We reached home at about six in the evening to the sight and sound of dark, brooding skies. Did a bit of the usual, and she was watching television when the Japorn that I was downloading coaxed an erection out of me. I walked out and with my knees sunk into the couch, I fed my cock to her. Some dumbass Taiwanese programming was on, and I watched a little as she sucked, nibbled and scraped with her tongue, teeth and lips.

    After a couple of minutes it was time for bigger things, so I knelt down on the marble floor and began pulling her panties off. When I saw how her lips were sticking out so deliciously, I was reminded once again how she is such a sexy little thing, and when I told her this, she smiled and began one of her hungry looks of anticipation.  I was still a little moist from her sucking, and gently eased it in on a 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3 rhythm.  

    And it was a little piece of heaven because she was already all hot and creamy inside. I picked up the in-out pace slowly, and by the time I was pounding her to an orgasm, her legs, ass and hips were all fucking me back and responding in perfect rhythm.

    It was one of the more devastating orgasms that she's ever had, and her banged-up, creamy cunt vouched for it. She creamed so much that it trickled down all the way to her anus and onto the couch. I sat down beside her and when I was touching her hair, she was still biting into her finger. I looked down, and my cock was covered with streaks of her cream. Without a word, she got up, leaned over, and began to mouth me off. Her orgasm must've brainswashed her, because she was not the least bit averse to tasting her own cream this afternoon.

   Lemme taste it too I said, and we kissed, our tongues curling and swirling in the tangy taste of her cunt. After the kiss, she sucked me a little bit more, and then we doggied it. It was hot and I had wanted to come, but the sudden thought of those fellas outside spying on us through the translucent windows brought me down. I went back into the room and slept, and she resumed watching television. I awoke after six hours and typed this.
 

I thought, why not be nicer to her and then maybe my wish will come true.  By that time, it was already a quarter past ten, and she had already left. Of course, which mother would want to leave her magnificently well-stacked daughter waiting alone in the dim-lit corridors of the storefronts?

    I made sure all the switches were off and left the centre for the night. When I got downstairs, it was already drizzling, and for a moment, I felt lonely and remembered m, who was quite well-stacked herself. It's funny how one horny thought slips beneath another, culminating in tingles feeling that can only serve to fatten my cock. I got into the car, slipped the key into the ignition, started the engine, backed up and drove off into the misty night.

    Goddamn, what a beautiful pair she has on her, that fuckfaced Miss T. Truly one of the largest pair I've seen, and the more I thought about it, the bigger they seemed to become. There is a distinct possibility of a hyperbole here, but it seemed to me now that they could well be the biggest real pair that I've laid my breast-wearied eyes upon.  

    "Be nice to her and maybe your wish will come true". That little voice had a point after all. I mean, being nice to her in an effort to acquire some hot piping shots of her unclothed breasts naked in the shower seemed like a pretty low-down idea (or strategy, if you can call it that), but it wasn't a bad idea at all, if only for the simple reason that it might actually work.

    And forgoing pride for some great views (preferably upshots!) of those full-volumed, perfect Asian breasts seems like a pretty good deal. This, coupled with the fact that it had worked in the past. Well, this story has got less to do with my charming good looks than with my little perverted desire to get a good look at Miss T's heavy breasts, but I do know, for a fact, that I'm attractive to women, and I'm very aware that Miss T is one of those women.  I know this because of the way she behaves around me, and all this despite the fact that we do not look each other in the eye, nor speak to each other, not even politely. It's not, however, as if we're not on speaking terms, because to say this would imply that we used to be friends, which we weren't. We were merely two distinct individuals who happened to teach at the same centre.

    It was almost a quarter to eleven by the time I reached home, and the rain had turned into a heavy drizzle.  Drizzle, on her hair, her face, her body, those breasts, her tiny waist and her voluptuous hips and ass. I'd hazard a guess that she's a hairy girl too, but the strangest thing is that I have no intention to have sex with her whatsoever. I just want to see her naked, and in particular, her breasts. I'd exaggerate here and say, that if her nipples are puffy too, I'll get on my knees and offer to be her slave for life, but then again, that's what exaggeration's all about, isn't it?

