Sunday, August 01, 2004

Punk Porn Sex story

;' Mother Did It'{Bunyip}(FF Mast)[1!1] Mother Did It by Crystal

I guess I learned about masturbation when I was about 12. Not that I
masturbated then, but that was when I caught my mother doing it at the
kitchen sink. I didn't realise what she was doing, not at first, but
afterwards I worked it all out and was a bit surprised. I guess I didn't
believe my own summation really, but you tell me if I was wrong.

I came home from school and heard a strange voice in the kitchen. I
peeked in to see my mother standing at the kitchen sink looking out of the
window. Her bum was moving a bit causing her gathered cotton skirt to
shake and bogey like a hula skirt. Her left hand was on the sink but her
right hand seemed to be headed down between her legs. Her skirt was lifted
at the front and was bunched up. She was going "Mmmm, Mmmm" at first and
then that changed to "Ooooh"s and "Ahhhh"s. Finally I heard her sigh a
great big long "Oooooyyessss..." After that she just stood there for awhile
looking out the window. Finally she turned away and brushed her skirt down
before walking off to the laundry.

I went over and looked out the window, and there were three men, all big
tanned Aussie blokes with great muscular backs that were almost triangular
shaped. Their muscles were even more visible because they were sweating
and were so shiney, they looked like they were onstage and all oiled up.
They wore nothing from the waist up, and wore only work boots and very
short shorts that hung on their hips yet showed all of their leg. The only
other item one of them wore was a tool belt around his waist with a great
big hammer hanging from it. As he stood side on the hammer handle looked
like a foot long cock sticking out in front of him. Mother had been
watching these three as she had her little session, but at first I didn't
realise the connection.

Mother came back in and found me watching the men. "They're a nice
looking lot." she said in soft tones "Look at their dark tanned skin and
strong muscles."

"I bet their muscles are hard as Iron!" I remember adding. Mother gave
me on of those long looks that I get when I seem to know something I'm too
young to know. The guys were building the house next door which in those
times went on for months. When I caught her a second time several weeks
later, I naturally walked up to her and looked out the window. The guys
were peeing against a tree on the far side of the yard. I was a little
shocked at first but watched over her shoulder as she began making the same
noises as the last time. I looked at her instead and found that her hand
was down her panties and she was watching the guys so intently that she
didn't know I was standing there. She went at it for many minutes making
those sounds the same as before.

This time, maybe because I was standing right there, I noticed her hips
moving with her hand and then she seemed to push herself against her hand
so it was trapped between the sink and herself, and began, well, what I now
know was thrusting movements.

When she finally finished she stood there with her eyes shut and a great
big smile on her face. She looked so happy, except her legs seemed to go
all wobbly. "Nothing like a good itch!" I said innocently. She jumped and
turned, staring at me as if I had caught her doing somethng wrong. She was
red as a beetroot as she stammered to answer me. I looked out the window
and although there was only one guy left, I could see that his butt cheeks
were clenched and his leg muscles were tensed, as he was peeing where the
others had been. Eventually I learned that they stopped this time each day
for a late lunch and before returning to work, they all took a pee. My
mother of course knew this and was apparently lined up each day to watch
them.

She never did explain about masturbation to me, I had to learn about
that myself.

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Saturday, July 31, 2004

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Thursday, July 29, 2004

Punk Porn Sex story

Photoplay

File I

by Feather Touch



In spite of this story's digital still photography theme, there's plenty
of action and you may read with confidence.







"Should they just say `queso?'" I wondered as the girls stripped in my
bathroom and I sat on my bed unbuttoning Renaldo's shirt, exposing the
lightcoffee smoothness of his early teen skin, stroking to from his cheeks
down over his neck and shoulders, then his already slightly heaving chest.
"Queso" is Spanish for "cheese" and I was getting a bit ahead of myself;
besides, they'd both been smiling almost nonstop since I tracked down
Renaldo's tamale cart, and, showing him a couple of stills printed on my
new dyesub printer, had invited him and the two girls in the pictures, his
cousins Electra and Madonna, over for, in my broken Espanole, "picturas
desnudo."



"Si, buen idea," the industrious youth had nodded and we'd made a date
for today. Yes, the equivalent of fifty dollars had changed hands, and, as
I slowly exposed his young teen chest, I was feeling an extra rack of
nerves twanging away as this was my first even vaguely commercial session
with the underage set. A gale of giggles audible even through the door of
the bathroom gave me to know, like the man in the mostpopular story, I had
nothing to dread.



I'm one of those reclusive pedos. If my memories of mathematics pegs
totality at a hundred percent, I wanted to be doublethat sure the money
was incidental; that these kids wanted to be together and had had some
previous experience. It is, I believe, an issue demanding a near extreme
in morality. A true and bonedeep concept of right and wrong; good and
evil. I mean what exactly is the point of reading something like three
thousand books, and living for more than three years each in several
American cities from Boston to Los Angeles if one doesn't graduate from the
discipline with a slightly finer knowledge of what's okay, and what's not,
than those marching lockstep to the sooften faulty dictates of the past?



"I do speak English," Renaldo said, his accent changing so suddenly it
was five seconds before I was able to resume work on the fourth button of
his white, cotton shirt.

"My readers will be ever so glad," I noted in response.

"So you write as well as taking pictures?" the boy asked in his turn.

"Kind of baitandswitch," I mused aloud. "Sucker `em in with sex, then
clobber with morality and heavy doses of cultural commentary."

"And they like that?" the cute Hispanic wondered.

"Only about thirty thousand a week," I said, glad to have a chance to
slip, seeing as how he knew the Stateside lingo, my numbers in modestly
(actually, I'm quite proud of them).



"For one story?" the child asked, and I pointed out that I've authored
something in the neighborhood of 25 titles, while hoping he'd continue
aiding my selfdepreciating citing of literary statistics.

"Does that make you number one Net contributor in the world?" he then
asked, demonstrating that even an obliging nature can have its extremes.

"What the hell are you doing pushing a vendor's cart?" I responded,
expecting, to be honest, perhaps fifty words of dialogue for the afternoon.

"Pretty deep cover, eh?" he replied with a wink that jangled me like a
Duane Eddy guitar string.

"Deep enough so there wouldn't be a trace of gravity at its opening," I
said. He laughed, eyes sparkling smartlike.

"Not to worry," the socalled boy continued. "Heavy uncle in close with
the vermin unit of Interpol. We bait and switch, yes, (where had I heard
that usage before) but not with someone like you. I guess you'd call it a
busman's holiday. The girls were all: `I hope he comes back,' after you
pulled out your little Canon the other day. I was on there side."



"Have you nailed anyone?" I asked as he pulled his shirt tails free and
stepped between my legs so I was half nibbling his tawny, sleek skin as I
spoke.

"Two last week," he replied, now raising his hands high over his head,
arching slightly to the rear, and panting more deliberately.

"Big jail?" I murmured.

"Nah," he said, "we killed `em. The elgrossos are too dangerous to
play with; will do more harm out on bail, so we kinda revoke it before it's
issued."

"Sounds like you're pretty hardline when it comes to parole, too," I
noted.

"We leave that up to god," Renaldo responded, "since nothing else to do
with religion makes the least sense." Seriously my kind of logic.



"We really, honestInjun, don't have to do this," I said.

"Electra and Madonna are dying to," the fourteen year old said, "and I
am, too. We get all the negative stuff while we're on duty, but not from
everybody. A few kids we've interviewed have thought it was handsdown the
best thing that ever happened to them in all their born days. Checking
back, we found the men, two, involved were as decent as they come, however
you spell it, and that got us talking; you know, kids' stuff: what if this
and what if that. Than I freaked out over your Canon, and you seemed nice
and proved it by hunting me down to give me the dyesub print; that was
nice, and it was easy for me to tell you were on the level; that the money
was gratuitous and meant nothing; no pressure, just charity, which, if we
were the real deal, we'd have been very glad of."



"I think you're going to be very easy to write about, Renaldo," I said.

"I do rather feel I'm in the hands of a master," the boy said, and it's
my belief he may have panted just a little harder than was justified by the
actions of my fingers on his belt, snap and zipper.



Writing for the Web is allbut the emptiest of experiences; tens and
hundreds of thousands read, the download logs prove it, but the number who
take a moment to jot a note of thanks for all the free entertainment,
edification, and possible humor can sometimes be counted, months at a time,
with the largest finger. This made my new friend's comment especially
endearing, even though my status as a mastercreator is no longer much of a
novelty. Behold the jaded and shopworn, for they know not what they fail
to do. (And who ever heard a writer kicking his audience around for their
lazy, shiftless ways?)



The patter of little feet.

Electra, first. She's the pixie; at twelve, looks maybe nine. Slightly
rounded Hispanic face arced with a fringe of pretty brown curly hair.
Something of a girl/woman, in spite of her years, but entirely flatchested
so it was unlikely she'd allowed many mature males to be complete with her.
(I've taken a notion that artistic license specifically includes
pseudoscientific opinions, and one of mine is that immature females don't
stay that way long after taking an active lover; this theory buttressed by
the small likelihood of any adult male wanting to use a condom with such a
frisky and lively child.)



Then Madonna. Taller by a head than her 4'10" sister; slim, angular
face with a neat boyish look. Her bra was more useful than Electra's and
her waist slimmed beautifully over what were probably very new hips. (Must
be strange for girls to grow, so many changes, where guys hope for only
one.) The fourteen year old's hands were on the younger girl's shoulders
and Electra looked repeatedly up at Madonna, the eyes of both children
glinting excitedly each time they met. Yeah, I'm big on quizzing just to
be sure but there was surety aplenty as the gaze of the females often
returned to my hands at their cousin's slim waist as I slid his shorts down
over his long, athletic legs.



