with pharmaceutical bottles. I’m thinking, I wonder what kind of wonderful anti-psychotics or narcotics are in there, but then he reveals what the little bottles contain. He pulls one out and proudly tells me, “This is two milkings’ worth.” Milking is a really weird, gross way of saying jacking someone off. It is the term that our place uses. I really like it because it likens the man to a cow and his penis to an udder. I ask if that’s a lot. He says it is. Each of these containers is filled with a different amount of jizz. I really, really want to swipe one and put it into a turkey baster and play a real mean trick on one of my passed-out girlfriends and have them give birth to a litter of baby Tampon Daves. It gets better from here.
He pulls another instrument out of the bag. This is one of those things that when I used to go to the doctor and get physicals, they’d stick in my ear to look for infections. It has like a magnifying glass on one end and a really little hole on the other. He instructs me to stick this into his penis hole and ask me what I see. I am sooo excited. What the fuck is this man thinking?!?!? I guess I could see why this could turn someone on. Only because it’s fucking awesome. He keeps asking me if I see any foam. I really can’t see shit except a big blur of pink. Dammit, Tampon Dave, I’m a fucking fetish whore, not a doctor. A coworker looks in and shoots me this look like, “What the fuck are you supposed to be seeing?” and I sort of shrug my shoulders. Then she says, “Oh yeah, there it is, can you see it?” and suddenly I am able to see whatever the fuck he’s talking about or making up. I would say I saw the Virgin Mary herself inside his dickhole if he was paying the right price. This guy must be nuts, allowing these strange girls to wield important medical equipment in his most sensitive of his parts. What the fuck is he thinking? Anyway, it makes me happy.
As I said in the beginning, I am only here to take Polaroids, but this guy is totally getting off on a new friend to listen to him go on and on about the cock. They even have to tell me to leave the room because I am giving him too much for his money. I take some photos. He gets five. I take three. The first three are boring photos of the girl folding his fat stomach up to reveal his semi hard-on. Wonderful. I went to four years of college for this!!!! But honestly, I don’t think there would be a single subject I’d rather be photographing. And I’m learning so much false weird information about a man’s penis. It’s almost like taking a biology class in an insane asylum. Since I’m socializing waaay too much and there is a “special act” that needs to be done before the two other photos are taken, I, sadly, must leave for a few minutes to dwell on the amazing wonderful scene I have just witnessed. Before I leave, Dave instructs me to find an envelope in his bag. He explains it that this is JUST FOR ME, and that it is extremely important that I receive it. I am hoping it is cash, but I cannot find it. He seems upset, but I explain that I will be back very soon to take the remaining two photos.
I am wondering what this “special act” is for about two minutes when the girl runs out and asks me frantically for some type of Saran Wrap to use as a dental dam. “OH GOD NO GROOOSSSSS!!!!” is all I can think. But I get it for her. I mean, if he is this weird quack who knows all about the cock and apparently the vadge as well, maybe he can munch a mound pretty well. But God, I don’t know if I want to find out...ever.
I am hearing my coworker in there with Tampon Dave, and she is moaning and her moaning becomes a scream, and she seems to be going just nuts, and then it slows down. While this is going on, another girl, Miss Monique, walks up the stairs and tells me she’s going to go for a tampon sale. She knocks on the door and is in there for about five minutes. She comes out carrying one of the precious prescription bottles full of Tampon Dave’s seed. She looks upset. “He wouldn’t fucking buy my tampon,” she explains. “The cocksucker tried to offer me this fucking thing of his semen instead. I told him if he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen.” Then she slams the little bottle down on the counter and stomps down the stairs. I start laughing so hard. I am thinking, when in the hell in the world would you ever hear that statement again—“If he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen”? Of course she wanted money, not semen. But God, what a great thing to happen.
At this point, I think it might be OK for me to reenter the room to take the remaining two photos. I look at the other photos, and they look so amazing. He has one of those extremely old Polaroid cameras, and the photos look like they’re from the seventies. This time, he starts to tell me how after a man cums, there is still a bunch of semen left in some reservoir or something, and he keeps pushing more and more drops of semen out of his penis. Then he does something really gross. He takes out his big stained briefs and shoves them really close to my face, and he says, “You see this?”
I assuming he means the huge yellow stain on the front. I say yes. He says, “That’s when you can tell that your boyfriend has been cheating on you, if he has a yellow stain on his underwear like this. This is from the semen that probably dripped out of his penis after he was fucking another girl.” My coworker finally challenges him, inquiring, “What if he was just jacking off and that happened?” She seemed to upset Tampon Dave with this rebuttal. He says, defeated, “Yeah, I guess you could find out if he’s jacking it without you as well.” I can’t believe she challenged him!!! She’s got fucking balls.
I take the two more photos. They’re gross. One of her sitting on his face. Another one of him looking fat and even more gross because he’s standing next to this girl like a quarter his age. But of course this is what he likes. I tell Tampon Dave that he must be real good at oral sex since I heard my coworker moaning and screaming from the other room. He says, very arrogantly, “I know the vagina very well.” She, of course, agrees. I wonder if he does. I still don’t want to find out. I finally, sadly, say my goodbyes to Tampon Dave. I have so much more to talk to him about. But, fortunately, that is not the end of him for me. Even for that day.
About an hour later, as I am still reflecting on the day’s events, I receive the envelope that Tampon Dave was looking for in his bag. I am honestly, like I said, hoping it was a large sum of money, but it was something almost as great. It is a really faded photo of his very fat baby potbelly and him holding his hard cock. I was very happy to receive it. I hung it on my wall. He is a regular, so I will be seeing him again. But I can see him whenever I want now that I have this photo. I think I’m going to collect all of my tampons for the next couple of months and string them up like garland and give them to him right before Christmas to string around the Christmas tree. He should love that.
OCTOBER XXX, 2007, SESSION 1 OF THE DAY.
TAMPON DAVE.
This cute little monster was already in with one of the other girls. I was to come into the session merely to take Polaroids. I walk into my manager’s office, and she over-excitedly asks me, “Are you on your period?” I say no. And all her perkiness leaves her. I am already getting excited about who the fuck I was going to get to see this time. Turns out, if I did, I could have sold this gem of a fat lovely man my used tampon for a cool $200. Imagine how much money all these girls are wasting just menstruating and fucking throwing their tampons in the garbage (or in the toilet like I do, only in other people’s houses) when there are men like Tampon Dave who will pay good, hard-earned cash for them. The man is a tampon collector. I already love him. I think it was the first time I really wanted to be on my period in my life. As a side note, some of you may or may not know that I lived with a man who stole my tampons, but it was more in a stalker-psycho sort of way. And it was very much the fact that they were MINE. Tampon Dave collects many ladies’ tampons, and don’t ask me why the hell he does it. But I think it’s great.
The Manager (I call her manager, OK? She is the Head Mistress, but I just hate all this Mistress talk) then starts to give me a summary of the gentleman I am about to see. It is short. She tells me to lie to him and act as if I am way younger. She just tells me that he is very obsessed with describing the inner workings of the cock as well as the vagina. I honestly thought this was some bizarre exaggeration and sort of put it in the back of my head, right up until I knocked on the door and barely introduced myself while his cheeks get really rosy and he excitedly grabs the diagram of the penis pump he is currently wearing and starts to explain EVERYTHING to me.
I, of course, am interested, but I act as if I have never seen a penis before. I just try to go with this one and get as much info as possible. I ask him, “Does that thing make it longer or what?” He gets excited and says it makes it hard and then starts to divulge all sorts of info about the cock. He points everything out on his little diagram, like where the urethra is and where the head of the penis is. He explains why sucking on it is called “giving head”—because you’re sucking on the head of the penis. I always thought it was because you were using your head. But I have no fucking idea. I just act like he knows everything. And I do not hesitate to continue to ask, as I would love to listen to this man talk about the functions of the cock all day long. As he talks, though, I start to get the impression that not all of his information is completely correct. In fact I am sure of it. This makes the situation more hilarious, and I continue to ask him questions and listen to his outlandish answers.
I notice that he has several bags and one is filled with pharmaceutical bottles. I’m thinking, I wonder what kind of wonderful anti-psychotics or narcotics are in there, but then he reveals what the little bottles contain. He pulls one out and proudly tells me, “This is two milkings’ worth.” Milking is a really weird, gross way of saying jacking someone off. It is the term that our place uses. I really like it because it likens the man to a cow and his penis to an udder. I ask if that’s a lot. He says it is. Each of these containers is filled with a different amount of jizz. I really, really want to swipe one and put it into a turkey baster and play a real mean trick on one of my passed-out girlfriends and have them give birth to a litter of baby Tampon Daves. It gets better from here.
He pulls another instrument out of the bag. This is one of those things that when I used to go to the doctor and get physicals, they’d stick in my ear to look for infections. It has like a magnifying glass on one end and a really little hole on the other. He instructs me to stick this into his penis hole and ask me what I see. I am sooo excited. What the fuck is this man thinking?!?!? I guess I could see why this could turn someone on. Only because it’s fucking awesome. He keeps asking me if I see any foam. I really can’t see shit except a big blur of pink. Dammit, Tampon Dave, I’m a fucking fetish whore, not a doctor. A coworker looks in and shoots me this look like, “What the fuck are you supposed to be seeing?” and I sort of shrug my shoulders. Then she says, “Oh yeah, there it is, can you see it?” and suddenly I am able to see whatever the fuck he’s talking about or making up. I would say I saw the Virgin Mary herself inside his dickhole if he was paying the right price. This guy must be nuts, allowing these strange girls to wield important medical equipment in his most sensitive of his parts. What the fuck is he thinking? Anyway, it makes me happy.
As I said in the beginning, I am only here to take Polaroids, but this guy is totally getting off on a new friend to listen to him go on and on about the cock. They even have to tell me to leave the room because I am giving him too much for his money. I take some photos. He gets five. I take three. The first three are boring photos of the girl folding his fat stomach up to reveal his semi hard-on. Wonderful. I went to four years of college for this!!!! But honestly, I don’t think there would be a single subject I’d rather be photographing. And I’m learning so much false weird information about a man’s penis. It’s almost like taking a biology class in an insane asylum. Since I’m socializing waaay too much and there is a “special act” that needs to be done before the two other photos are taken, I, sadly, must leave for a few minutes to dwell on the amazing wonderful scene I have just witnessed. Before I leave, Dave instructs me to find an envelope in his bag. He explains it that this is JUST FOR ME, and that it is extremely important that I receive it. I am hoping it is cash, but I cannot find it. He seems upset, but I explain that I will be back very soon to take the remaining two photos.