    Her wet breasts, naked in the shower, pendulous, swinging ever so gently with her every movement. It had worked with Anna, sweet Anna, wherein my reward was that mind-blowing sight of that beautifully hairy cunt on one of the sweetest girls with the most perfect teeth that I've ever met. So why shouldn't it work on Miss T?

Why is there such a lack of female cream in Western porn? Somehow I get the distinct feeling that as soon as the white stuff appears, they wipe it off, or else, they edit it out in post-production. Call me paranoid, but I think there's some kind of conspiracy going on.  For what agenda I'm not sure, but it simply doesn't make sense that 90% --- if not all ---  girls who appear in Western porno do not secrete enough of that cream to get squished out during sex.

    On the other hand, the sex in Japorn is markedly creamier, and while I admit that this is a personal thrill and turn-on, it is also something that I have experienced very often in my own sex life. 

    She and I were in the bathroom preparing to shower after a particularly hot session of kissing, petting and oral sex. We were both naked, and as she bent over to pick up a bottle of shampoo, I felt an urge to stick my cock into her exposed cunt. Funny how little it mattered to me during those moments the intention of wanting to save my virginity for marriage. But still it must've mattered, because I went in for only an inch or so. She let out a little gasp, turned around slightly with hunched shoulders and like a cat in heat, stuck her ass up higher. I pulled out that inch immediately. Having noticed an amount of white cream on my cockhead, I was puzzled, and with a trace of alarm in my voice, asked her what it was.

    'What's this?'

   'Don't know.' She replied coyly, for she did know, and stepped into the bathtub. As I continued to stand there, puzzled, on the cool linoleum floor, I confirmed with myself that I had not ejaculated, so it couldn't have been my come that was smeared on the tip of my cock. It must surely have been hers, but I had no idea that it could be so thick and white.

   And this was many, many years ago. It was a prelude to losing my virginity, when I was nineteen. Since then, I've been on the lookout for cream during lovemaking and cream within porn. It's a rare thing, especially in Western porn, but more of a constant in Japorn.  I'll hazard a guess here, but perhaps Western men find female cream threatening?

   Rather than seeing female cream as a threat, I see it as a sign of triumph and of achievement, for the simple fact that, while orgasms can always be faked, cream can't. I have always been leery at lubricants and their use during sex, simply because if you're not wet enough, then don't fuck. Now that the words are done, here's a creamy image for your pleasure.

 

Serica was someone I met on the Internet through a community website. I had put up a sort of half-serious ad that I was on the lookout for anyone who's interested in posing nude for me. Well, I was a sort of fame whore back then, and I had a certain reputation going on, because I never appeared at any get-togethers. And so she told me one day, that she's interested. Naturally, I thought she was speaking in jest, but it turned out that she was dead serious. I told her that, as far as her anonymity was concerned, I will make sure that her face does not appear on the photographs. She surprised me and said, 'Who said anything about wanting to be anonymous?' Apparently she didn't have any qualms about her face appearing on the nude photographs which I was going to shoot. In fact, she wanted her face to be shown.

    So a time was arranged, and she picked me up at a subway station (which was somewhere in North America). I couldn't remember what time it was exactly, but I do believe that it was a winter night, probably around eleven or twelve. At those hours, I could only think of one place to shoot, and that was at my alma mater, ____ University. I remembered that there was a washroom for the handicapped in the Behavioural Science building which was so clean that I used to put my jacket on the floor while shitting. Given the fact that I'm pretty hypochondriac, this meant a lot.   