"Pretend I'm older," the younger sister whispered to her older sibling.
Madonna responded by bringing her hands from the pixie's waste to her
belly, then rising slowly up under her training bra. Electra welcomed the
older girl with her tiny paws, leaning back, sighing, and surging gently
against the fourteen year old. I had, by this time, relieved the still
panting Renaldo of his shorts (actually, we had, for the sight of his
almost naked cousins had not distracted the boy in the least; indeed, had,
if anything, seemed to make him all the more cooperative when it came to
the desnudo thing). In fact, the kid was such a pro it was almost
disconcerting, for as I gawked and regawked at the sinuous children in the
doorway of my bedroom, he unbuttoned, unsnapped, and unzippered me in
short order, and in less time than it takes to tell I was standing behind
him, molesting him down to the band of his white, cotton underpants as the
girls eased forward, moving within inches of us.



Too fast for you? Then we must be on the same page (if you'll allow me
to slip in a little literary humor), because pace is what this art is all
about and things stood on the verge of getting out of hand (and once out of
my hands, how long could my little FBItype friend possibly last, you know,
considering?). That's where the Canon came in, and let me assure you as
if there were the remotest possibility of it I'm not here shilling for
anyone. I believe digital photography is the ultimate implementation of
digitalism and write of it for that reason, alone. That photography is the
nonpareil hobby for reasons both creative and practical. So, yes, the
girls eyes, once the two understood I wasn't going to strip their male
beauty on the spot, did stray a time or two to the Canon Powershot S400
Digital Elph hanging from a nail on the wall where it lived free of danger
from four unpredictable cats or survivable earthquakes. Looking to
temporize any way I could, I sat the three of them on my bed and retrieved
the fiendishly concise new toy. Yes, they'd admired it on that first
occasion when I took my candid portrait, but now they became all but
enraptured. They ooh'd at the front and ahh'd at the rear, passing it
among themselves. Since the steel on/off button is plainly marked, Renaldo
fingered it, looking at me for permission. I nodded and the camera emitted
it's friendly chime as the lens uncorked itself. No salacious giggles at
the obvious entendre of its jutting forth. Way comforting.



Since all digicams have a Camera and a View function, Renaldo was quick
in discovering the little slide switch and again looked for permission
before operating it. With a tiny click the LCD lighted up and I rose for a
moment to retrieve my drugstore reading glasses from the same nail that
housed the Elph. Although the resolution is fabulous, the icons and text
on the display are the size of small ants and a little simple magnification
makes a big difference. So obvious are the controls on the little steel
wonderbox, R was able to begin scrolling back through the images of my
previous day's shoot, and the boy was blown half away when I touched the
little zoom lever and the image in the LCD jumped in fast stages to ten
times its normal size. Yes, it's soft at that magnification, but you can
scroll through the enlargement so it still tells the story pretty well.



Having mastered the basics, the three set about going back through the
thirty or forty images on the memory card, flattering me considerably by
keeping at it, enlarging, taking turns looking (as against glancing), then
reducing the image so they could scroll back to the previous one. There
may be better ways to kill time with three cuties sharing one's bed, but I
think it's best we leave those to the professionals at fantasy fiction.
Meantime, the boy and girls did finally reach the last stored image and I
reached in and switched the unit back to photo mode so they could look at
each other, live. In fact, I was actually looking away when Renaldo
whispered "holy shit," leaving me to know he'd tried the optical
viewfinder, and its exquisite ground glass system free of the normal
clutter found on an SLR. "And it zooms, too," he whispered, in the same
awed voice I used the first time I clapped eyes on this ultimate sensation
(with near zero parallax because of the optical finder's location within
precisely one inch of the center of the lens).



It was great to be talking of photography. It is by so far the most
useful and fulfilling of hobbies and we are fabulously lucky to be living
at a time when the cost has been reduced to a modest investment for the
camera, and each camera includes ten thousand free images unless one
includes the cost of the electricity to charge the battery.



"Is it super sharp?" Madonna asked.

"No," I replied, "I wrote a review of it for C/NET; in fact, I wrote
two, but they'd only publish one, and in neither did I report it as sharp.
Everything but."

"Can I see it?" Electra asked.

"What?" I asked in return, since the camera was, at the moment, in her
tiny paws.

"The review," she said, leaving me pretty flabbergasted. Tell most
people you wrote anything about anything, they tune out faster than a
person with a brain quits McDonald's.

"I really thought you'd never ask," I replied, doing the best I could to
be a little funny (such nice kids) to cover my confusion.

"Well," the cutie said, "I'd like to."



I found the file, swung the monitor so all could see, and have to admit
I reread my gracious lingual flow as Renaldo, Madonna and Electra perused
my 2,242 words. (If you are not interested, my condolences, if you're in a
hurry and simply don't have time, scroll down until you see a column of s,
which is where you'll find us no less excited than we were. And, should
you happen to like it; want more, heaven forbid, log onto the excellent
C/NET and you'll find, quickly, if you search by date, it's, duh'uh, the
longest Reader Comment of the 150 or so listed under Powershot S400.)



Canon Review 2:



This review covers the Canon Powershot S400 Digital Elph, the Toshiba
PDRM11, the HiTi 640PS dyesublimation printer, and Adobe PhotoDeluxe.
Also mentioned, Canon A300. It is based on one year's digital experience
and some five hundred exposures.



First, there's a fly in the ointment with the Canon Powershot. In the
crucial installation documentation it's referred to as the "IXUS v3." Also
in the setup dialogue screen. Installing the drivers was a weeklong,
technicianinvolved, nightmare, but few other userreviewers mention
problems, so don't read the literature with its confusing names, install
the driver, then plug the cable into the USB port. (How confusing is the
book? At one point, it flatout states you need NO drivers for the S400;
that they're only for advanced features like thumbnails and RAW Oddly
enough, the documentation is, otherwise, excellent with only "You are
recommended" as a translation glitch.)



When I was a kid there was such a thing as a "magic spell outfit." Don't
know if the term was generic or circumstantial, what I do know is that I
now own such an outfit. I'm an old film warhorse; years of experience and
some hundreds of roll of 35mm and 70mm (120) film and a thousand or more
prints, b&w and color, as amateur and entrylevel pro. And now I own a
magic spell outfit. Hundreds of shots taken, processed, and displayed for
pennies. If that isn't magic then write today with what is. In fact, even
in this digital age the suite under review here, for most of us, represents
the culmination of human genius in fields as diverse as chemistry, optics,
mechanics and, of course, electronics.



The Canon is well suited for typical assignments, which usually run to
70 or so exposures over two or three hours. The display is easily turned
off (or back on), also disable the autooff, possibly the flash, and the
camera copes well with enough battery reserve to add a margin of safety.
(Recharge, 110 minutes from flat, before you upload.) The 32 meg included
card takes 94 images at medium res.



Best features of the S400, in this writer's opinion, are the autorotate
system and the zooming LCD, which allows closeup inspection of the image
you have just recorded.



Actually, I would have preferred the Canon A300 with its nonzoom lens,
but I live offshore and had to take what I could get (in fact, paid $950
U.S. for the Elph.). The issue is sharpness. The S400 is flatout not as
sharp as my much more basic fixedfocus Toshiba (lost). This puts you, the
reader, on the horns of a digital dilemma no less profound than the Tastes
Great / Less Filling beer wars of a decade or two ago. The Canon is a
tactile pleasure to use; crisp, weaponsgrade stainless steel, no hideous
joystick control which, on the plastic Toshiba, infallibly went left or
right when you wanted an "up" function. It makes beautiful noises and
display lights, galore. But, dilemma time, you are trading not only
sharpness but considerable sharpness. It is this reviewer's theory that,
vaulting as it is, the tech is simply not up to a zoom/macro as plain
crystal sharp as a much simpler systems of optics.



Most user and professional reviewers rate the S400 as very sharp and I
wish they were right, but image to image comparisons of photos from both
cameras makes the $150 clearly (literally) superior to its $500
counterpart. My local dealer has an entrylevel Kodak digital and I wish
I'd opted for it as I'm compiling a portfolio of commercial images under
fairly basic shooting conditions, with sharpness as a beall, endall, and
the other absolutely cool stuff, incidental.



Digital irony. The amateur will love the expensive Canon; look and feel
unmatched, and it takes, yes, wayway rich, colorsaturated pix. The
hardeye will want the cheapy with it's fixed focus lens and vibrant
product. And I wonder a little at this megapixel dance. The S400's rated
at four. Why? It's not sharp enough to handle it, the enlarged images go
soft way, way before any pixilation begins, where the el cheapo stayed
sharp well INTO pixelization. Guess it's some kind of horsepower war
without the horses. Canon should be above the fray. A related issue is
the zoom; any zoom, all zooms. They're status symbols, and, except in
sensitive and experienced hands, which means on a quality tripod, worse
than useless, magnifying body movement, greatly limiting depthoffield,
and dulling images if not destroying them. On top of these liabilities,
they're mechanical, delicate, and for ninety percent sure, likely to be the
source of any breakdown. The zoom on the Elph is useful primarily with the
strobe, at which time it can come in handy by allowing standoff distance
for the photographer when attempting lowlight portraiture. In full
daylight, where the shutter speed is very high, it may be used successfully
for "framing." In fact, I've been left wondering whether one who plunks
down ten thousand U.S. dollars for a top end pro body, plus another
thousand or so for a zoom, might not give birth to a dozen kittens on
viewing his colossally costly images next to those of a used
pointandshoot kiddie camera that cost fifty bucks.