I am wondering what this “special act” is for about two minutes when the girl runs out and asks me frantically for some type of Saran Wrap to use as a dental dam. “OH GOD NO GROOOSSSSS!!!!” is all I can think. But I get it for her. I mean, if he is this weird quack who knows all about the cock and apparently the vadge as well, maybe he can munch a mound pretty well. But God, I don’t know if I want to find out...ever.
I am hearing my coworker in there with Tampon Dave, and she is moaning and her moaning becomes a scream, and she seems to be going just nuts, and then it slows down. While this is going on, another girl, Miss Monique, walks up the stairs and tells me she’s going to go for a tampon sale. She knocks on the door and is in there for about five minutes. She comes out carrying one of the precious prescription bottles full of Tampon Dave’s seed. She looks upset. “He wouldn’t fucking buy my tampon,” she explains. “The cocksucker tried to offer me this fucking thing of his semen instead. I told him if he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen.” Then she slams the little bottle down on the counter and stomps down the stairs. I start laughing so hard. I am thinking, when in the hell in the world would you ever hear that statement again—“If he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen”? Of course she wanted money, not semen. But God, what a great thing to happen.
At this point, I think it might be OK for me to reenter the room to take the remaining two photos. I look at the other photos, and they look so amazing. He has one of those extremely old Polaroid cameras, and the photos look like they’re from the seventies. This time, he starts to tell me how after a man cums, there is still a bunch of semen left in some reservoir or something, and he keeps pushing more and more drops of semen out of his penis. Then he does something really gross. He takes out his big stained briefs and shoves them really close to my face, and he says, “You see this?”
I assuming he means the huge yellow stain on the front. I say yes. He says, “That’s when you can tell that your boyfriend has been cheating on you, if he has a yellow stain on his underwear like this. This is from the semen that probably dripped out of his penis after he was fucking another girl.” My coworker finally challenges him, inquiring, “What if he was just jacking off and that happened?” She seemed to upset Tampon Dave with this rebuttal. He says, defeated, “Yeah, I guess you could find out if he’s jacking it without you as well.” I can’t believe she challenged him!!! She’s got fucking balls.
I take the two more photos. They’re gross. One of her sitting on his face. Another one of him looking fat and even more gross because he’s standing next to this girl like a quarter his age. But of course this is what he likes. I tell Tampon Dave that he must be real good at oral sex since I heard my coworker moaning and screaming from the other room. He says, very arrogantly, “I know the vagina very well.” She, of course, agrees. I wonder if he does. I still don’t want to find out. I finally, sadly, say my goodbyes to Tampon Dave. I have so much more to talk to him about. But, fortunately, that is not the end of him for me. Even for that day.
About an hour later, as I am still reflecting on the day’s events, I receive the envelope that Tampon Dave was looking for in his bag. I am honestly, like I said, hoping it was a large sum of money, but it was something almost as great. It is a really faded photo of his very fat baby potbelly and him holding his hard cock. I was very happy to receive it. I hung it on my wall. He is a regular, so I will be seeing him again. But I can see him whenever I want now that I have this photo. I think I’m going to collect all of my tampons for the next couple of months and string them up like garland and give them to him right before Christmas to string around the Christmas tree. He should love that.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Sissy Sally
It’s been a month now...a very fast month, since I have been sticking things in fat men, peeing on them, and calling them all sorts of wonderful names. I’ve met trannies, sissies, slaves, doms, masters, and fetishists of every kind imaginable. I have always lived a fast life, but I feel like in the last month I have been thrust into this world of complete perversity, and as I explained earlier, it is much more difficult to return to regular life when I am not working. Sometimes I’ll see a man (and it’s always men, because those are the only clientele) on the street that I don’t know and I picture him in panties, getting beaten and pissed on. This doesn’t happen constantly, but it happens randomly, and it is uncontrollable. I’m sure I’ll have all sorts of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) haunting me after doing this, but, hey, I’m having fun and making money. I love CJ because it is the only forum where I can write the most foul stories without getting censored or being told to “tone it down.”
As you may or may not know, I am keeping a diary of every session that happens with me in this place. I try to keep them as detailed as possible, but sometimes they’re just vague outlines. After a month of part-time work, I have a notebook full. “Stinky Stan” still remains my favorite gentleman who has visited. The next one comes in a very close second.
“Sissy Sally” and I did not engage very much one-on-one, but the session as a whole was definitely, without a doubt, the most sickening atrocity that I have witnessed there thus far. She came in my first week of working and has stuck with me ever since, and I doubt I will ever forget her.
I will copy my diary entry here, but I will add certain things for explanation’s sake. I will try to keep it as true to the diary form as I can.
OCTOBER XXX 2007 SESSION 2 OF THE DAY.
SISSY SALLY.
Sally was Monique’s slut. Monique is a lady who works there, and I guess as you work there longer, you accumulate “sluts” who want you to teach them to be a woman. Please don’t be confused. Sally is biologically, and I am pretty sure in most of his daily life, a male. He is only a sissy slut when he comes to visit us. She is definitely my kind of girl. She could really take the terribly foul stuff. Oh, and was she whiny. She was a whiny little bitch from hell. I was instantly in love.
Before I went up to see Sally, the Headmistress gave me a short briefing. (I really hate all this Mistress/Master language, but they force me to use it, so I go with it.) She told me that I was going to be giving a G.S. (golden shower) to Sally. For you innocents whom I really envy, a golden shower is when you piss on someone. For me, it means good money for taking a fucking piss. Honestly, as a secret side note, I am on some very heavy medication and often wonder when I piss in someone’s mouth if they get some kind of high from it. I think I might research this. If anyone knows anything about this, please tell me. I know it happens with some hallucinogens, but I don’t know if it happens with tranquilizers and narcotics. I digress. I was also told that Sally is a “little slut bitch who is like the kind of girl in junior high school who always wanted to get into the cool kids’ parties, but who never got invited.” I could identify. If only this meant being pissed on, shit on, and puked on in jr. high, I believe it would have made for a much more interesting experience.
I enter the salon where all of this is happening. There is a bathroom in the salon where Sally is lying in the bathtub, but I have not seen her yet. I just smell the very strong odor of urine and hear people yelling, “Look at you, Sally. You disgusting slut!!!! You make me want to puke!!!” I am enjoying this thoroughly and cannot wait to see Sally. I am continuing to drink water as fast as I can because I really don’t have to pee, and this place keeps annoying me because they tell me I have to do a golden shower like ten minutes before I’m supposed to, and a girl needs some time to gear up to pee on someone. I’m not pee-shy, but I have to get something to come out first.
There is a male slave I almost never see who has some weird role where he is also a client but works for the dungeon since he is the only male on staff. He is usually described as a “Master,” or at least on the website he is, and he mostly works with couples, I guess. His getup is far different than the scary corporal master I saw on the website. He looks and talks EXACTLY like Mr. Slave from South Park. He is balding, with a handlebar mustache, sporting leather straps across his chest, blush on his pretty little cheeks, and he talks exactly like a flaming homo. He asks me if I am Latina. I gather he is trying to make small talk. I always wished I was Latina, so I say yes and he smiles. I gather that this man is here to play the perfect slave that Sally is to look up to, but he is also there to shit on her.
Monique walks out of the bathroom after yelling at Sally and starts shoving this yogurt mix into her own mouth while explaining that she is going to puke on Sally. This is getting more and more wonderful. I just thought that I was going to give a G.S., and here I am in the midst of someone who is about to get pissed on, shit on, and vomited on by three girls.
Most of the trolls that walk in and out these doors are by far the fattest pockmarked hairy-assed monkeys that I’ve ever seen. Despite the whiny voice, I was definitely expecting an old hairy man with a potbelly and welts on his face. It is time for me to go into the bathroom after so much anticipation to see Sally.
To my surprise, Sally is this skinny younger man with a nice body wearing a bra and panties. He is completely wet, covered in piss, and he fucking smells worse than a urinal-puck sandwich. He’s doing a cute little dance in the tub. I introduce myself and explain that I will pee on him. It is so lucky that this is a session that I am allowed to laugh in, because for the life of me I would not be able to hold my laughter in.
He lays down to get the “golden nectar” that I am going to give him, and I step over the tub. He gets off on how much I tell him what a disgusting piece of turd he is, and I guess it’s the whole atmosphere, because I usually pride myself on my ability to piss all over anyone at the drop of the hat, but I can’t piss. Sally is waiting so patiently in the tub, and I am trying to piss as much as I possibly can, but all I can do is fart. The weird thing is that I NEVER fart. I know people say that, but I really have nothing to hide here. I really never fart. I pretend this is completely planned and try to push more urine out but can only fart again. I yell at Sally to smell my farts and I ask her what they smell like, and he says that they smell like “chocolate-chip cookies.” HAH. Oh, there is something very wrong here. Monique instructs Sally to perhaps sing a song to me. Sally starts to sing, in her terribly whiny voice, “Singin’ in the Rain.”
That is it. I cannot stop laughing, and I don’t think my body could function after the third fart and Sally’s whiny rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” I realize that I cannot yet pee, and I explain to Sally that she is simply too disgusting for me to even urinate on and that perhaps I will be back later. I know the logic to that particular statement probably makes no sense, but I think it got Miss Sally off a little bit, and it bought me more time. I want to piss on Sally so bad. I, once again, think I am in love.
I go into the salon again, and of course, it instantly comes on...I have to pee BAD. Like I can’t possibly hold it and am doing damage to my bladder. Only now I have to wait for Miss Monique to puke on her and Master/Slave man to shit on her, and then for her to lick the shit off of him.