    And so the washroom it was gonna be. She parked the car at a nearby lot, and we took a brisk five-minute walk to where we were headed. When we reached our location, it was just like it used to be; even the corridor that led to the washroom was empty with nary a university student in sight. Then again, it was already close to midnight. The door was unlocked, I pushed it open, and she went in after me. She had brought along a bag with her, and as she set it down on the floor, I wondered what was inside. Probably some wigs I thought, because we had a brief discussion prior to the shoot, and she had agreed to bring along a wig or two.

     When she brought out a foot-long dildo, I was surprised for yet another time. It was flesh-coloured and looked very real. I stood there, nonplussed, and almost burst out laughing, but I didn't, because not only was I afraid that she might get offended, but also because quite frankly, I was a little nervous. While we seemed like friends whenever we communicated through the net, in real life she was nothing more than an acquaintance whom I've just met at a party. It was an awkward situation, but we made a pretty bad show of it.

    She took off her jacket while I was getting the camera ready, which didn't really take much because I had no other accessories with me. As far as equipment was concerned, all I had with me was the fully-manual Pentax K-1000 with a standard 50mm lens, and a pair of very steady hands. I looked through the viewfinder to check on the built-in lightmeter, and that was about it.

   Beneath her jacket she had on a black sleeveless woollen top, as you can see from the images below. With her jacket removed, she now began to remove her skirt and panties. The entire situation did feel a little surreal. As I watched her, my heart was beating a little faster than usual. Even now, as I'm writing this, I can feel a slight taste of the excitement that I experienced that night. I remember her not having a whole lot of pubic hair, at least not as much Anna did, but she has a very dark-looking cunt, and an equally yummy-looking anus. She put on the blonde Jean Seberg wig and began working the dildo into herself.

    Believe it or not, but nothing went further than the photographs that night. I wasn't sure if she had an orgasm, but I can definitely vouch for the fact that she was very creamy that night. For all the tension that was in my head, I stayed pretty calm. And so did she.  Once in while, when something triggers my memories of that night, I still find myself wondering what would've transpired had I made a move on her right there and then, when she was lost in that reverie of creamy sensations.

    We went for coffee at a 24-hour cafe after the session, as if nothing had happened. Like I said, if that entire night was ever awkward for even one second, we made a pretty damned bad show of it.  As usual, a couple more images for your pleasure.

I'm on a fuckin roll today, so one more entry before I begin my meat-yanking session for the day. Had a really quick quickie with Neko a few moments ago, and I managed to get some new shots. I diddled with the settings of the Nikon a little, and the shots ended up looking like they were taken in the Matrix. 

Here's some Sunday eye candy for all you perverts and lurkers out there who check out this blog on a regular basis. I'm a little busy with work at the moment, so I'll be posting later. It's probably gonna be one on the aesthetics of pornography. So, without further ado, here comes the candy:

 

It's funny, but I tend to become especially horny whenever I'm working. I get even hornier when I'm stressed or bogged down with work. While I was doing some preparations for next week, something inside me, which I figure would be my libido, seemed to keep reaching out for some meaty joy. Speaking of meat, don't you think my uncut cock looks absolutely yummy? Ah, the great joys of exhibitionism through the world wide web. There's a reason why I picked tabulas for my blog, and it's because it's not as big-assed famous as some other blog sites. To me, this whole idea of wanting to become famous over the blogosphere seems so passe. Better to stay low-profile than rubbing your blog-cock all over your horny readers' faces. But it's the net we're talking about here, so, to each his or her own, and here's my own. I know for a fact that in the near future, the blog ommunity will be talking about "notes from my libido." Perhaps I'm speaking through my ass, but I haven't seen any sex blogs out there that's even remotely close to where I'm heading. Not even at fleshbot or erosblog. Don't get me wrong though, I think what they're doing over there is great, but it's just not what I wanna do. I see something else emerging from "notes from my libido." I don't even know what it is myself, so I suppose we'll have to spend a bit more time to find out for sure, won't we?