The HiTi printer can be comprehensively reviewed by simply suggesting
you buy two so you'll never be without. Each packet of fifty sheets of
paper comes with a fresh ribbon, a fourinch band of SaranWrap looking
material, that, remarkably, allows, should you want it, fifty allblack
images while still covering all the sheets (think what that would do to an
ink supply). These sets are beautifully packaged with distinct notches for
easy tearopen. The machine costs a wayreasonable $200 and is highend
enough that it includes a link to a monitor calibrations service in its
Readme. It accepts all memory cards and is usable as a standalone, with
no computer at all. The Elph on the Hiti gives sumptuous results, and, run
your images first through PhotoDeluxe, and it is possible to ganar, as the
Spanish say, gallery or coffeetable results ninety percent of the time.
Magicspell totality.





You can shoot digital in full sun. Who knew? Twelve to one, highlights
to shadows, and not a trace of magenta. The darkest greens, to jet black,
with no hint of purple. Meantime, in the same image, there's direct sun
off white paint, texture intact. Please, I don't mean you should try
portraiture in direct sun as if... but that other shooting may be
possible.



The traditional three huge, heavy barriers to great photography are
simply retro, assuming 4X6 images and photo CDs are your objectives. (If
premium 8X10s are what you want, I have a single word for you, spelled
film.) The principal barrier was obviously the cost of a highend camera
and related equipment and consumables, and was measured both in dollars and
hours. Flexibility, convenience, tiny size, and ease of use, all make up
the second barrier breaker (attention, attention: ladies and gentlemen, we
have just broken the sight barrier), and, third, is the ability to shoot,
when, in Hollywood, the AD would be calling for more floods and reflectors
to fill in the hotsun shadows. In other words, there is nothing between
yourself and artbook, gallery images but a cheap camera, a little
software, and your own personal dyetransfer (as dyesub was once known)
printing facility (the HiTi) that hums and sings out crystals, gems, and
diamonds in seventyseven seconds and for forty cents a print. Of course,
that hoary computer caveat about junk in equaling junk out is as rigidly in
force as ever.



I've tried a number of photo editing suites and feel Adobe
"PhotoDeluxe," however basic (it takes up about 45 megs versus 150 megs for
PhotoShop), is by headandshoulders the supreme product, especially with
its intuitive, to say nothing of addictive, Clone tool. Also, I've learned
to trust the Instant Fix option; usually improves the image, sometimes
dramatically, and rarely degrades it. In addition to the three barriers
noted above, PD opens vast new areas in terms of raw subject matter. My
specialty is clich´┐Ż tropic vignettes; weathered wood houses shot through
banana trees and palms. So way quaint they're actually cool. Problem is,
there is forever a rake leaning against the house, a plastic pail in the
yard, everlasting power lines and poles, and a hundredandone similar
distractions and elements of visual graffiti.



Cloning is like painting in reverse. You start with more image than you
want, and slowly and carefully clone (copy and paste?) in sky, grass, or
sand (etc.) to mask, cover, and generally clean things up. In hours you'll
be getting results you could have once realized only through the airbrush
work of an expensive major finishing studio, and ending up with the essence
of your image amazingly clutter free. (Plus, it's great fun.) Minor user
issues: in PD you may need to hit the Print button first, then go to Setup
and choose the HiTi from your list of printers, and then, after that, Size
your photo, checking it in Print Preview. Strong recommendation, when in
Photo Size, is to type in 360 for resolution and 3" width which gives 4"
height and, at least to my eye, looks perfect on the 4X6 paper (with
perfed, tearoff end tabs, neat). Also, rotate landscapes to portrait
orientation before printing.



Notes and bytways. I use a pair of drugstore reading glasses on a
neck strap; big difference. Print the size used on billboards and LCD
icons the size of whales. And speaking of glasses, the optical viewfinder
on the Canon is a finetextured, clutterfree, groundglass beauty, very
accessible for us foureyes, and with zoom. The only time you'd be likely
to use the extremely highresolution LCD is in the touchiest of stilllife
composition; yet it's available to view your incamera images, magnified by
the simple zoom lever, to ten times (if softly) their original size (with
easy scrolling). What a difference in portraiture to be able to show the
subject, in seconds, exactly what he or she looks like, take a look
yourself, then work together for the next, better, rendition. Best single
camera feature you ever saw, though with a day's shooting to upload, the
autorotate capability is hard not to love and love.



Canon is very slick and responsive for a digicam. The "on" button does
need to be held down for a beat or two, but otherwise it's pretty quick on
the draw and loads into PhotoDeluxe at the rate of about two seconds per
rightsideup image. Highly neat. Only caveat is to pace the upload if
using the (freshlycharged) battery. Don't know for sure, but it seems
that if you try to select (transfer) uploading images as fast as you can
click, you get ahead of the battery after about sixty files, leading to a
Camera Not Found box, which means you get to start all over again. AC
adapter would solve this. An ongoing minor issue is the twostep shutter
release common to all digitals. Very hard to get used to, and it's never
easier to blow it than when it counts the most. Since practice is all but
free, practice. Many user comments on lack of battery indicator. What the
camera does have is a flashing red "low battery" indicator meaning you have
a few minutes and a few shots left. Wait ten minutes, warming the battery
if applicable, and you may be able to squeeze in a few more.



The HiTi insisted on my USB (2.0) 001 port (Dell, XP). Short email to
Canon's Elph help site describing the IXUS v.3 problem, and asking for
help, went unacknowledged; I feel they could have at least referred me to a
technician. (On the other hand, if I ran Canon it would have the same
corporate philosophy: build the best possible product from initial design
to assembly, testing, and packaging, and ignore the costly and unproductive
"service" and warranty side of things. How many computer outfits went bust
because the burned their profits at the altar of tech support, one fool
chewing up the earnings on a dozen sales, and likely as dissatisfied in the
end as in the beginning?)



Interesting little snake in the grass. How to clean the lens? Never
much of a problem with film cameras, the glass is, relatively, the size of
ashtrays, but baby limabean lenses come with their own special needs, and
fogging with your breath and wiping with common tissue just makes things
worse. I'm hoping the answer is opticians' lens tissue, perhaps working it
with half a toothpick. Go way out of your way to keep your lens clean,
then try a pristine artist's brush on the dust before wiping with anything.




Too early to report on battery life as in longevity (versus duration
of a single charge). A thousand cycles would be great, but there's
probably a great variation as this is the rawest extreme of the bleeding
edge.



Finally, the strobe on Elph is miraculous. Awesome power (never use
within a meter of human or animal, especially an infant). The first time I
saw a flash pix taken at three inches, exposed within a hundredth of an
fstop, I didn't know whether to sputter or go blind. But maybe very small
and extremely bright describes the whole camera. Now, for a magic spell so
it could be called sharp... (By: Thomasbtl)



















Survivors' Helpline: 1800PHOPLAY.



"Is there anything you left out?" the boy asked when they were done
reading.

"It does threeminute videos with sound," I replied.

Electra blushed. "What's wrong," her cousin asked.

"It's my first time, I mean real time," the twelve year old said, "and I
don't want to go that fast. I thought it was going to be regular pictures
and we'd have all afternoon." Renaldo looked at me questioningly.

"Three minute segments," I elaborated. "Once one is uploaded into the
computer, the camera can take another, and another, and they can be edited
together."

"Cool," the girl said, her sister nodding as both seemed to relax. We
were turning out to like and be interested in each other, so the hurry
thing was relegated to the back burner. Way fine by me.



"Do you have a storyboard?" the deputized federal agent asked.

"I had an actionoriented one," I admitted, "but I think I'm kinda
revising it as we go along. In fact, what I'd like to do is take you into
the studio, lie you, Renaldo, between your cousins, and then we'd begin
with closeups, mouths and ears, of you whispering to the girls about
exciting things that have happened to you, while they tell you any stories
along that line they may have. From there we can go to your hands as you
begin with them, especially taking off Electra's bra, then segue to my
original storyboard so there will be less confusion when the girls fully
welcome you."



At this juncture, no, I was not addressing a sea of nodding heads, but
threeoutofthree wasn't bad, so I continued. All in our underwear, I
guided them from my room, past the bathroom, to my second spare bedroom,
opening the door.

Inside was as much of a Kasbah as I could juryrig living way, way
offshore as I do. By a stroke of luck the local hardware store had stocked
in a five by eight foot wall hanging, sort of a modernday tapestry with a
photo of an elephant somehow etched to the material like a gigantic tee
shirt. Fair to middling backdrop. The bed, or more accurately, stage, was
also draped with various fabrics to pleasing effect and the room was
lighted with five hundred watts of those new GE naturaltone light bulbs;
very bright, yet with the light scrimmed and filtered so it glowed rather
than glared. "Cool," both girls whispered in unison as we slowly entered
and I flipped the switch. Well, not with that many hundred watt bulbs
blazing, but the worst of the heat was dissipated by a ceiling fan; slow,
soundless, and atmospheric in case I got romantic at the crucial moment and
tilted the camera up, like they once did on the coast. (As if...)



Madonna and Electra knelt on the bed, bounced a little on the foam, as
is the wont of the young, then gathered the red satin pillows and rolled on
their backs, both stretching their arms to their drop dead cousin, who
joined them, lying on his back between them, his white underpants bulging
hugely to the fascination of the three of us. I started the camera on the
elephant on the wall, and panned down, moving around some in what was my
idea of dollying, then slowly trained in closer and closer as Electra
brought her lips to the young male's left ear. Madonna cuddled in close
and both girls ran their hands softly over the teen's heaving and lightly
sweatsheened chest.



Electra was an intelligent girl and seemed naturally inclined to respect
the shooting limitations of the S400, beginning her story without preamble.
"I've let a man get me wet three times," she whispered to Renaldo, "but he
got too excited for it to happen inside me."