As clean as you try to keep a place like this, it is virtually impossible. I always think that if I got one of those lights they use on Dateline that they take into hotel rooms to look for semen and gross stuff, like those glow lights, the whole place would shine like the sun. I doubt there would actually be a spot that didn’t contain a ton of shit, piss, cum, spit, vomit, ass juice, period blood, regular blood, and every type of disease ever. We clean EVERYTHING with bleach and alcohol, but when people like Sally come in we, of course, seem to have a small fly problem. This small fly problem turns into a swarm in the salon and especially the bathroom where Sally is.
The smell is getting worse and worse, and I really don’t know how long I can take it. I have to hurry up and piss before I accidentally puke on Sally for free. I run in there, yell at Sally to open her mouth wide, and I piss like a fucking fountain. Sally laps it up happily. I am pissing so much that she starts gagging and I yell at her not to spit it out. The thought passes through my head again about how many meds I am on and the possibility of overdose through drinking so much of my pee. I guess I will just have to wait at this point to see if she goes to sleep or dies or something. I run out of the room and wash off my legs.
When I enter the salon again, Monique is retching to vomit and it is really making me sick. I hear it. It gets all over Sally, who is now standing up shaking her skinny ass back and forth seductively. Now comes the climax. The slave shits on Sally and then Sally must rub it on his dick and lick it off. I, unfortunately, do not witness this, but I hear it. And smell it. Although the buzz from the flies is so goddamned loud it is hard to hear anything, I hear Sally whining and sucking and eating the shit.
Intermittently throughout this entire session, I am going into the bathroom to laugh at and harass Sally. I go in there a bit after that, and here she stands in all her glory. She is wearing a mismatched bra and panty set, wet head-to-toe from four girls’ piss. Covered in smears of vomit. Mostly pink and brown vomit. And then there are shit smears...everywhere. Sally has shit all around her mouth, sort of like a clown. It is a vision of glory. Of course there is no camera. The girls start taunting her with the possibility of sending her out onto the busy street just like that. I am wondering if this could possibly happen, but I realize this is all a fantasy. I WANT it to be real. The party is then over, and Sally is forced to shower in the shit-and-piss-covered mess she made.
I REALLY wanted to see how she cleaned up. I mean, she must have blown (no pun intended) over a grand for that fun little time. At one point she said that she had no more money and that her wallet was in the car. Miss Monique asked Sally if she could check Sally’s pants for more money and pulled out this HUGE wad of cash, and Sally was more than eager to give up every penny of it. She was having so much fun. I’m almost positive Sally is an important politician of some sort. It almost makes too much sense. I really cannot take the smell anymore, and I have decided that this is the only type of real party. I love Sissy Sally and cannot wait until she comes in again. I have done a lot of humiliation play, but Miss Sally took it to a whole new level. The whining, the mismatched bikini, the singing, the flies—I could go on forever. It was a vision of beauty.
As you may or may not know, I am keeping a diary of every session that happens with me in this place. I try to keep them as detailed as possible, but sometimes they’re just vague outlines. After a month of part-time work, I have a notebook full. “Stinky Stan” still remains my favorite gentleman who has visited. The next one comes in a very close second.
“Sissy Sally” and I did not engage very much one-on-one, but the session as a whole was definitely, without a doubt, the most sickening atrocity that I have witnessed there thus far. She came in my first week of working and has stuck with me ever since, and I doubt I will ever forget her.
I will copy my diary entry here, but I will add certain things for explanation’s sake. I will try to keep it as true to the diary form as I can.
OCTOBER XXX 2007 SESSION 2 OF THE DAY.
SISSY SALLY.
Sally was Monique’s slut. Monique is a lady who works there, and I guess as you work there longer, you accumulate “sluts” who want you to teach them to be a woman. Please don’t be confused. Sally is biologically, and I am pretty sure in most of his daily life, a male. He is only a sissy slut when he comes to visit us. She is definitely my kind of girl. She could really take the terribly foul stuff. Oh, and was she whiny. She was a whiny little bitch from hell. I was instantly in love.
Before I went up to see Sally, the Headmistress gave me a short briefing. (I really hate all this Mistress/Master language, but they force me to use it, so I go with it.) She told me that I was going to be giving a G.S. (golden shower) to Sally. For you innocents whom I really envy, a golden shower is when you piss on someone. For me, it means good money for taking a fucking piss. Honestly, as a secret side note, I am on some very heavy medication and often wonder when I piss in someone’s mouth if they get some kind of high from it. I think I might research this. If anyone knows anything about this, please tell me. I know it happens with some hallucinogens, but I don’t know if it happens with tranquilizers and narcotics. I digress. I was also told that Sally is a “little slut bitch who is like the kind of girl in junior high school who always wanted to get into the cool kids’ parties, but who never got invited.” I could identify. If only this meant being pissed on, shit on, and puked on in jr. high, I believe it would have made for a much more interesting experience.
I enter the salon where all of this is happening. There is a bathroom in the salon where Sally is lying in the bathtub, but I have not seen her yet. I just smell the very strong odor of urine and hear people yelling, “Look at you, Sally. You disgusting slut!!!! You make me want to puke!!!” I am enjoying this thoroughly and cannot wait to see Sally. I am continuing to drink water as fast as I can because I really don’t have to pee, and this place keeps annoying me because they tell me I have to do a golden shower like ten minutes before I’m supposed to, and a girl needs some time to gear up to pee on someone. I’m not pee-shy, but I have to get something to come out first.
There is a male slave I almost never see who has some weird role where he is also a client but works for the dungeon since he is the only male on staff. He is usually described as a “Master,” or at least on the website he is, and he mostly works with couples, I guess. His getup is far different than the scary corporal master I saw on the website. He looks and talks EXACTLY like Mr. Slave from South Park. He is balding, with a handlebar mustache, sporting leather straps across his chest, blush on his pretty little cheeks, and he talks exactly like a flaming homo. He asks me if I am Latina. I gather he is trying to make small talk. I always wished I was Latina, so I say yes and he smiles. I gather that this man is here to play the perfect slave that Sally is to look up to, but he is also there to shit on her.
Monique walks out of the bathroom after yelling at Sally and starts shoving this yogurt mix into her own mouth while explaining that she is going to puke on Sally. This is getting more and more wonderful. I just thought that I was going to give a G.S., and here I am in the midst of someone who is about to get pissed on, shit on, and vomited on by three girls.
Most of the trolls that walk in and out these doors are by far the fattest pockmarked hairy-assed monkeys that I’ve ever seen. Despite the whiny voice, I was definitely expecting an old hairy man with a potbelly and welts on his face. It is time for me to go into the bathroom after so much anticipation to see Sally.
To my surprise, Sally is this skinny younger man with a nice body wearing a bra and panties. He is completely wet, covered in piss, and he fucking smells worse than a urinal-puck sandwich. He’s doing a cute little dance in the tub. I introduce myself and explain that I will pee on him. It is so lucky that this is a session that I am allowed to laugh in, because for the life of me I would not be able to hold my laughter in.
He lays down to get the “golden nectar” that I am going to give him, and I step over the tub. He gets off on how much I tell him what a disgusting piece of turd he is, and I guess it’s the whole atmosphere, because I usually pride myself on my ability to piss all over anyone at the drop of the hat, but I can’t piss. Sally is waiting so patiently in the tub, and I am trying to piss as much as I possibly can, but all I can do is fart. The weird thing is that I NEVER fart. I know people say that, but I really have nothing to hide here. I really never fart. I pretend this is completely planned and try to push more urine out but can only fart again. I yell at Sally to smell my farts and I ask her what they smell like, and he says that they smell like “chocolate-chip cookies.” HAH. Oh, there is something very wrong here. Monique instructs Sally to perhaps sing a song to me. Sally starts to sing, in her terribly whiny voice, “Singin’ in the Rain.”
That is it. I cannot stop laughing, and I don’t think my body could function after the third fart and Sally’s whiny rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” I realize that I cannot yet pee, and I explain to Sally that she is simply too disgusting for me to even urinate on and that perhaps I will be back later. I know the logic to that particular statement probably makes no sense, but I think it got Miss Sally off a little bit, and it bought me more time. I want to piss on Sally so bad. I, once again, think I am in love.
I go into the salon again, and of course, it instantly comes on...I have to pee BAD. Like I can’t possibly hold it and am doing damage to my bladder. Only now I have to wait for Miss Monique to puke on her and Master/Slave man to shit on her, and then for her to lick the shit off of him.
As clean as you try to keep a place like this, it is virtually impossible. I always think that if I got one of those lights they use on Dateline that they take into hotel rooms to look for semen and gross stuff, like those glow lights, the whole place would shine like the sun. I doubt there would actually be a spot that didn’t contain a ton of shit, piss, cum, spit, vomit, ass juice, period blood, regular blood, and every type of disease ever. We clean EVERYTHING with bleach and alcohol, but when people like Sally come in we, of course, seem to have a small fly problem. This small fly problem turns into a swarm in the salon and especially the bathroom where Sally is.
The smell is getting worse and worse, and I really don’t know how long I can take it. I have to hurry up and piss before I accidentally puke on Sally for free. I run in there, yell at Sally to open her mouth wide, and I piss like a fucking fountain. Sally laps it up happily. I am pissing so much that she starts gagging and I yell at her not to spit it out. The thought passes through my head again about how many meds I am on and the possibility of overdose through drinking so much of my pee. I guess I will just have to wait at this point to see if she goes to sleep or dies or something. I run out of the room and wash off my legs.
When I enter the salon again, Monique is retching to vomit and it is really making me sick. I hear it. It gets all over Sally, who is now standing up shaking her skinny ass back and forth seductively. Now comes the climax. The slave shits on Sally and then Sally must rub it on his dick and lick it off. I, unfortunately, do not witness this, but I hear it. And smell it. Although the buzz from the flies is so goddamned loud it is hard to hear anything, I hear Sally whining and sucking and eating the shit.
Intermittently throughout this entire session, I am going into the bathroom to laugh at and harass Sally. I go in there a bit after that, and here she stands in all her glory. She is wearing a mismatched bra and panty set, wet head-to-toe from four girls’ piss. Covered in smears of vomit. Mostly pink and brown vomit. And then there are shit smears...everywhere. Sally has shit all around her mouth, sort of like a clown. It is a vision of glory. Of course there is no camera. The girls start taunting her with the possibility of sending her out onto the busy street just like that. I am wondering if this could possibly happen, but I realize this is all a fantasy. I WANT it to be real. The party is then over, and Sally is forced to shower in the shit-and-piss-covered mess she made.
I REALLY wanted to see how she cleaned up. I mean, she must have blown (no pun intended) over a grand for that fun little time. At one point she said that she had no more money and that her wallet was in the car. Miss Monique asked Sally if she could check Sally’s pants for more money and pulled out this HUGE wad of cash, and Sally was more than eager to give up every penny of it. She was having so much fun. I’m almost positive Sally is an important politician of some sort. It almost makes too much sense. I really cannot take the smell anymore, and I have decided that this is the only type of real party. I love Sissy Sally and cannot wait until she comes in again. I have done a lot of humiliation play, but Miss Sally took it to a whole new level. The whining, the mismatched bikini, the singing, the flies—I could go on forever. It was a vision of beauty.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I Am Not A Man
Sorry. I know SOME of you have taken an interest in my job and would like to hear more about the sick, bizarro, weirdo fantasies I see each day, and I would just loooove to write about that. You can thank those few lowly dildos who each week find it of extreme importance to speculate what sex I am, and who like to say I have something a little extra between my legs. This is for you douchebags.
I have often thought I was born a male. Once when I was young, I had heard a rumor that Jamie Lee Curtis was born with a penis, and that it was cut off after birth. Then later I saw a special on the Discovery Channel about the fact that it happens, but not very often – that folks are born with both sets of genitalia, and often times the parents decide that they don't want their kids growin' up freaks, so they lop the dick off, or erase all the traces of a vagina. They decide for their kids what sex they will be, and often times later in life the children display a lot of characteristics of the opposite sex.
Since seeing that special, I have thought a lot about myself, and my fucked up childhood where I refused to play with dolls and threw them in cages and only played with He Man and boy’s toys... and the fact that I would never let my parents refer to me as a little girl, but I knew that I was not a little boy, so I made them call me a "little guy." I also have a pronounced Adam's Apple. But the rest of me, I assure you, is feminine (I don't have "man hands" or anything, thank God). I tend to think and act more like a typical male. As far as sexual orientation, I don't consider myself gay, straight, or bi. Queer would probably describe it best. My first teenage sexual relationship was with a girl.
All of this put together plus anytime many people read my writing for a somewhat prolonged period of time, at least one to several of them conclude that I cannot possibly be a female and I am most definitely a male posing as a female. So you morons are not alone... it seems to be some sort of weirdo phenomenon.
I'm going off on a tangent here, but I've always hated web threads. I appreciate many of the comments, but reading some of your retard dribble can be more than a bit annoying. Then again, you take the time to read my retard dribble. But I feel I must set the record straight, so to speak. I am fortunately or unfortunately biologically, physically, and mentally a female. I do not have a penis. I don't even have an enlarged clitoris. If you must know, my clitoris is actually extremely tiny. I have breasts, even though I do find it a bit bizarre that they didn't fully develop until last year when I was 26.
I have been told I tend to think more like a man, whatever that means, especially when it comes to sex. I think people are referring to the whole "hit it and quit it" idea I adopted for awhile. I'm not like that anymore though. And I really don't think that is a purely or even mostly purely male tendency and know many females who think and act like that. I am a bit confused by this whole conspiracy theory of sorts that I am secretly a man writing as a female for CJ. I really don't understand why that seems to be a popular belief. Sure I have written about how women are disgusting, but I have written far more about how disgusting men are.
This shit is annoying. I have a pussy. Sorry folks. If you want to see it, watch my glorious video here on CJ entitled "Je Ne Regrette Rien" where there is a big whiskey bottle shoved up said pussy. Case fucking closed. Meg is my name. I don't have a cock. Go to hell. Shut up. Get a life. And get over it.
There is something interesting about all of this though. Because, like I said, some of you CJ readers (as obnoxious as you foul pigs are) are not the first ones to read my writing and come to the conclusion that I am lying about my sex. I must wonder then... extra small clitoris, large Adam's Apple, bizarre engendering during childhood... if I was actually like those Discovery Channel babies and Jamie Lee Curtis, and born with both genitalia. It would make so much sense for my parents to choose that I would be a girl considering I have always been "Daddy's Little Girl" (eh, guy), and I don't think he'd love me as much if I had a bulge between my thighs. He certainly would no longer be able to make comments about how pretty his "little guy" is, or more recently how shapely and gorgeous my ass looks, without sounding like a total homo. He never would have been able to take me to a really sleazy lingerie store at the ripe young age of ten and ask the cashier, to her complete horror, if they had anything in my size!!! (He still claims he was just looking for pajamas.)
I have even, at my braver moments, accused my parents of chopping my penis off at birth, and they just brush it off. "There Meg goes getting crazy again." But sometimes I do wonder. And then all of this crazy feedback I get from readers somewhat verifies my suspicion.
However, to answer the big question again... NO!!!!! I AM NOT A MAN. I AM 100% FEMALE. I HAVE A VAG. GO LOOK AT IT. NO MORE FUCKING DEBATES.
I AM BEYOND SICK OF READING ABOUT IT IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.
I do confess now that sometimes I believe I was born with a little something "extra"; however I never ever think I'm a man trapped in a woman's body, although I do wish I could gain admittance to gay male bathhouses. But other than that, I think I like being a LADY. Perhaps I'll write to Jamie Lee Curtis and we can start a club or something. In the meantime, recognize that I am a bootylicious female and that my vagina bleeds for five days every month. TAKE THAT!
Now go bother some other writer on this site about how you think he's a woman and leave me the fuck alone. Oh yea and if you think this is a good opportunity to use this post to ask me for naked photos of myself, I will send you something terribly disturbing and hellish in return... far more terribly disturbing than naked photos of myself.
I have often thought I was born a male. Once when I was young, I had heard a rumor that Jamie Lee Curtis was born with a penis, and that it was cut off after birth. Then later I saw a special on the Discovery Channel about the fact that it happens, but not very often – that folks are born with both sets of genitalia, and often times the parents decide that they don't want their kids growin' up freaks, so they lop the dick off, or erase all the traces of a vagina. They decide for their kids what sex they will be, and often times later in life the children display a lot of characteristics of the opposite sex.
Since seeing that special, I have thought a lot about myself, and my fucked up childhood where I refused to play with dolls and threw them in cages and only played with He Man and boy’s toys... and the fact that I would never let my parents refer to me as a little girl, but I knew that I was not a little boy, so I made them call me a "little guy." I also have a pronounced Adam's Apple. But the rest of me, I assure you, is feminine (I don't have "man hands" or anything, thank God). I tend to think and act more like a typical male. As far as sexual orientation, I don't consider myself gay, straight, or bi. Queer would probably describe it best. My first teenage sexual relationship was with a girl.
All of this put together plus anytime many people read my writing for a somewhat prolonged period of time, at least one to several of them conclude that I cannot possibly be a female and I am most definitely a male posing as a female. So you morons are not alone... it seems to be some sort of weirdo phenomenon.
I'm going off on a tangent here, but I've always hated web threads. I appreciate many of the comments, but reading some of your retard dribble can be more than a bit annoying. Then again, you take the time to read my retard dribble. But I feel I must set the record straight, so to speak. I am fortunately or unfortunately biologically, physically, and mentally a female. I do not have a penis. I don't even have an enlarged clitoris. If you must know, my clitoris is actually extremely tiny. I have breasts, even though I do find it a bit bizarre that they didn't fully develop until last year when I was 26.
I have been told I tend to think more like a man, whatever that means, especially when it comes to sex. I think people are referring to the whole "hit it and quit it" idea I adopted for awhile. I'm not like that anymore though. And I really don't think that is a purely or even mostly purely male tendency and know many females who think and act like that. I am a bit confused by this whole conspiracy theory of sorts that I am secretly a man writing as a female for CJ. I really don't understand why that seems to be a popular belief. Sure I have written about how women are disgusting, but I have written far more about how disgusting men are.
This shit is annoying. I have a pussy. Sorry folks. If you want to see it, watch my glorious video here on CJ entitled "Je Ne Regrette Rien" where there is a big whiskey bottle shoved up said pussy. Case fucking closed. Meg is my name. I don't have a cock. Go to hell. Shut up. Get a life. And get over it.
There is something interesting about all of this though. Because, like I said, some of you CJ readers (as obnoxious as you foul pigs are) are not the first ones to read my writing and come to the conclusion that I am lying about my sex. I must wonder then... extra small clitoris, large Adam's Apple, bizarre engendering during childhood... if I was actually like those Discovery Channel babies and Jamie Lee Curtis, and born with both genitalia. It would make so much sense for my parents to choose that I would be a girl considering I have always been "Daddy's Little Girl" (eh, guy), and I don't think he'd love me as much if I had a bulge between my thighs. He certainly would no longer be able to make comments about how pretty his "little guy" is, or more recently how shapely and gorgeous my ass looks, without sounding like a total homo. He never would have been able to take me to a really sleazy lingerie store at the ripe young age of ten and ask the cashier, to her complete horror, if they had anything in my size!!! (He still claims he was just looking for pajamas.)
I have even, at my braver moments, accused my parents of chopping my penis off at birth, and they just brush it off. "There Meg goes getting crazy again." But sometimes I do wonder. And then all of this crazy feedback I get from readers somewhat verifies my suspicion.
However, to answer the big question again... NO!!!!! I AM NOT A MAN. I AM 100% FEMALE. I HAVE A VAG. GO LOOK AT IT. NO MORE FUCKING DEBATES.
I AM BEYOND SICK OF READING ABOUT IT IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.
I do confess now that sometimes I believe I was born with a little something "extra"; however I never ever think I'm a man trapped in a woman's body, although I do wish I could gain admittance to gay male bathhouses. But other than that, I think I like being a LADY. Perhaps I'll write to Jamie Lee Curtis and we can start a club or something. In the meantime, recognize that I am a bootylicious female and that my vagina bleeds for five days every month. TAKE THAT!