"Was it okay?" the boy responded.

"Pretty super," the twelve year old replied, "because the only thing
better than watching a cute guy sperm is watching him spray all over your
belly and legs, then lying back with your eyes closed and fantasizing while
he slowly licks you clean." I wondered what, exactly, a girl might
fantasize about at such a moment, but let the thought pass.



"Have you seen it happen, too?" Renaldo asked Madonna, hugging his
younger cousin as he ran his right hand over the older girl's belly and
lower chest.

"Not the first time," the fourteen year old replied, blushing sweetly.
"The boy was nineteen and had been celibate for over a week. He was afraid
of leaving his sign on me if it happened out in the open, and I didn't love
him so I didn't want to carry his seed in my belly."



Why a storyboard, even for the simplest film? Because of situations
such has just been described. Shooting takes full concentration, rendering
the brain useless for abstractions such as "what shout should come next."
If I'd had a board, I'd have known which girl to start with, Electra or
Madonna, and here both were telling graphically fantastic stories, leaving
me to figure out, on the fly, which to concentrate on, first.

"My first time, Madonna," Renaldo whispered, "was, if I get your
meaning, just like yours. I didn't get to see anything, and he wasn't
behind me, if you know what I mean." (I don't pay my characters to make my
point for me, but that doesn't stop them.)



About now I was sore in need of luck, and the Elph came to the rescue,
the cute thing, beeping to advise all of us its first file was full. Still
in our underwear we retreated back to the bedroom, where my `puter is,
`cause I'm on it eighteen hours almost every livelong day, and uploaded
our first take. I grabbed a pad and pen and sat with my cast. One word
about MY first time and there would have been murder, but the subject
wasn't broached and I was able to give the matter some undivided attention.
Renaldo was by some months the eldest of the children, so I used that as
the baseline; he'd tell his first, then Madonna, leaving it up to the elfin
Electra to provide the final climax to our little work of art, if it were
to have one. (I added that to be funny.)



Back to the pillows. Closeup of their three faces as the boy whispered
alternately to his young cousins.

"Remember three years ago, my eleventh birthday?" Renaldo began, to twin
nods. "Uncle Gravio brought one of his cadets to my birthday party?"

"Sure," the older cousin chirped, "Francisco."

"He was twenty one," the male cousin continued, "and I guess we kind of
hit it off right away, especially because he'd been deputized when he was
only ten, and that was something I wanted, too, as soon as possible.

"Anyway," the boy went on, "we got to talking fairly seriously, and he
told me a big secret. That deputies have to be experienced. They have to
have been, successfully, with an adult male, at least three times, and
liked the experiences. The Squad was no place for homophobes or kneejerk
reactionaries. `There are lots of good relationships out there,' he
advised me, `and firstdonoharm is a byword with us.' I nodded and said
that made way too much sense for any government program. He thought that
was funny and it sort of made us better friends, that I didn't take it too
seriously. Then he asked if I still wanted to apply to The Squad, and I
nodded."



Because there was a certain amount of kissing and hugging involved, this
passage took up another file. During what transpired over the next hour
and a half, yes, there were many trips back and forth. If you'll hold the
thought, it'll save us a lot of footwork.





"Would you like me to interview you, informally?" the veteran of the
force asked the leggy boy sitting beside him in the latter's bedroom. It
was early Sunday evening, and the brandnew eleven year old was looking
forward to his new friend perhaps even staying overnight with him, instead
of sleeping in the guest room as he had, previously. Yes, there was so
much to talk about, and what a place to start.

"Yes," Rencito, as he was then called, whispered.

"It'll mean answering some pretty mature and embarrassing questions,"
the young man said softly. "You can change the subject any time you feel
uncomfortable; don't have to say why or anything."

"No," the boy said, "it's okay. I mean, yeah, like you said, it's kinda
embarrassing, but then the first time I wore my Speedos in front of an
audience was, too, and I seemed to have survived that."

"Good sign," Francisco said, "because the last thing we're looking for
is any show of predatory behavior; hustling. Entrapment isn't our game,
any more than interfering where we don't belong. Some kid who goes out and
does a bump and grind in his bathing suit is not for The Squad."

"I think I understand," the eleven year old murmured.

"Another detail that needs covering before we go any further," the
veteran cadet noted, "is our policy of killing perpetrators, not doing
anything fancy to the tune of puling lawyers and pumpedup advocates. We
ferret out the worst, garrote them with piano wire, and leave a note. Pure
vigilantism and profoundly deterring. In fact, we hit a city and usually
put ourselves out of work inside a month; can't find a creep with a
microscope."



"Do I have to do the piano thing?" the boy wanted to know.

"Yes," his mentor said, "more so you'll be used to it if it happens in
your presence, but you never know how a particular situation might break,
so, yes, we have you practice on sheep. Not a real lot of fun, but these
are in no way fun people we're dealing with."

"I understand," Renaldo nodded, shuddering slightly.

"Well," the man said, "the churches have managed to drive off god with
their forever yammering and raging hypocrisy, like the droolinggeezer pope
hanging on to power with his last iota of functioning will and intellect,
so we get the cleanup detail. Just the way it is."

"Do they shit and piss when they die?" the inductee asked.

"Yes," the twenty one year old said; "that particular urban legend
happens to be true."

"I'm glad there's a nice side to all this," the boy mused, looking up at
the tall athlete sitting on his right.

"The best thing about it," his friend noted, "is that you're out by
twenty five. It's not a career field, just something a few of us do on the
side, and enough is definitely enough."

"Do you ever catch cops?" the curious child asked.

"About ten percent," the cadet said, "but we hold them to a lower
standard. They're in the thick of hell and perversity as a matter of
course, and if they hustle an otherwise bimbo quality boy or girl, we allow
a pass or two."

"How can you tell about stuff like that?" Renaldo wanted to know.



"With the cyber polygraph," the adult said. "It characterizes the
subject as well as delineating deception; lets us know precisely what we're
dealing with from inoffensive dabblers to Dahmertype hellhounds. Very
comforting."

"Don't the guys get nervous?" was the next question.

"They don't even know," the man explained, "we just get a snippet of
video, about ten seconds, head and shoulders, of them talking. Just like a
dog can smell a million times more acutely than a human, this machine
actually it's just a computer program can detect subtleties of body
English that literally tell all; general attitudes and orientations as well
as specifics concerning a particular incident."

"Sounds way bigbrother," Renaldo mused.

"Handy thing to have around," Francisco laughed, "a straightthinking
big bro."

"Where we really need him is at the candy counter," the child observed,
referring back to conversations they'd had on the subject of pandemic
obesity.

"And in front of every vending machine," the older male added, modifying
his comment by acknowledging that even people who ate almost nothing but a
ThirdWorld (DevelopingNation) diet of rice and beans managed to bend the
scales with the best of American supermarket supermoms. Both nodded
sagely at their firm grasp of the obvious.



"So you got experienced when you were ten?" Renaldo asked after a
comfortable pause during which they sat just enjoying each other's
proximity, as friends.

"As a matter of fact," the agent in advanced training replied, "it
happened on my tenth birthday."

"Cool," the boy whispered. "Are you allowed to tell, or is it a big,
deep, dark, forbidden secret?"

"A thousand monsters on a leash of corn silk," Francisco responded, "and
if even one gets loose, why, you'll have to use your imagination because
it's beyond telling."

"I imagine you were pretty cute when you were that age," the boy said,
"even if only half as much as you are now."

"Takes one to know one," the man chuckled, setting up another
comfortable pause. When he spoke again, his voice was husky.

"Has anything happened with you yet?" he asked his own mentor's nephew.

"No," the boy said, reddening to he rasp of the mature male's voice but
showing no signs of wanting to be anywhere other than where he was.

"Same with me," Francisco noted. "From nothing to experienced in an
hour, leaving me to wonder, when it was over, what the hell all the fuss
was about. Seemed the most natural thing on earth. In fact, even now, I
think half our real mission is to eliminate the bad apples, to understate
it by the odd thousand times, so they don't create an atmosphere of
hysteria that intrudes on the okay relationships."

"So everything happened the first time?" the boy said, not overtly
trying to focus his guest while at the same time keeping him sharply
focused.



"Except having him up inside me," the man replied, "and I wanted that,
but he wasn't willing because of the pain issue."

"Did it ever happen?" Renaldo asked.

"We were lucky enough to spend a lot of time together," the older male
responded, "so it finally did, but it's entirely optional; doesn't matter
one way or the other. Actually summarizes the whole thing, because none of
it means anything, one way or the other. It has no influence or effect on
an underlying relationship, good, bad, or indifferent. In fact, the only
time it even comes to light, outside obvious rapes, is when some kid is
losing it in other ways, then he or she blames sexual interference, if it
ever occurred, and often enough when it didn't. Welladjusted kids handle
it just like you handled being barechested in front of the bleachers when
you swam with your team. In fact, if a kid CAN'T handle it, and I don't
mean to be glib, chances are he's going to stumble over everything in the
path. Some people are just like that, most of them enabled by parents who
respond to their stumbling by giving them attention for it, instead of a
good swat across the butt."

"Dysfunction does seem to be a fad without an end," the exceptionally
alert eleven year old observed.

"It's trendy enough, for sure," his older friend agreed, "livens up many
a cocktail party and is a goldenegg boon to the liquor concession."



The boy thought twice. Beautiful as the athlete beside him was,
exciting as was anticipating the immediate future, here he was getting off
the subject at hand, himself. Was the mind really that important? Good
talk even over his first time, ever? (That he knew was about to happen
from the rasp in the adult's voice.) It only came at certain times, and
could hardly be called drooling or slobbering, but even to his virgin ears,
it was a sure sign something was going to ensue beyond a blowbyblow
discussion of sex and the single boy. Yet he was entirely happy just
chatting away as if they were eating together in a restaurant. At least
almost.



"If there's no affect on the longterm relationship," Renaldo said,
taking time to find the right words, "is there sort of like an immediate
difference, before and after?"

Brilliant question. "Yes," Francisco said, his eyes glinting with
respect for the handsome head on the slim, elevenyearold shoulders, "in
fact, that's very dramatic. About the fastest change you're ever likely to
go through assuming you don't have a heart attack. One moment releasing
yourself with your partner seems like the beall, endall to human
existence, then the release occurs and within a heartbeat or two, you're
cast into a subnormal state of indifference. Some boys even go from
willing and highly excited to feeling angry, exploited, and guilty. That
can last a few minutes, before things straighten themselves out until
they're again normal, and the return of excitement and receptiveness often
occurs within a few more minutes."

"Like a rollercoaster..."

"Only the first few times," the man noted, "and only if the event is
furtive and hasty. After that, the hills and valleys flatten out. It's
still just as exciting leading up, but there's no big down after you sperm
in your partner's hand or mouth."

"Is that what you call it?" the child whispered.

"It's way Henry Higgins, I suppose," Francisco allowed, "'prisoner of
the gutter, condemned by every syllable she utters.' To a boylover
listening to a South Beach hunk hissing `suck that dick' is offensive and
talk of packages and meat is more suitable to the A&P. We don't believe in
overromanticizing, a trap festooned with eel teeth, but a certain
rhetorical dignity and distance still has its place."



"I've never said it," the child whispered, blushing.

"It was hard for me, too," his friend responded, "but my teacher was
thrilled when I did I mean the argot actually is that important so, in
the end, I was happy, too."

"Did you have your clothes on when you said it?" Renaldo quizzed.

"Just my underpants," the mature male whispered. "Carlos was naked and
I was in his lap. He said I should say it when I wanted to be naked and go
all the way. `Show me your sperm,' I was meant to say, but it was okay to
say `cum,' if I wanted. And I thought I would until me turned me in his
lap, so I was facing him and could feel his bare chest against mine and his
penis was up inside my briefs. At that point I knew his way was best..."



"Hold that though," Francisco suggested, causing the boy to choke and
giggle over the absurdity of there being room in his head for any other.
Once he'd regained his composure, his mature friend spoke again.



"Renaldo," he whispered, "if we're just going to talk about, you know,
things, we'd better, sort of, you might say, in the name of humanity, stop
where we are. You'll understand fully when you're a little older.

"So," he went on, "we can go downstairs and see what's on television; go
out for something to eat; go to the zoo, or for a drive; pretty much
anything you like, while, on the other hand, if you do want to stay up here
in your room with me, or have me stay with you, to me more gracious about
it, we might consider a reprise of the physical events related to those
activities I'm narrating, if you follow me."

"If we stay here, I won't have to follow you," the child observed, and,
since the boy was hardly the lazy type, his friend took this as a good
omen.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"As sure as I'm overdressed for the occasion," came the response.



Does anyone hear clacking? Even if only in the mind's ear, you should.
The clackclackclack of the pawl on the roller coaster, a sound that
becomes exponentially more dramatic with the passage of time. On the other
hand, two participants who'd not be expected to hear it are our central
characters, because in both cases their chests were heaving and both were
panting openly.



The most modern antique term is "overclocking." Francisco didn't know
exactly why the random thought popped up, unless it had something to do
with seeing and touching the slim, browneyed beauty sitting at his left.
Even the thought of it stripped the gears and melted the springs, which was
perhaps the mind's way of dealing with a totality of excess to be piled on
the excess of simply having such a winsome young friend. "A couple of
things I have to tell you," he whispered, looking down at Renaldo who, in
response, raised his hands over his head, the better to have his polo shirt
removed. "First, is to remind you of the downside that comes when you've
ejaculated, or climaxed if you don't have sperm yet. The second is that
I've wanted something to happen between us ever since I've been here, and,
to tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, since you uncle
showed my your picture. What this means is that I haven't done, by myself,
the things males do from time to time in the normal course of events;
specifically, masturbating or jerkingoff, as boys are likely to say. Why
bring up the subject, you ask? Because that means the ending is going to
be, well, excessive. When you whisper to me to sperm, it's going to be
like whispering Free Beer at a coronation. This happened in Russia at the
beginning of the last century, and over a hundred thousand were killed in
the ensuing rush. So I just want you to be ready. A lot of kids like the
play, the touching and fondling and caressing and stroking, the kissing and
whispering, but suddenly they're being covered with a thick, slick fluid,
maybe on their chests or even in their face, and it's a freakout; not the
kind you get over in a few minutes."

"How about if it happens inside a kid's mouth?" the winsome one asked.



"Semen tastes heavy, cloying, and salty," Francisco replied. "Some love
it, some tolerate it, and some don't like it in the least."

"If it was anyone else," the boy responded, "I'd want to see it my first
time; keep it more objective and detached. But you're way neat; wayway
neat, and nothing would be so cool as having you be mature on my tongue, if
you want to."



There is, of course, a time when the clackclacking comes to an end.



Francisco removed the eleven year old's shirt. The boy, sensitive and
artistic, kept his arms high as the man stared him up and down while he
quickly stripped out of his own jersey. Then his fingers went to the
youth's cheeks, traced back to his ears, slowly meandering down over his
neck and shoulders. Renaldo's hands went higher, as if he'd suddenly
realized it was Billy the Kid on the south side of the northfacing .45;
and he simultaneously, arched his chest in modest display.





I come crashing into my stories. Everybody knows it. Ego mego (and,
if you wannago, remember the secret of the column () and scroll away).
But this time it is not I who've brought myself, again, crashing aboard,
but my hugely regarded Larry McMurtry sounding off on my beloved John
O'Hara; frying him up as if he, the reviewer, owned a series of burger
stands, not used bookstores. John O'Hara is flatout, handsdown,
unequivocally my only competition in the world as a writer. (Say it isn't
so.) And poor Larry fries, in the end, naught but himself. In the first
place, J.H. is no way, never was, never could be, weren't nohow no
novelist. Yes, he was better than the Hideous H or Foul F; that entire
dreary list stuffed into coasttocoast highschool English courses, its
disastrous impact and influence unnoted because the list is set like a
plunketts of Talmud, not to even be misspelled much less in any other way
finagled with, but better than Faulkner is John Q. Public, so big deal..



John O'Hara wrote short stories. They are the best writing in the
world. I once nailed six tenthousand words stories, five less than two
hundred words over, one fifty words short of the target, in a row. I do
believe, since they are all as good as Mr. O'Hara's, though I'd call none
better (meego lets mego very rarely, so read and rejoice at actually
having seen it happen), I know a thing or two about the subject, and,
veteran of four hundred thousand published words under a single title,
something, to boot about the novel. Mr. McMurtry hardly mentions the
short stories and wastes a third of his article on a headstone anecdote.
Seems not able to equate the literary sloth now running to three
generations with his Hlist of stars who are, in fact, black holes sucking
all life out of any lit for all readers and especially all wannabe readers
(to define total tragedy). Turn a thousand sixteen year olds loose with
O'Hara's small masterpieces and you'd be serving KoolAid to withering
teenagers waiting their turn inside the library, which, since we're talking
bakedplains Texas, happens not to be air conditioned. (And yes, there's
shade aplenty down at the dancehall which has video games along the walls
and is run by a tolerant sheriff.) That's a big difference; that's what
Salinger and H. have done to thirty years of kids.



John O'Hara should have been awarded every Nobel Prize, or at least a
couple of dozen. He was sorely abused by cruel people and mocked and
called a shit when he objected. The shit was what mister pockets at "The
New Yorker" paid him for his vaulting chain of masterpieces that made the
magazine for years, then decades. It makes me feel plumb lucky is all I
can say; I had the great good fortune to try dealing with N.Y. back in the
eighties with a huge novel that raw from my portable probably wasn't quite
good enough for the mainstream; some close calls, but it never led to a
check. Rapidly enough, practice made perfect and I became too good for the
place, and now take occasional pleasure in winding the crank handles of my
excessively bored cannon, aligning the cross hairs on Park Avenue, and
tugging the lanyard to an almightily resounding concussion and then perhaps
twenty seconds of wonderful pleasure as I contemplate the trajectory of the
giant shell and imagine the devastating crash of its arrival. It's all
fun. The aiming, the first tremendous bang, and the distant thunder of
arrival. It's real sad Mr. O'Hara never had the pleasure of kicking the
crummy giant, blasting a huge hole in it, chopping something off it, and
doing all in the comfort of his own home, just thousands of miles away, as
is my privilege, knowing they won't shoot back, because they can't. He
should have shared that, if only by virtue of the fact he was good enough
to.



He sought recognition and it was denied. I write porn in obscurity,
well, ahem, except for the unflagging actual readership of twenty to thirty
thousand downloads a week, and I wouldn't know what to do with recognition
if it bit me on the nose. To turn the tables, methinks I'd recognize it as
dangerous and kill it with a hoe. I like firing my cannon; brings out the
boy in me, and if the city got all loveydovey, where would I aim the
massive beast? (The Middle East should be dispatched with twenty five
highyield hydrogen bombs, so don't even think about that scuz land.)