Now go bother some other writer on this site about how you think he's a woman and leave me the fuck alone. Oh yea and if you think this is a good opportunity to use this post to ask me for naked photos of myself, I will send you something terribly disturbing and hellish in return... far more terribly disturbing than naked photos of myself.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Stinky Stan's Electrocution Fantasy
As I said in my last post, I got a new job, and some of you more curious folks have inquired as to what exactly that new job is. I guess there's a name for it, but I don't really like the name because I don't really think it encompasses what I do. I do not sit around whipping and beating men. Thank God. Though I guess that is fun for some, the job gets much more complex, and it can be tons of fun, especially when disgusting bodily fluids are involved. In other words, the whipping is not my favorite thing to do. I have been doing this work formally, as a regular job, for three weeks now. I have done it sporadically in the past, but never officially working for an established business. And it is a business. I know this might surprise some of you in this sexual-phobic country, but it’s also a legal business. Everything is on the books, and nothing illegal goes on.
I'm not going to go into all the crazy stories I have from being a party to this for three weeks, rather I will highlight one very recent man's fantasy that I LOVED and simply cannot stop thinking about it. A great part of this whole fantasy was that the man was telling it to me whilst sniffing my feet. I had to walk around in my stinkiest shoes for hours before meeting with him, so to assure that my feet would be totally fucking disgusting smelling, which is not hard for me considering I am pretty fucking disgusting and have bad hygiene. So this man tells me his fantasy all the while pausing to take huge deep mouthfuls of stink from my feet, and of course loving it.
Here is the fantasy though, and I must write it because I simply cannot forget this. After he told it to me, I was forced to recite it back to him, while he asked me specific questions about it. Having one of the most terrible short term memories on earth, I was having huge problems doing this, so he had to keep repeating it, but never got annoyed or anything, probably because he knew that I was really enjoying this whole experience immensely, and knowing that I was a writer, I believe he did have a secret desire that I would write about it. The fantasy includes a writer, which would probably in real life be me, although in his fantasy I play the female warden of the prison, but you'll get all of that when I explain it. I keep going on tangents, I will stop. This is what he tells me. Now remember, this is his FANTASY, so it never happened. I don't think ANY part of it is true, even the beginning, which very possibly could be true, but I really just think this is all made up.
He hires a prostitute in order to sniff her dirty feet, because that is obviously what he loves to do. While he is with her, he is caught by the cops and arrested and then discovers that the prostitute was underage, only 14 years old, so he is sent to jail to await the trial. He goes to trial and of course everyone in the courtroom is female. Female judge, female prosecutor, female public defender, and an all female jury. His public defender is particularly shitty, and the prosecutor is friends with the judge ad he is determined to be a sexual deviant. The all female jury finds him guilty, and the judge gives him a particularly harsh sentence, since he is a total pervo sexual deviant, and she hates people like him. He will be forced to die in the electric chair.
I am the warden of an all female prison. I am not a particularly cold or mean warden. I just like to get my job done, and since all of the male prisons are overcrowded, he is forced to spend his death row time in my prison. We have the electric chair there, and I am always the one that pulls the switch on the chair. Like I said, I am not mean about it, rather it is my job. I don’t see them as humans, and electrocuting a man is more like putting a dog down for a veterinarian. It is a part of my job, and I am cordial, but I must do it.
I must pause for a second because – being a HUGE fan of true crime and shows like OZ, and having seen actual electrocutions (on tv or the internet of course), and know somewhat the prison process – I started realizing at the very beginning of the story that there were a TON of holes in this story and I was like "HEY THAT COULD NEVER HAPPEN"... but he HAD to keep repeating to my dumb ass that this was HIS FANTASY so it happens in his head, only. As he repeated that to me I started to fully picture the whole thing. So I really don't want to get any feedback saying "god, that was fucking stupid, that could never happen"... I agree. It couldn't. It is a FANTASY. So once you get that, you might appreciate this more. And when you realize and picture that the entire time he is reciting this extremely elaborate fantasy to me he is inhaling the odors of my stinky feet like Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet taking those huge, perverse breaths out of that gas mask he has. Well, that's what it reminded me of, anyways. Ok, no more tangents, I promise.
I am the warden and I have about one electrocution a month and I schedule his electrocution for the following Thursday at 10AM. I always like to schedule my electrocutions at the same time: always on a Thursday, always at 10AM. At this point, the story skips to the Wednesday night before the electrocution. The man is taken to the holding cell. In front of the holding cell is a huge menacing metal door, which he is forced to stare at. Once he is put in the room, the "strap down team" comes in and rips off all his clothes. Because, why would he need clothes, if they're just going to get ruined once he is electrocuted? So he is forced to wait all night, naked, cowering in this small cell, awaiting the next day when he will have to sit down on the "hot seat" and have his "tushie roasted." (I say those words because these are the certain buzz words that turn him on. I must remember them when I repeat the story to him.) I, the female warden, refer jokingly to electrocutions as "tushie roasts." And when I'm going to electrocute a man I always tell everyone, "We're going to have a Tushie Roast tomorrow".
So this man is naked, cowering in his cell, and there is a female guard watching him overnight, and he starts to beg her and plead and say, "I only sniffed a girl's feet, I don't deserve this, I promise I'll never do it again, just please don't roast me." She is not mean or nice. She just very matter-of-fact-ly tells him to try and calm down and that the governor (who is also female) might call in a reprieve but if not, he will have to be electrocuted at 10AM the following morning.
The time keeps passing, and it is getting closer and closer to the time he has to die. They bring his breakfast in around 7 am, and of course he can't eat a bite because he is so scared to die.
He likes to think that this is the way all men go down, pleading and apologizing, and I did (being an idiot again) explain to him that not all men go down like that, many of them are very put together. Some even want to die. But he, again had to explain to me that this was his fantasy, and that in his fantasy all men are scared to death of the "hot seat," and they all go in like he does, begging and pleading and lurching back and forth, trying to get away, but they never do because there is a very efficient all female "strap down team" who takes the naked, sweaty man to the "hot seat." I did ask him if he asked about his last meal and what it was, but he said that it was just a regular breakfast, and it didn't really matter in his fantasy because he could not eat it anyway, because how could a man possibly eat when he knows that he will be dead in a few hours?
After his breakfast comes, there is a twist. I, the female warden, am having a particularly busy day, so I move the electrocution up to nine AM because I want to get it over with, thus showing how little I care about this man's life, and that it is merely a burden in my day. There is no notion in my mind that a human life will be lost. He's just fucking up my daily business. He protests to this and says how unfair it is, and now there is way less time for any type of reprieve, and again says that if he is not given the hot seat he will NEVER EVER do anything like he did before and he will be good and how in the world could they just move it up an hour like that, but he is told by the guard that these things happen, and he is to meet with a few people and then get prepped for the electrocution.
He really has no family or friends, so no one like that will be watching the electrocution. The underage prostitute was not a victim, and she doesn't even realize what happened to him after he was taken away, so there will be no victims watching. The first visit he gets is from his female public defender. She tries to act like she feels bad for not doing a better job with the case, but really she doesn't care much, but tries to offer a kind face, and will witness the electrocution.
The second visitor is the female prosecutor, who just thinks that men like him are disgusting pigs who should fucking fry. She's so glad to witness him dying. But she says about the hottest thing in the world to him, which is of EXTREME importance in the story. She walks up to him, wearing a business suit and high heels. He is naked cowering in his cell. He starts to plead with her, and she says to him, with a sly smile on her face
"You know, it's a real shame that you're going to fry for sniffing an underage girl's feet. Not just underage girls’ feet smell. I'm a mature woman, and my feet, in these heels smell REAL bad. Think about that when you're sitting on the hot seat, waiting to fry." How shitty is that? She not only is a very big part of the reason he's dying, she completely mind-fucks him right before his death. (But what a hot thing to say.)
One more visitor comes in. (This is the one that I actually in real life mostly identify with, but in his fantasy, again, I play the female warden.) Another woman, this one a true crime writer and a psychologist. She is working on a book about sexual deviants and she has researched this man's life and is writing a chapter about him in her book. This is the first live electrocution she has ever witnessed, and she is extremely excited about it. She is escorted to the cell by me, the female warden. And I open the huge metal door in front of him and in that room is the hot seat, and I give the psychologist a tour of it, while he is finally getting his first glimpse of the instrument that will soon kill him.
After the tour, I take the psychologist over to him, and she is very warm to him and gives him her regards, and explains to him how she has been writing a chapter on him and how she will be watching the electrocution as well. She's nice to him, but it's little comfort, since he realizes that this is the last visitor and he will soon die.
It is now 8:30, and no reprieves or anything have been called in. He must get prepped for the chair. A barber and a nurse come into his cell. The barber explains that she is there to shave his tushie so that the hair does not burn. She pulls out the straight razor and starts to shave. He starts again to writhe and resists and she suggests to him that he should really stay still because he will be sitting on a pad of alcohol and if he has an open sore, the alcohol will burn it when he sits down. He thinks this is a ridiculous request since he knows that the pain of an alcohol burn will be far less than the pain of having thousands of volts jolting through his body.
After the barber is done shaving his tushie, the nurse starts to lube it up. She then explains that she will have to insert a plug of sorts into his tushie because when they electrocute him, his body will have no control and they don't want a mess from him shitting all over, so they will have to plug him up. (At this point in the story, I said WHAT?!? They don't really put butt-plugs in people's butts when they electrocute them. That wouldn't even really work would it? He laughed and explained to me AGAIN that this was HIS fantasy, and he thinks that they use diapers or something, which I remembered that that is what they do, but in his fantasy, he gets the butt plug. I honestly just needed to shut the fuck up and go with it but I loved the story so much and him sniffing my dirty feet that I almost wanted it to be real now. And a weird detail like that would ruin it for ME. But, for him, a butt plug being forced into his ass is a lot hotter than them putting a diaper on him, so that is what happens). The nurse then inserts the butt plug into the naked, sweaty man. Then she weighs him and explains that they need his weight to determine how much current they will use to fry him. She then clips his toenails. He asks her why she is doing this and she explains that the people going to the chair tend to kick, and they don't want him cutting anyone with his long toenails, so they must be cut.