He was great, they didn't even treat him as good, and laughed when he
cried. I'm made of sterner stuff, patrician heavy oldmoney New England
Yankee, so indifferent to Yoik I wrote and published the following joke
within an hour of the collapse of the second tower. "Who put the sky back
in skyline?" Three years later, life in the backwater of Belize not only
continues as ever but I've recently been able to purchase a highend
Canon tourist camera and indescribably fine HiTi printer from my local
dealer. Whatever they were trading in the Trade Center is apparently stuff
we can do nicely without, leading this scribe to wonder if we might not do
without them all, starting with the editors. I mean, don't they sort of
identify themselves that way? Lauding the cretinous H and Nabakov, Fitz.,
Gertrude, and yuk, yuk, yuk, while treating John like that of the shingle?
Well, they don't treat me at all. But how shivereth they, knowing? By the
thousands, as my reader count approaches three million at a lively and
undiminished clip, they know. Do they picture me busy and my castiron
wheels with the oak handles, training? How big IS the bore? They know I
served with 155s on the DMZ, and somehow survived. Does that mean I'm some
kind of a you know, from all those resounding and proximate concussions
"Yamato" freak; nothing less than eighteen inches? Into Daisy Cutters?
Don't rightly know. Don't rightly care. Yoik is free to ignore me as it
will, I'm free to blow the stagnant, entirely too Jewish, place to all the
smithereens that come to pass, and if I choose to do it a cherry bomb at a
time, maybe it just seems more efficient than some big blast with a
derivative mess to clean up.



On to more practical matters. I've been off on a photography tangent,
and won't be seeing my socks for awhile as they've been blown plumb outta
sight. I lived a mile or so from Eliot Porter back in the mid to late
Seventies. Never met him but a fellow photographer told me much about what
were then called "dyetransfer" prints. These were famous, at the time, as
Mr. Porter published a number of Sierra Club art books using the
dyetransfer technique and amounting to a whole new generation of popular
lithography as well as original photography. More about it than that I
don't really know because I was very much the journeyman with a camera, not
the artist. (In fact, my memory is that the Eliot Porter books, and I
spent some hours looking at them but can't say for sure if I ever owned
one, were routine work, only published because they were, a, of wildlife
and nature, and therefore appealing to the Sierra Club, and, b, a
spectacular jump in the quality of the printed photographic image.) All of
which is a shortenough, thank you, way of coming up to the subject at
hand, which is owning a dyetransfer printer.



Alex is neat; the total diplomat, way noncommittal, as a State official
must be least his personal likes or dislikes be mistaken for policy.
Still, he spent a long time looking at each of my now thirty prints,
spontaneously saying "you've got to sell these to tourists." When I
explained you could put two hundred of them on a CD, and two thousand on a
DVD, he seemed to think the idea even better, diplomatic reserve,
notwithstanding. The images are stunning. They get better with review.
I'm as excited looking at them for the umpteenth time as I was the first
time they passed from the rugged rollers of the HiTi. They, each and every
one, not only fully realize the technical quality of Mr. Porter's work,
they are beautifully composed images of precisely the same tropicisland
rustic motif that's forever inspired artists. Palms, banana trees, simple
wood structures both painted and weathered, and, like the girl in Harry
Bellefonte's song, they jump, jump, jump Delilah I remember a film in which
the girl looks through the boy's collection of images, finally commenting
that he never takes people Lifeless. Good lesson, and so there they are.
Life.



The counter passed 650, and I guess it doesn't fib, so it sounds like
I've been a busy little boy on this hiatus from the keyboard. My keeper
file, images probably good enough to go on the first CD, numbers about four
hundred. Now, most of the credit goes to Dangriga, with its cornucopia of
gemquality images, but still that's a lot for no more than seven shoots,
plus the odd noodling. "Tropic Gems Studio" is the best I can come up with
for a name, though I suppose "PhotoCaribe" might do in a pinch. Plus,
another challenge: somehow remaining unintimidated by the chance of
success on the field of dollar play.



Yes, my ego knows no bounds, nor is there any reason it should, but at
some point enough has to be enough, and sure enough, I had no idea history
would repeat itself. See, it goes something like this: for years, I was a
better photographer than writer. Make that decades. Although not imbued
with the creative flash of the true artist, I was becoming competent indeed
in rendering what is naturally beautiful, and had an almost extreme eye for
what that beauty was, in the first place. For years, great pix, soso
writing, though I only really stank at fiction. Took twenty years, camera
free, to reverse the skill sets, but, as I said, history repeats itself,
and here I am, equipment and chemistry removed from the equation, camera on
a par with keyboard. Dyetransfer (now called dyesublimation) prints to
go with the svelte prose, to say nothing of four hundred images neatly
filed a few clicks away on PhotoDeluxe. Not a better photographer than
writer; I've been at the latter virtually nonstop for the last twenty
years, but vastly better than I was.



Once again, it's the computer to the rescue. Talk about life rings. I
couldn't write without it. Supporting a family of five, plus myself, plus
helping others, I couldn't have afforded the ribbons, paper, carbon, and
repairs, to say nothing of the tedium of working with all of the above
(except the typewriter, itself, which I dearly loved). With the computer,
I can lie semireclined, necessary for medical reasons, keyboard on my
stomach, and work eighteen hours out of twenty four, and for bouts of
thirty hours. Six hours in a chair, and I'd be on Heparin. Simply the
capability of practicing for free, that's what it amounts to, and the same
thing with photography. The Canon, with it's tough little rechargeable
battery, allows a hundred shots at a go, at no discernable cost.
PhotoDeluxe saves makes possible, in the first place image after image,
nine or more out of ten, that otherwise would be discarded (not captured in
the first place) because of utility lines and a hundred other varieties of
eyesore that the editing suite allows to be cloned away, clickpoof, gone.
The very definition of a dynamite combination, and add the crystalline
vignettes common on the back streets of a poor Caribbean town, and dynamite
becomes the only word. The fourth stick, as if one were needed, is the
ability to stash two hundred highresolution images (2.5M each) on a fifty
cent compact disc, ten times that number on the digital video.



Oddly enough, the only overt success I've had in my life was as an
entrepreneur, overt success defined as a two hundred dollar a day net off a
gallery in Santa Fe. Didn't last, and I never pushed the photography
(laziness, plus the distraction of writing), and, as far as the writing
goes, to date, I've made forty dollars. But "Friendly Jungle" poured and
gushed money from its first everlovin' hour (building sold out from under
me). So, since the photography, as an art, has reemerged, is it
unreasonable to think the venture capitalist spirit might be a fellow
traveler? Then I could be garish and recognized. But, my. Pop this wolf
between the eyeballs, skin it, and nail the skin on the outermost fence
post. Think of the fun involved. Suddenly this newbie artist/entrepreneur
giant, and it turns out he has a dirty little secret stretching 1.2 million
words back over Nifty and , for three years. Is, in all probability,
the number one Net/Web contributor. On top of this, lo and behold, he
turns out to be of patently royal birth with a steel claw connection to the
very outbreak of the Revolution and a family tree of branches running the
gamut of The Bell System and Bell Labs, The Burlington Route, and other
involvements chronicled in modest and sometime succinct detail in other
writings.



A rightbetweentheeyes commercial success, off of art. Has to be just
the ticket at my stage in life, and the only way I can keep it to myself is
to display such a ferocity of arrogance and superiority everyone holds
their nose and circles wide, thus allowing ample time to solidify myself as
a practicing, practical genius in an exponentially selfcompounding
paradigm guaranteed to both further and enhance itself. Do you suppose the
Muslims have a saying: "the ignored ass brays"? Probably the hungry one.
Thus John O'Hara, and, deliciously, thus me with the opportunity to wreak
vengeance in his name. And nothing Faulknerian or abstract here; symbolism
and innuendo are wastes of my ethereal time. Yoik is poisoning the young
with IrishSweater Ernest and his Gertrude Stein ilk. That is my charge.
They wrote emoting trash, crummy bums with Gatsby the superstar. Actually,
not to put too fine a point on it, John O'Hara did, too. "Butterfield 8,"
in addition to making a mockery of Mr. McMurtry's supposition that O'Hara
never had a breakfromthepack "hit" (to say nothing of "Pal Joey"), is a
horrible, justwhatI'mtalkingabout novel. But, to again teach Larry and
New York a li'l something, Liz played the role. Okay?



Why do I dislike the novel? Because the guy drugs the underage girl
with ether to rape her; the smarmy, seedy side assumed. Liz takes to the
paddle wheel. It's all funk. Sure, it happens, but so do unspeakable
scenes inside burning cars you know, the ones with kids in them and
it's the cheap shot to categorize and castigate along the shopworn path to
moral nowhere. One brush for all colors. Gray and finally black. John
O'Hara is the most brilliant executioner of the short story, and uses the
vehicles, in their scores, to establish himself as without peer in any
language (though Pushkin's always to be counted) until I published "Jimmy
and Frogger." End of review.



Is there any other domestic stuff? Switched from macaroni and cheese
dinners to Perfect Burgers (Samantha definitely agrees). Astounded at how
fast I've edged back into photography, what with broken camera, stolen
camera, and two monitors and a computer giving up the ghost over the past
eight months. In six weeks I've done a year's work, and, much like my
characters, am having to deliberately bide my time until taking the next
step. In fact, for the moment things are so perfectly and beautifully
arranged they can all come flying apart today or tomorrow and I'd just
shrug and hope I have time to appreciate what's behind me, published and
out there for all of civilized time, a final time before the curtain closes
the last inch. I want PhotoGems to take time, to nurse it along slowly
from stage to stage during the rampup, avoiding entanglements with the
excessively mercantile. It's been no fun, writing. Recalcitrant editor
(on Nifty), no mail, no feedback from family or household, zero
recognition, no fun beyond the abstract thrill of success. Let others die
of envy, what good does that do me? I need joy, pleasure, toys, diversion,
entertainment, music, dance and a bushel of the lighter thi

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Tuesday, July 27, 2004

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Saturday, July 24, 2004

Punk Porn Sex story

[bogo] [19990301] Bogota Bang [FM bd, MF]

Bogota Bang, by Rajah Dodger <rdodgerhotmail>,
1999. All rights reserved, except that electronic
notforprofit reproduction rights only are explicitly granted
with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note
must remain attached.

Word Count: 4221

"Colombia? As in drug cartels?!?"

My voice rose an octave and a half as my boss revealed
himself to be an alien from the planet Moron.

"Who goes to Colombia? Do you realize that country's on the
State Department's 'don't go there' list?" I continued in the
same vein for a few minutes before allowing him to get a word in
edgewise. He reminded me that all the major oil companies had
major investments south of the border, that the advisory was for
targets such as diplomats, and that regular business transactions
were continuing unabated. I wasn't terribly reassured by all
this. He tried to lay a guilt trip on me, pointing out that this
would be a really good thing for the company to have under its
belt, and that I was the only one who was available to take it,
not that he was forcing me or anything. When he went on to
describe the incentive compensation and how the client would
arrange for a security escort, and by the way there was a $30 per
hour incentive bonus, then I felt a little better. After all, my
passport was current and I had no dates planned, so taking the
job wouldn't really mess up my life. I told him I'd take it.

Then my boss gave me the kicker I'd have to leave in a
week. Great. That wouldn't give me enough time to get anti
malaria shots and have them take effect. I eyed him with
thoughts of mercenaries and flitting through my head, but
the bonus money won out. Besides, there was a certain James
Bondish thrill to the whole idea of going down there.

My roommate didn't see it that way when I got back to the
apartment. "Colombia? As in drug cartels?!?" He added several
pithy comments casting doubt on both my parentage and my sanity,
concluding with "Guess I'll see you in the remake of Midnight
Express."

Over the next week I arranged to put my email lists on
vacation status, checked the Web on what to eat, drink and avoid,
and crammed a week's worth of business casual into one piece of
luggage. I'd have to use my laptop carrier for medicines and
papers so I could get under the twoitem carryon limit and not
have to check any luggage. On most airlines that direction,
checked luggage is another word for byebye.

I was all set by Friday evening, which gave me enough time
to get my last McBurger for a while. And to see Angela and have
my ashes hauled. I liked Angela she was a zaftig brunette
with vibrant green eyes, something more than escort and something
less than girlfriend, and she didn't mind if sometimes all I
wanted to do was strip down and cuddle up to her backside for an
hour. This evening I had more strenuous activities in mind, and
I didn't leave her apartment until three hours later, having
exercised all of the major muscle groups and some I didn't know
were useful. I walked out of her apartment gingerly, trying to
keep my aching empty balls from rubbing against the inside of my
pants. I didn't even have the strength to get undressed when I
got home, just fell onto the bed and collapsed.

My flight was Saturday afternoon. It was nothing exciting;
the DC10 was full up, the food was better than I expected and
some Chris Rock movie was showing. There was a lot of turbulence
the guy two seats to my right wound up with a rum and coke in
his lap. I managed to get a couple of spotty naps anyway. When
I landed at Bogota there was a minor hassle over my laptop, and I
had to plug it in to prove that it worked. Also, they wanted to
see the prescriptions for all of my medications. Finally, I made
it through there, got my passport stamped, and looked for the
uniformed company driver who was supposed to meet me.

The local company contact had been insistent about not
taking any public taxis while I was in the country. I had a
couple of nervous moments shaking off some shadylooking drivers
who offered me a ride into town, but finally saw someone holding
a sign with my name on it. Well, a reasonable approximation of
my name. I waved and hauled my two bags over, and followed the
guy out to the van where he put the bags in the back and I got to
ride in the front. We chatted some on the twentyminute drive,
interrupted every so often as the van hit a bump or pothole and
the seat slammed into my rear. It was a good thing my laptop
case was padded this drive was worse than baggage handling
would have been.

I arrived at the hotel, slightly the worse for wear but
fully briefed on topics including which subjects to avoid in
conversation, what the odds were on the Colombian team in the
World Cup, where to get a good deal on jewelry (probably his
brotherinlaw, I was guessing), who to contact for security
escorts and what the arrangements were to pick me up from the
hotel in the morning. I checked in, got my room key, went
upstairs and had just enough energy to take my hanging clothes
out to unwrinkle before I took off my clothes and climbed into
bed.

The first day of the job was very straightforward. I got up
at 6:15, showered, got dressed, got my laptop and working papers
set up, went downstairs and had a cup of coffee. A driver
arrived promptly at seven, dispelling at least one stereotype
about life south of the border. He and I went through a security
scan at the front entrance, he went his way and I went mine,
schmoozing with the staff until we started the first meeting at
7:30. We broke at noon for lunch, down in the building
refectory. Then between working sessions, brainstorming and more
meetings, we finally wrapped our daily review at 6:00pm.

Five of us stopped by security and picked up a driver, then
went to dinner at one of the better restaurants, up in a high
rise with a revolving view of the city. We talked about office
gossip, about the project, about sports. There was some
conversation in Spanish, which I couldn't follow, but they kept
that to a minimum. About an hour and a half later, they dropped
me off at my hotel and I wandered up to my room to collapse,
stopping in the lobby to get a daily paper. Up in the room I
checked the TV channels outside of the Spanishlanguage
programs there was just HBO, MTV and a Sony channel showing a
variety of sitcoms. I looked through the ads in the paper but
didn't see anything of interest, then flipped through the Yellow
Pages. My rudimentary Spanish allowed me to identify the bars,
some massage outlets (probably legitimate) and something that
literally meant Turkish Baths. I made a few notes for reference,
then flipped to the jewelry section and copied down some names
and addresses.

The next day was like the first, with yet another driver;
they must have had a number on staff, and they didn't seem to
have a standard uniform. The work was longer, and we didn't get
to our review of the day until 7:00 in the evening. I noticed
during the day that there were very few women on staff, and that
those who did work there were all pretty good looking. The group
went out for dinner again, so I got to my room later than on the
first night and still had to spend some time writing up my
meeting notes.

I didn't have anything of visual interest on my laptop,
because I'd heard tales of travelers who had their PCs seized by
customs for pornography. I attempted to do some recreational
programming, but my mind wasn't in it and I really didn't have
the energy anyway, so I just went to bed that night.

On the third day, before I went up for the first meeting, I
stopped by the security office and told them I'd need
arrangements for an evening driver. I told them I wanted to go
look for some emeralds and to check out the nightspots. At lunch
that day, I stopped by the hotel in order to change a hundred and
fifty into local currency. The bills made an uncomfortable bulge
in my jacket pocket. We only worked until 6 that day, which left
me a decent amount of time to go shopping. I went down to the
security office, but they told me my escort would be at the front
exit. So I went down to the front area and a guy in a driver's
uniform was slouching by the door. I waved and went over to him.
"You must be my driver," I said as I extended my hand to him,
"Call me Brad." He took my hand and shook it, responding in
kind, "And my name's Rogelio."

We got into a nondescript car and headed out. I told
Rogelio I was looking for emeralds, and mentioned the place the
airport driver had recommended. Rogelio made a rude face and
muttered something in Spanish, short and probably derogative,
then said only that there were better places to find quality
gems. I looked around as he drove, noticing that there were high
security fences around every residential building and barred
doors and windows on the businesses. Apparently Bogota had the
same sort of crime problems that you see in neardowntown Chicago
or New York City.

We drove for a while until he pulled into a parking space
somewhere outside the central business district. We stood
outside the door as he pressed a buzzer, and when the door
clicked loudly he opened it and we went in. The shop was small,
but they did seem to have good stones. Rogelio turned out to
have some knowledge of emeralds, and his advice was helpful as I
settled on a couple of earringsize pieces for Angela and a stone
that would make a nice pendant for the right woman. Also a ring
for my mother; Mom was going to be surprised when I remembered
her 60th birthday this year.

After that Rogelio suggested dinner, and drove us to a place
off the tourist route. No decor to speak of, but the grilled
meats were incredible. We chatted as we ate I talked about
Dallas, my job, my roommate and my life. He related tales of
foreigners he had taken one place or another and the troubles
they had gotten into trying to use American behaviors in
Colombia. I looked longingly at a baked coconut flan, but
decided I'd best pass on dessert.

Over coffee, Rogelio asked what kind of nightlife I was
looking for. I told him I was looking for a rubdown, adding
"...something with the personal touch, if you follow me." A
flicker of something went over his face. "That's not going to be
in the best part of town," was his only comment, and our
conversation came to a screeching halt. I paid the bill and we
left the restaurant. Rogelio drove through the streets quickly
and without small talk, leaving behind us the relative safety of
heavy traffic and bright lights. We eventually pulled up under a
flickering street light at a building where the small sign on the
door said "Masajistas femeninas".

We went in, finding a shabby waiting room which held a small
coffee table and a sofa. A door next to a barred window was the
only sign of business, and Rogelio rang the bell at the window.
A middleaged woman appeared, and he spoke with her in low tones
and rapid Spanish. The woman looked at me oddly a couple of
times, and Rogelio turned at one point to ask whether I wanted a
man or a woman. "Una mujer, por favor," I replied, and he
nodded curtly before turning back to his conversation with the
woman at the window. Finally, he turned back to me and said "Go
down to the end of the hall. You need to put down at least
75,000 inside and get on the massage table. I'll wait out here.
See you in about 45 minutes." A buzzer sounded, and Rogelio held
the door open for me, a sour look on his face.