It is now time to take him into the room with the metal door in front of him, which menacingly stores the electric chair. It is 8:45. I stand by in my business suit and high heels while the four-female "strap down team" comes into his cell to get him into the chair. At this point, the man KNOWS that there's no going back now, he's gonna fry very, very soon. He starts going nuts. He's doing EVERYTHING he can to get the hell out of there, he is writhing and flipping over and pleading and saying that he didn't do anything, and how could they do this to him. But he is no match for the strap down team. They are used to this, because they have to do this about once a month, whenever a man gets the hot seat. They are very efficient in their job and they quickly grab him and get him into the chair and he sits down on the cold sponge on the chair, and they grab both arms and legs and strap him in.
The room is very cold, because it tends to get hot after an electrocution. Even though the room is cold, and the man is completely naked, he is sweating profusely because of the fighting and the fact that the anticipation of the doom that is to come. He sits in the chair and faces the glass window with the witnesses. He sees his public defender, who is smiling, trying to comfort him. He sees the prosecutor, who is smiling because she can't wait to see this pervo roast. He then sees the psychologist, who is smiling because this is the first electrocution that she has ever witnessed, and she's really excited to see the whole process. There are a total of twelve people in the witness room. All women. All are smiling. But he only recognizes the three smiling faces that had visited him in his cell.
After he sits for a minute, I check if there has been any reprieves from the governor. There have not. I start to read him his "death warrant" and then I ask him if he has any last words. He realizes this is his last chance to stop everything, and he is given a microphone, but all he can do is beg and plead that he will never EVER do anything bad again, and how he is an innocent man, and this is too harsh of a punishment – just about the same stuff he has been saying all along.
I take the microphone from him. I will be pulling the switch, and I really secretly love watching these men fry, but I am very businesslike and efficient about it. I do have one thing I am famous for, though. After the death warrant and the last words have been said, and there is no going back and I am about to pull the switch, I go up to him and I check the straps, and make sure they're good and tight. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I say my catch phrase to him. I say "Good Luck Tushie". Then the bag is placed over his head and he can only hear my high heels hitting the ground as I walk to the switch.
I pull the switch. His body starts to shake, then goes limp. He is dead.
That is the fantasy. A rather anticlimactic ending, but he explains to me that the ending is not the important thing… everything leading up to the electrocution is important. Each sentence in this story is an EXTREMELY important detail which must be remembered when repeating his fantasy back to him. Of course a person (especially me) cannot remember all of these details after having heard the story one time, but I did my damnedest to repeat it back to him the very best I could. I LOVED the story. This man paid a few hundred dollars for this experience, and I swear I definitely would have done it for free. I would do it a thousand times again. It was SO AWESOME.
When repeating the story to him, he asked me certain questions like whether or not I would pull the switch, and of course I am supposed to say hell yes I would love to, but stupid me who thinks too much, laughs and honestly answers, I really don't think so, but as soon as I see the disappointment start to show on his face, I realize that I'm being a total idiot and change and say, “Actually, of course I'd fucking pull the switch. I'd pull that goddamned switch and smile and as I watched you fry.”
He asked me what I'd say to him and suddenly my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember if it's "good night tushie" or "good luck tushie" and he's was so close to climaxing, and I said "good night tushie," and he says, smiling, "NOOOO!!!! It's 'Good Luck Tushie'!!!". I end up getting this phrase wrong like three times. Each time I get it wrong and he's about to cum, and then he laughs, and stops. Now I'm getting really frustrated, but then I get it right, and he climaxes. And, sadly, the hour is over.
An interesting side note, this man also has a fantasy about the "gas chamber." Some of you may be able to guess what that involves. I should make you all guess, but it's too funny. The "gas chamber" involves a woman farting in his face. But apparently there is no long elaborate story for it. I don't get how it goes. I told him he HAS to make up a gas chamber story. And that I need to hear it. I really hope he does. But I'd gladly play female warden for him again. That was so fun!!!
Before I go, I leave you with these final words. You don’t have to worry… I won’t turn this column into a diary about my job, but I feel the need to include amazing stuff like this foot smeller because I loved it. It made me so happy. And I know that my columns often come off sounding depressing, or at least I have been told that. Maybe this one will sound depressing to some. Two weirdo pervs getting off on some crazy-ass, bizarro fantasy, what a sick world we live in. But I truly believe that if places like I work at did not exist, these people would have almost no outlet for these fantasies (imagine what it was like pre-Internet!!!), and they'd actually go out and act on their rape fantasies instead of imagining them with a fellow sicko like me. Most of these people are, as you might imagine, rich, upstanding, white collar workers. I do not know what they do specifically but I'm sure they are influential people. Money means power for many. And these people obviously have money, therefore having power. This is going in a totally different direction. I'll stop now. I'm just hoping that I get to send some lucky man to the gas chamber someday.
I'm not going to go into all the crazy stories I have from being a party to this for three weeks, rather I will highlight one very recent man's fantasy that I LOVED and simply cannot stop thinking about it. A great part of this whole fantasy was that the man was telling it to me whilst sniffing my feet. I had to walk around in my stinkiest shoes for hours before meeting with him, so to assure that my feet would be totally fucking disgusting smelling, which is not hard for me considering I am pretty fucking disgusting and have bad hygiene. So this man tells me his fantasy all the while pausing to take huge deep mouthfuls of stink from my feet, and of course loving it.
Here is the fantasy though, and I must write it because I simply cannot forget this. After he told it to me, I was forced to recite it back to him, while he asked me specific questions about it. Having one of the most terrible short term memories on earth, I was having huge problems doing this, so he had to keep repeating it, but never got annoyed or anything, probably because he knew that I was really enjoying this whole experience immensely, and knowing that I was a writer, I believe he did have a secret desire that I would write about it. The fantasy includes a writer, which would probably in real life be me, although in his fantasy I play the female warden of the prison, but you'll get all of that when I explain it. I keep going on tangents, I will stop. This is what he tells me. Now remember, this is his FANTASY, so it never happened. I don't think ANY part of it is true, even the beginning, which very possibly could be true, but I really just think this is all made up.
He hires a prostitute in order to sniff her dirty feet, because that is obviously what he loves to do. While he is with her, he is caught by the cops and arrested and then discovers that the prostitute was underage, only 14 years old, so he is sent to jail to await the trial. He goes to trial and of course everyone in the courtroom is female. Female judge, female prosecutor, female public defender, and an all female jury. His public defender is particularly shitty, and the prosecutor is friends with the judge ad he is determined to be a sexual deviant. The all female jury finds him guilty, and the judge gives him a particularly harsh sentence, since he is a total pervo sexual deviant, and she hates people like him. He will be forced to die in the electric chair.
I am the warden of an all female prison. I am not a particularly cold or mean warden. I just like to get my job done, and since all of the male prisons are overcrowded, he is forced to spend his death row time in my prison. We have the electric chair there, and I am always the one that pulls the switch on the chair. Like I said, I am not mean about it, rather it is my job. I don’t see them as humans, and electrocuting a man is more like putting a dog down for a veterinarian. It is a part of my job, and I am cordial, but I must do it.
I must pause for a second because – being a HUGE fan of true crime and shows like OZ, and having seen actual electrocutions (on tv or the internet of course), and know somewhat the prison process – I started realizing at the very beginning of the story that there were a TON of holes in this story and I was like "HEY THAT COULD NEVER HAPPEN"... but he HAD to keep repeating to my dumb ass that this was HIS FANTASY so it happens in his head, only. As he repeated that to me I started to fully picture the whole thing. So I really don't want to get any feedback saying "god, that was fucking stupid, that could never happen"... I agree. It couldn't. It is a FANTASY. So once you get that, you might appreciate this more. And when you realize and picture that the entire time he is reciting this extremely elaborate fantasy to me he is inhaling the odors of my stinky feet like Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet taking those huge, perverse breaths out of that gas mask he has. Well, that's what it reminded me of, anyways. Ok, no more tangents, I promise.
I am the warden and I have about one electrocution a month and I schedule his electrocution for the following Thursday at 10AM. I always like to schedule my electrocutions at the same time: always on a Thursday, always at 10AM. At this point, the story skips to the Wednesday night before the electrocution. The man is taken to the holding cell. In front of the holding cell is a huge menacing metal door, which he is forced to stare at. Once he is put in the room, the "strap down team" comes in and rips off all his clothes. Because, why would he need clothes, if they're just going to get ruined once he is electrocuted? So he is forced to wait all night, naked, cowering in this small cell, awaiting the next day when he will have to sit down on the "hot seat" and have his "tushie roasted." (I say those words because these are the certain buzz words that turn him on. I must remember them when I repeat the story to him.) I, the female warden, refer jokingly to electrocutions as "tushie roasts." And when I'm going to electrocute a man I always tell everyone, "We're going to have a Tushie Roast tomorrow".
So this man is naked, cowering in his cell, and there is a female guard watching him overnight, and he starts to beg her and plead and say, "I only sniffed a girl's feet, I don't deserve this, I promise I'll never do it again, just please don't roast me." She is not mean or nice. She just very matter-of-fact-ly tells him to try and calm down and that the governor (who is also female) might call in a reprieve but if not, he will have to be electrocuted at 10AM the following morning.
The time keeps passing, and it is getting closer and closer to the time he has to die. They bring his breakfast in around 7 am, and of course he can't eat a bite because he is so scared to die.
He likes to think that this is the way all men go down, pleading and apologizing, and I did (being an idiot again) explain to him that not all men go down like that, many of them are very put together. Some even want to die. But he, again had to explain to me that this was his fantasy, and that in his fantasy all men are scared to death of the "hot seat," and they all go in like he does, begging and pleading and lurching back and forth, trying to get away, but they never do because there is a very efficient all female "strap down team" who takes the naked, sweaty man to the "hot seat." I did ask him if he asked about his last meal and what it was, but he said that it was just a regular breakfast, and it didn't really matter in his fantasy because he could not eat it anyway, because how could a man possibly eat when he knows that he will be dead in a few hours?
After his breakfast comes, there is a twist. I, the female warden, am having a particularly busy day, so I move the electrocution up to nine AM because I want to get it over with, thus showing how little I care about this man's life, and that it is merely a burden in my day. There is no notion in my mind that a human life will be lost. He's just fucking up my daily business. He protests to this and says how unfair it is, and now there is way less time for any type of reprieve, and again says that if he is not given the hot seat he will NEVER EVER do anything like he did before and he will be good and how in the world could they just move it up an hour like that, but he is told by the guard that these things happen, and he is to meet with a few people and then get prepped for the electrocution.