I went through the door and down the short hall, passing a
couple of doors along the way. When I opened the door at the
end, I was pleasantly surprised. The room was clean, although
the paint in the molding was peeling. There was a small cabinet
for the towels and lotions, and a place for me to hang my
clothes. I pulled out a hundred thousand in local currency, did
some mental math to come up to roughly $65, and put down an extra
twenty thousand to be on the safe side. It seemed unlikely that
I'd be able to do any negotiating in the room. I stripped, hung
up my clothes, laying my socks and shorts on top of my shoes, and
lay on my stomach on the towelcovered table. I was starting to
doze when I heard the door open and close.

With my head down, I could only see her from about midbelly
down. Sandalclad feet, tanned muscular legs topped by a fairly
wide wraparound burnt orange skirt. I greeted her with a
"Buenas noches", but only got a noncommittal "mmmm" in
response. I heard the sound of the lotion bottle being squeezed,
and felt her hands on my upper back. She worked my shoulder
blades and back muscles knowingly, eliciting more than a few
grunts from me as she worked out the knots. She ran her
fingertips up my sides, making me wriggle, but then got serious
about my shoulders and neck. A pause, another wheeze of the
lotion bottle, and she pressed her forearm alongside my spine,
pressing and dragging her entire arm down my back. Instead of
stopping at my waist, she continued on down sliding her whole arm
between my asscheeks, her fingers fluttering along the way. I
jumped and squirmed at this, lifting my hips to give my expanding
cock some room. I settled down and started to relax again as she
squeezed my thigh and leg muscles and worked from there down to
my ankles. She spent quite a bit of focused attention on my
calves and feet, and by the time she said "a su trasero, por
favor," I was purring way deep in my throat.

I flipped over onto my back and got my first good look at
the rest of her. Late forties, I guessed; shoulderlength black
hair topped an angular face with pretty brown eyes. An
overfilled black athletic bra top completed the picture, and
seeing that she had my attention, she took the top off. I felt
my cock thickening as her breasts came into view, large dark
nipples pointing right at me. She squeezed some lotion into her
hands and leaned forward to rub the tops of my legs. I spread my
feet outward to give her better access to everything, but that
didn't get the reaction I expected. She frowned at that.
Standing back for a moment, she barked, "Puede usted quedarse
quieto?"

Not quite understanding her, I shook my head and said no.
She pursed her lips, and then reached down on either side of the
foot of the massage table. She brought out a couple of worn
leather cuffs and quickly and efficiently fastened them to my
ankles in their spread position. Then she strode to the head of
the table and brought out a chin strap which went into place
before I quite figured out what was going on. When she finished
buckling my head down, she took some lotion and spread it over
her breasts, then leaned over me and dangled them against either
side of my face. "Esta practico." She shook her torso,
slapping me in the face with her breasts, and sent her slick
fingertips dancing down my sides and over my belly, stopping just
short of actually touching my cock. I'm very ticklish, and in no
time I was writhing from side to side, trying to escape her
teasing hands but restricted by the face and ankle restraints.

Next she went to the side of the table and dragged her nails
up the insides of my legs, grazing my balls. She leaned down as
she did this and her hair brushed over my cock, making it quiver
that much more. With one hand she toyed with my nipples, with
the other she stroked under my balls, teasing my ass with one
sharp nail. By this time I was almost throwing myself from one
side of the table to the other, trying to force my painfully hard
cock into contact with her hands, whimpering "por favor, senora,
por favor". Just when I thought I'd break down and start
crying, she slid her hand between my asscheeks and rubbed her
thumb in a spot somewhere under my balls. I gave out a strangled
scream and came like a gusher, cum flying everywhere, landing on
my belly, her breasts, up to my eyebrows. She stroked my balls,
murmuring something musical as I gasped, groaned and gave up my
load. Tears were running down my face, and when my cock slowed
to a dribble she released the ankle cuffs, came up and cradled my
face between her breasts, unfastening the chin strap as well.
When my body stopped shaking, she took a moist cloth, cleaned me
up, put her top back on and left. It was several minutes before
I could sit up, much less get myself dressed.

When I came out to the waiting area, Rogelio put down the
daily newspaper, sighed, and took a look through the window
before opening the front door. We got into the car without
wasting any time in that neighborhood, and headed off to the
hotel.

On our arrival, Rogelio greeted the concierge, and without
my asking he escorted me up to my room. In the elevator, Rogelio
spoke up for the first time in over an hour. "I need to use the
bathroom, if it's all right with you." I nodded, and when I
opened the door to my room he went directly for the bathroom
while I headed for the bed. I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my
socks and wiggled my toes while he went into the bathroom. I
turned on the TV and lay back to see what was on Meryl Streep
in some movie being depressed in Egypt. I heard the toilet flush
and the water running in the washbasin, followed by Rogelio
gargling. Just as I finally worked out that the other actress
was Tracey Ullman, Rogelio cleared his throat and I glanced up.

Make that, cleared her throat. Rogelio had doffed the
uniform jacket and shirt, and I was looking at a very appealing
pair of small breasts with lightly traced tan lines running up to
her shoulders. I took a second and third look at the uniform
pants I didn't see any bulge there. I started to turn red at
the thought of Rogelio waiting and listening back at the massage
place while I was getting my rocks off noisily.

He... She... giggled. "You should see your face! You
don't know whether to get turned on or run like hell!" Rogelio
came over to where I was sitting, pushed me so I fell back onto
the bed, and climbed up on top of me, straddling my legs. "But I
bet turnedon is winning, though!" Rogelio rested one hand on
top of my crotch, and we both felt the erection pulsing there.
She flexed her fingers over my balls and shook her breasts over
my face. She spread her legs wider and settled down on top of
me, one breast popping into my mouth as her hands moved knowingly
to my belt and zipper. I sucked reflexively when her hand popped
into my briefs and grasped my cock, tugging on it back and forth
until it was at least as hard as the masseuse had made it. I
wasn't anywhere near coming, though, when Rogelio sat up, popping
her nipple out from between my lips. "Get undressed, gringo. I
had to listen to you giving it up to that puta in town, now I
want that for myself."

She didn't leave me any time to fold my clothes; by the time
I had my slacks down around my ankles, she was nude. As pretty
below as she was up top, with a sparse dusting of brunette pubic
hair already glistening with her arousal. She pulled my pants
the rest of the way off while I got out of my shirt, and we
worked together getting rid of my underpants. "Lie back," she
said, and swung herself around so that her thighs covered my
face. I dove in, enjoying the tart sweetness of her while she
breathed on my balls and surrounded by cock with her wet active
mouth.

I was hard in no time, but without the sense of urgency I'd
had earlier in the evening. Good thing, too, because she got off
my face, held my cock up and lowered herself onto it. She rode
me like a rodeo bull, rising and falling to her own rhythms and
needs, while I just held onto her knees and stroked her legs,
enjoying the feeling of being inside her. I watched, entranced,
as a light flush spread over her breasts, chest and shoulders,
and as I extended one finger to stroke her visiblyengorged clit
she let out a deep moan and her pussy did some amazing things
around my cock. I started wishing I could cum, as she slammed
her hips down hard, grabbed her breasts, opened her mouth in a
soundless "O", and then fell forward onto me in midspasm. I
stroked her sweaty back and asscheeks until her eyes opened.
"You're still hard," she said in some surprise. I shrugged, not
a terribly effective gesture when you're flat on your back
beneath a naked woman. She rolled her hips from side to side,
then lay her head down on my chest while still clasping me inside
her. "I like that feeling," she murmured in my ear, "... a
lot," and yawned, then slowly dozed off in my arms. I was
feeling a bit worn out myself...

I woke up in the middle of a very nice dream, lying back in
the jacuzzi with the water jets finding all of my sensitive
places. When I opened my eyes, Rogelio was nibbling at my cock
and playing with my balls and backside. Seeing that I was awake,
she rolled over on her back and told me to "put him here,
cowboy". I sat up, climbed on top of her, and did just that.
First with slow strokes, in and out, rubbing her clit, then when
she wrapped her legs around me and urged me to go faster, I sped
up and let my balls do the talking. There wasn't going to be a
second act this time I already had that tight feeling between
my legs, and she was pulling me into her almost as fast as I was
trying to sink myself in. Four, maybe five minutes later I was
huffing and she was moaning; no sooner did I let loose inside her
than she let out a yelp and dug her nails into my back. I could
tell there would be blood, but I was too lost trying to drive my
cock further into her to care.

At some point, after we both caught our breath, she slid out
from beneath me, her pussy still managing to grasp the head of my
cock for a last kiss as it popped off. "I really ought to let
you get some sleep before you go to work," she said smiling. I
lay on the bed, totally wiped out, as she took a shower and dried
her hair. She came back to me for one last long kiss, cupped my
balls and said "Take good care of these, mister."

And with that she was gone.

I woke up the next morning, energized and looking forward to
my drive to the office. I hoped for Rogelio, but I got a
different driver and he was in a lousy mood. When I asked why, I
got a lecture about foreigners who thought nothing about telling
security they needed a driver and then not bothering to show up
at the appointed time or location. "What did you do, just pick
up a car and driver off the street? You should consider yourself
lucky."

I thought about that comment all through the morning wrapup
meetings. I guess he was right, because when I called the
security office after my final meeting they claimed they never
had a driver named Rogelio. I didn't get another opportunity; I
left Colombia after lunch and haven't been back since.

/end/ 03011999 Rajah Dodger All Rights Reserved

Okay, folks, I feel it incumbent on me to add some sort of
disclaimer. Anonymous encounters in foreign countries with no
condoms are an invitation to any number of nasty STDs.
Unprotected sex in the United States is no guarantee either.
Play careful and live to have fun. /rd

Also, thanks to my good friend Tom of Panama who provided me
with the correct idiomatic Spanish to use in place of my
dictionary translations.

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