He really has no family or friends, so no one like that will be watching the electrocution. The underage prostitute was not a victim, and she doesn't even realize what happened to him after he was taken away, so there will be no victims watching. The first visit he gets is from his female public defender. She tries to act like she feels bad for not doing a better job with the case, but really she doesn't care much, but tries to offer a kind face, and will witness the electrocution.
The second visitor is the female prosecutor, who just thinks that men like him are disgusting pigs who should fucking fry. She's so glad to witness him dying. But she says about the hottest thing in the world to him, which is of EXTREME importance in the story. She walks up to him, wearing a business suit and high heels. He is naked cowering in his cell. He starts to plead with her, and she says to him, with a sly smile on her face
"You know, it's a real shame that you're going to fry for sniffing an underage girl's feet. Not just underage girls’ feet smell. I'm a mature woman, and my feet, in these heels smell REAL bad. Think about that when you're sitting on the hot seat, waiting to fry." How shitty is that? She not only is a very big part of the reason he's dying, she completely mind-fucks him right before his death. (But what a hot thing to say.)
One more visitor comes in. (This is the one that I actually in real life mostly identify with, but in his fantasy, again, I play the female warden.) Another woman, this one a true crime writer and a psychologist. She is working on a book about sexual deviants and she has researched this man's life and is writing a chapter about him in her book. This is the first live electrocution she has ever witnessed, and she is extremely excited about it. She is escorted to the cell by me, the female warden. And I open the huge metal door in front of him and in that room is the hot seat, and I give the psychologist a tour of it, while he is finally getting his first glimpse of the instrument that will soon kill him.
After the tour, I take the psychologist over to him, and she is very warm to him and gives him her regards, and explains to him how she has been writing a chapter on him and how she will be watching the electrocution as well. She's nice to him, but it's little comfort, since he realizes that this is the last visitor and he will soon die.
It is now 8:30, and no reprieves or anything have been called in. He must get prepped for the chair. A barber and a nurse come into his cell. The barber explains that she is there to shave his tushie so that the hair does not burn. She pulls out the straight razor and starts to shave. He starts again to writhe and resists and she suggests to him that he should really stay still because he will be sitting on a pad of alcohol and if he has an open sore, the alcohol will burn it when he sits down. He thinks this is a ridiculous request since he knows that the pain of an alcohol burn will be far less than the pain of having thousands of volts jolting through his body.
After the barber is done shaving his tushie, the nurse starts to lube it up. She then explains that she will have to insert a plug of sorts into his tushie because when they electrocute him, his body will have no control and they don't want a mess from him shitting all over, so they will have to plug him up. (At this point in the story, I said WHAT?!? They don't really put butt-plugs in people's butts when they electrocute them. That wouldn't even really work would it? He laughed and explained to me AGAIN that this was HIS fantasy, and he thinks that they use diapers or something, which I remembered that that is what they do, but in his fantasy, he gets the butt plug. I honestly just needed to shut the fuck up and go with it but I loved the story so much and him sniffing my dirty feet that I almost wanted it to be real now. And a weird detail like that would ruin it for ME. But, for him, a butt plug being forced into his ass is a lot hotter than them putting a diaper on him, so that is what happens). The nurse then inserts the butt plug into the naked, sweaty man. Then she weighs him and explains that they need his weight to determine how much current they will use to fry him. She then clips his toenails. He asks her why she is doing this and she explains that the people going to the chair tend to kick, and they don't want him cutting anyone with his long toenails, so they must be cut.
It is now time to take him into the room with the metal door in front of him, which menacingly stores the electric chair. It is 8:45. I stand by in my business suit and high heels while the four-female "strap down team" comes into his cell to get him into the chair. At this point, the man KNOWS that there's no going back now, he's gonna fry very, very soon. He starts going nuts. He's doing EVERYTHING he can to get the hell out of there, he is writhing and flipping over and pleading and saying that he didn't do anything, and how could they do this to him. But he is no match for the strap down team. They are used to this, because they have to do this about once a month, whenever a man gets the hot seat. They are very efficient in their job and they quickly grab him and get him into the chair and he sits down on the cold sponge on the chair, and they grab both arms and legs and strap him in.
The room is very cold, because it tends to get hot after an electrocution. Even though the room is cold, and the man is completely naked, he is sweating profusely because of the fighting and the fact that the anticipation of the doom that is to come. He sits in the chair and faces the glass window with the witnesses. He sees his public defender, who is smiling, trying to comfort him. He sees the prosecutor, who is smiling because she can't wait to see this pervo roast. He then sees the psychologist, who is smiling because this is the first electrocution that she has ever witnessed, and she's really excited to see the whole process. There are a total of twelve people in the witness room. All women. All are smiling. But he only recognizes the three smiling faces that had visited him in his cell.
After he sits for a minute, I check if there has been any reprieves from the governor. There have not. I start to read him his "death warrant" and then I ask him if he has any last words. He realizes this is his last chance to stop everything, and he is given a microphone, but all he can do is beg and plead that he will never EVER do anything bad again, and how he is an innocent man, and this is too harsh of a punishment – just about the same stuff he has been saying all along.
I take the microphone from him. I will be pulling the switch, and I really secretly love watching these men fry, but I am very businesslike and efficient about it. I do have one thing I am famous for, though. After the death warrant and the last words have been said, and there is no going back and I am about to pull the switch, I go up to him and I check the straps, and make sure they're good and tight. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I say my catch phrase to him. I say "Good Luck Tushie". Then the bag is placed over his head and he can only hear my high heels hitting the ground as I walk to the switch.
I pull the switch. His body starts to shake, then goes limp. He is dead.
That is the fantasy. A rather anticlimactic ending, but he explains to me that the ending is not the important thing… everything leading up to the electrocution is important. Each sentence in this story is an EXTREMELY important detail which must be remembered when repeating his fantasy back to him. Of course a person (especially me) cannot remember all of these details after having heard the story one time, but I did my damnedest to repeat it back to him the very best I could. I LOVED the story. This man paid a few hundred dollars for this experience, and I swear I definitely would have done it for free. I would do it a thousand times again. It was SO AWESOME.
When repeating the story to him, he asked me certain questions like whether or not I would pull the switch, and of course I am supposed to say hell yes I would love to, but stupid me who thinks too much, laughs and honestly answers, I really don't think so, but as soon as I see the disappointment start to show on his face, I realize that I'm being a total idiot and change and say, “Actually, of course I'd fucking pull the switch. I'd pull that goddamned switch and smile and as I watched you fry.”
He asked me what I'd say to him and suddenly my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember if it's "good night tushie" or "good luck tushie" and he's was so close to climaxing, and I said "good night tushie," and he says, smiling, "NOOOO!!!! It's 'Good Luck Tushie'!!!". I end up getting this phrase wrong like three times. Each time I get it wrong and he's about to cum, and then he laughs, and stops. Now I'm getting really frustrated, but then I get it right, and he climaxes. And, sadly, the hour is over.
An interesting side note, this man also has a fantasy about the "gas chamber." Some of you may be able to guess what that involves. I should make you all guess, but it's too funny. The "gas chamber" involves a woman farting in his face. But apparently there is no long elaborate story for it. I don't get how it goes. I told him he HAS to make up a gas chamber story. And that I need to hear it. I really hope he does. But I'd gladly play female warden for him again. That was so fun!!!
Before I go, I leave you with these final words. You don’t have to worry… I won’t turn this column into a diary about my job, but I feel the need to include amazing stuff like this foot smeller because I loved it. It made me so happy. And I know that my columns often come off sounding depressing, or at least I have been told that. Maybe this one will sound depressing to some. Two weirdo pervs getting off on some crazy-ass, bizarro fantasy, what a sick world we live in. But I truly believe that if places like I work at did not exist, these people would have almost no outlet for these fantasies (imagine what it was like pre-Internet!!!), and they'd actually go out and act on their rape fantasies instead of imagining them with a fellow sicko like me. Most of these people are, as you might imagine, rich, upstanding, white collar workers. I do not know what they do specifically but I'm sure they are influential people. Money means power for many. And these people obviously have money, therefore having power. This is going in a totally different direction. I'll stop now. I'm just hoping that I get to send some lucky man to the gas chamber someday.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
A Few Of Meg's Favorite Things
In Chicago, we have a version of what I guess the Village Voice is in NYC. It's the trendy, stick-up-your-ass paper that the tragically hip try to adhere to. Its mindless reviews can either make you or break you if you're in my profession – my profession being that of a deadbeat writer/artist trying to exploit yourself horribly to gain a dime. The publication has exploited me and my stories, my clothes, and my films for its value, and I of course consented. Personally, the only time I like when this paper decides to bottom feed and sink to my guttural level is when it talks about what a terrible worthless retard I am.
The recent issue highlights the forty best things about our wonderful city, Chicago. I will leave any promotion out. They managed to hit on a couple of good spots, but for the most part, it was a bunch of hipster, fake, lamoid, boring, turd events that the foul, steaming, shitpile, hipsters who they chose to write about them attend. At first I was a little insulted. I was insulted that I am a pretty well known shithead, scumbag writer in Chicago, and I was not chosen to pick my favorite place. That feeling lasted about ten seconds, and then I slapped myself in the face for even entertaining the idea that I would bless them with my foul mind turds. I couldn’t believe I would even have such ambitions.
There is a hierarchical totem pole to the hipster madness at this chic, Chicago paper. The head of the totem pole turns out to be a wonderfully "hip" girl that I had the pleasure of attending high school with. We never cease to exchange dirty looks when we see each other anywhere. This rivalry has been going on ever since that over-privileged brat went to the same over-privileged suburban high school that I went to. And when she was not busy being a tawdry, dirty cunt and a shame to the female gender, she was spitting on me and calling me trash.
We parted ways for four years. She became a cokehead stripper, completed college, and gets paid shitloads of dollars to be Ms. Hip in Chi-town and prance around like Paris or Lohan or Bijou and write regenerated garbage about the Chicago "scene." I became a drunk heroin addict who barely survives on extra government money, graduated college, and emerged a smut writer who almost no publication will touch (thank God for CJ); and when they do, I am labeled a "shock-columnist" – a title which always makes me gag (I like "smut peddler" much better). I guess it’s because of my lack of “literary merit” that this prissy piss pouch still spits on me at hipster parties, and once she even tried to steal one of my boyfriends. Trash. Apparently for her, high school has never ended.
I haven’t seen the most recent issue, but I’m going to take a guess as to what it’s about. She no doubt highlights some terrible pick-up clubs and crappy bands and writes the most banal, Sex in the City-esque dumpster stories about where to shop and bands that kick out "gnarly synth mauling beats"… whatever the fuck that means.
Some might come to the conclusion, by reading this, that I am jealous. My response? YOU'RE GODDAMNED FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! I'm jealous as hell that I sit here and tell my dirtiest of dirty secrets and am a truck stop away from being a full time hooker, whilst she, and many like her, recycles boring, thumb-up-my-ass crap about what kind of pussy fragrance to wear. The tit-less little bone prances around with her expensive shoes and froo-froo scarf around her little neck, and groans and gargles out garbage onto a page for tons of dollars. Instead of wanting to hit the next hot club, she makes me want to hit myself in the roof of the mouth with a shotgun and blow the back of my head off.
In lieu of further bitching, I feel it will be more apropos to write a list of my 42 favorite things. These could have all graced her hipster turd paper and been beautiful. Besides, it’s about time I write something upbeat. I don't hate everything folks, and here are 42 of my favorite things to prove it:
1. That new reality show where the children have to toil and work. I'm waiting for it to turn into real life Lord of the Flies.
2. Watching the obese, children, and people in wheelchairs fall down.
3. Seeing Tyra Banks cry.
4. Jan Michael Vincent at this age and the fact that he has cirrhosis of the liver.
5. Juggalos. (hardcore ICP fans).
6. Honor amongst thieves, especially in the old west.
7. Natural disasters.
8. When Valerie Solanis shot Andy Warhol.
9. The extremely racist Disney movie "Song of thee South," which is now almost impossible to get because Disney owns the world, and is for some reason ashamed of this slice of genius.
10. The women in the film "Grey Gardens" and agoraphobic women in general.
11. The Hemloch Society and assisted suicide.
12. Canadian Landlords.
13. When celebrities complain about how terrible their lives are because of the paparazzi.
14. The fact that my breasts have grown 1 1/2 cup sizes in the past year.
15. Television. (I could go on forever).
16. The plays of Cho, the fellow who shot up Virginia Tech, especially the one entitled "Richard McBeef".
17. Abusive Relationships.
18. Disneyland jail.
19. Red Lobster Lobsterfest.
20. Getting paid by the government without working.
21. Blogs of high school girls with low self esteem.
22. Xanax.
23. The bridge when you enter Tijuana over the boarder where all the sick and decrepit beg for money, and children play the accordion and yell.
24. Sitting in the house and getting bigger.
25. Food stamps.
26. Jack in the Box, two tacos for 99 cents.
27. Bars that don't search my bags so I can bring my own drinks in.
28. Secrets.
29. The smell of my neighborhood. Kind of like the smell of slaughterhouses.
30. Child Beauty Pageants.
31. Waiting for the man.
32. Pee pads.
33. Hentai.
34. Hitler mustaches.
35. The scene in the movie "The Wall" where Pink tears apart his hotel room and arranges everything in this beautifully obsessive compulsive way.
36. The photos in my Pediatric Nursing and Clinical Dermatology books.
37. The time when a guy told me that I looked like "a toy box threw up" in reference to the colorful way I dress, I guess. Who knows? It was a wonderful thing to yell at someone.
38. Plastic surgery disasters.
39. Sugar Mammas and Daddies
40. Fixing cars with Duct tape.
41. Bridezillas.
42. Multiples of five.
Not too shabby of a list, if I may say. Man, I like a lot of things. And it definitely proves I don’t hate everything in the world. Hell, I could make an even longer list if I tried. Notice "life" was not in there, but neither was "death". So I can do other things than complain. I actually consider myself a humanitarian and a proponent of social justice. Fucking weird. I don't like to write about that stuff, I just hope it comes out through what I write.
I have to admit, however, that even after all this positivity I still can’t help but hate that nasty, cum-stained journalist whom I far surpass in intellect and creativity, but I feel a lot better that I have a way better forum where I can write my 42 favorite things. I don't even have to worry about whether the audience loves or hates it, because either result is a success to me.
FTW. I love life.
The recent issue highlights the forty best things about our wonderful city, Chicago. I will leave any promotion out. They managed to hit on a couple of good spots, but for the most part, it was a bunch of hipster, fake, lamoid, boring, turd events that the foul, steaming, shitpile, hipsters who they chose to write about them attend. At first I was a little insulted. I was insulted that I am a pretty well known shithead, scumbag writer in Chicago, and I was not chosen to pick my favorite place. That feeling lasted about ten seconds, and then I slapped myself in the face for even entertaining the idea that I would bless them with my foul mind turds. I couldn’t believe I would even have such ambitions.
There is a hierarchical totem pole to the hipster madness at this chic, Chicago paper. The head of the totem pole turns out to be a wonderfully "hip" girl that I had the pleasure of attending high school with. We never cease to exchange dirty looks when we see each other anywhere. This rivalry has been going on ever since that over-privileged brat went to the same over-privileged suburban high school that I went to. And when she was not busy being a tawdry, dirty cunt and a shame to the female gender, she was spitting on me and calling me trash.
We parted ways for four years. She became a cokehead stripper, completed college, and gets paid shitloads of dollars to be Ms. Hip in Chi-town and prance around like Paris or Lohan or Bijou and write regenerated garbage about the Chicago "scene." I became a drunk heroin addict who barely survives on extra government money, graduated college, and emerged a smut writer who almost no publication will touch (thank God for CJ); and when they do, I am labeled a "shock-columnist" – a title which always makes me gag (I like "smut peddler" much better). I guess it’s because of my lack of “literary merit” that this prissy piss pouch still spits on me at hipster parties, and once she even tried to steal one of my boyfriends. Trash. Apparently for her, high school has never ended.
I haven’t seen the most recent issue, but I’m going to take a guess as to what it’s about. She no doubt highlights some terrible pick-up clubs and crappy bands and writes the most banal, Sex in the City-esque dumpster stories about where to shop and bands that kick out "gnarly synth mauling beats"… whatever the fuck that means.
Some might come to the conclusion, by reading this, that I am jealous. My response? YOU'RE GODDAMNED FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! I'm jealous as hell that I sit here and tell my dirtiest of dirty secrets and am a truck stop away from being a full time hooker, whilst she, and many like her, recycles boring, thumb-up-my-ass crap about what kind of pussy fragrance to wear. The tit-less little bone prances around with her expensive shoes and froo-froo scarf around her little neck, and groans and gargles out garbage onto a page for tons of dollars. Instead of wanting to hit the next hot club, she makes me want to hit myself in the roof of the mouth with a shotgun and blow the back of my head off.
In lieu of further bitching, I feel it will be more apropos to write a list of my 42 favorite things. These could have all graced her hipster turd paper and been beautiful. Besides, it’s about time I write something upbeat. I don't hate everything folks, and here are 42 of my favorite things to prove it:
1. That new reality show where the children have to toil and work. I'm waiting for it to turn into real life Lord of the Flies.
2. Watching the obese, children, and people in wheelchairs fall down.
3. Seeing Tyra Banks cry.
4. Jan Michael Vincent at this age and the fact that he has cirrhosis of the liver.
5. Juggalos. (hardcore ICP fans).
6. Honor amongst thieves, especially in the old west.
7. Natural disasters.
8. When Valerie Solanis shot Andy Warhol.
9. The extremely racist Disney movie "Song of thee South," which is now almost impossible to get because Disney owns the world, and is for some reason ashamed of this slice of genius.
10. The women in the film "Grey Gardens" and agoraphobic women in general.
11. The Hemloch Society and assisted suicide.
12. Canadian Landlords.
13. When celebrities complain about how terrible their lives are because of the paparazzi.
14. The fact that my breasts have grown 1 1/2 cup sizes in the past year.
15. Television. (I could go on forever).
16. The plays of Cho, the fellow who shot up Virginia Tech, especially the one entitled "Richard McBeef".
17. Abusive Relationships.
18. Disneyland jail.
19. Red Lobster Lobsterfest.
20. Getting paid by the government without working.
21. Blogs of high school girls with low self esteem.
22. Xanax.
23. The bridge when you enter Tijuana over the boarder where all the sick and decrepit beg for money, and children play the accordion and yell.
24. Sitting in the house and getting bigger.
25. Food stamps.
26. Jack in the Box, two tacos for 99 cents.
27. Bars that don't search my bags so I can bring my own drinks in.
28. Secrets.
29. The smell of my neighborhood. Kind of like the smell of slaughterhouses.
30. Child Beauty Pageants.
31. Waiting for the man.
32. Pee pads.
33. Hentai.
34. Hitler mustaches.
35. The scene in the movie "The Wall" where Pink tears apart his hotel room and arranges everything in this beautifully obsessive compulsive way.
36. The photos in my Pediatric Nursing and Clinical Dermatology books.
37. The time when a guy told me that I looked like "a toy box threw up" in reference to the colorful way I dress, I guess. Who knows? It was a wonderful thing to yell at someone.
38. Plastic surgery disasters.
39. Sugar Mammas and Daddies
40. Fixing cars with Duct tape.
41. Bridezillas.
42. Multiples of five.
Not too shabby of a list, if I may say. Man, I like a lot of things. And it definitely proves I don’t hate everything in the world. Hell, I could make an even longer list if I tried. Notice "life" was not in there, but neither was "death". So I can do other things than complain. I actually consider myself a humanitarian and a proponent of social justice. Fucking weird. I don't like to write about that stuff, I just hope it comes out through what I write.
I have to admit, however, that even after all this positivity I still can’t help but hate that nasty, cum-stained journalist whom I far surpass in intellect and creativity, but I feel a lot better that I have a way better forum where I can write my 42 favorite things. I don't even have to worry about whether the audience loves or hates it, because either result is a success to me.
FTW. I love life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)