I saw Veronica yesterday morning. She looked a little flustered, and in a strange way, a little sexy too. Which, come to think of it, wasn't that strange given what I chanced upon last Saturday evening. She wore a black, sleeveless top over a short white skirt, which was thin enough to afford me an appetising glimpse of the silhouette of her thighs through the sunlight. Her wearing white reminded me of a friend who, whenever he was in the presence of a girl or woman who wore a pair of white skirt, shorts or pants, made it a point to mention her fuckability. His grand theory was that if she wore white it meant that she wasn't having her period, and this, in turn, meant that she was fuck-ready.

    I once caught a glimpse of Veronica's panties too, while she was coming down the stairs. It was black, and worn over one of her, presumably, many pairs of short skirts. See, these are the things that makes a woman seem sexy, even when she's not particularly good-looking. It's the same with the display of cleavages, whether intentional or unintentional. 

    When I told Neko about Veronica's charity, she suggested that I seduce her and see if I can score. And I told her, as I'm telling you now, that I have never been interested in shagging her. As for that absolutely bosomy Miss T, it's worth a thought or two, but I don't think I'll succumb, not even in my fiction. I mean, if I can see it, I'll definitely write about it, but if I can't, then I probably won't. I think I'm most honest when I'm writing porn or about porn and about my sexual experiences. Any other form of writing would involve hauling out all the tools of sophistry.

    Well, it's time for a little of that old up-down, up-down. In honour of Veronica's generosity this last weekend, here's a couple more images of Neko's oral obsession with my fat, meaty cock.

Hot afternoon. I was having an especially invigorating nap until Neko surreptitiously climbed into bed and slid her body against mine from behind. I pretended to be asleep just to see what she wanted to get up to this time. I heard her panties being slipped off. Then she leaned real close to me and began nibbling my ears, her breath hot and heavy against my neck and face. I continued my pretence and played along, and she began humping me from behind, the meat of her young cunt rubbing against my hairy thigh. She slipped a hand into my briefs and promptly took hold of me. I turned around and we began a deep kiss. As we sucked on our tongues and saliva, her strong fingers kept yanking, and my own fingers began some searching of their own. I kneaded her cheeks and spread them rudely, homing in on that familiar trove in between. I had, unsurprisingly, a creamy situation on my hands, and I dipped a finger to assess its seriousness.

    Not being in the mood for too much pussy-footing, she began to yank off my briefs in a very unlady-like manner. She climbed on and pointed me in the right direction, and it slipped in without any incident. I took hold of her hand and, before she had a chance to soften the blow, slapped myself with it.  I let go and she took it from there, punctuating those hard slaps on my face with bouts of neck-biting and the sticking of her tongue into my ear, ravishing me, as it was. Sinking deeper into the bed, I yielded to her abuse. Sensing this, her appetite became ravenous.  Her hips brought my cock to its hilt, as she began choking me with her hands. I thought: Oh God girl, I still wanna live.

    She rode me this way to a selfish orgasm, after which it was time for that proverbial reversal of roles. Giving her no quarter, I folded her limbs into doggie-style and slipped my cream-stained cock into her sopping cunt. I grabbed hold of her arms and began punching it into her. It wasn't long before the tingles came and the twinklling stars of orgasm suggested themselves to me. I pulled her up, and holding her torso from behind, I began whispering the nastiest obscenities into her ear.

    'You fucking cunt. What would you mother say if she saw you like this huh? You like getting fucked this way? How does it feel? Is it big enough for you?'

    I followed up the words with something that I use sparingly in our lovemaking sessions. Grabbing hold of her head I began to tongue her earhole, something which she found extremely unbearable, and which was a surefire orgasm trigger. I slipped my fat tongue in and out, fucking her earhole as it was, and made sure that there was enough slurping going on to amplify the sensations.  She began screaming and I clamped a large hand over her mouth for the sake of our neighbours. And then it came, almost too soon, as she shook and shuddered like a woman possessed.

    As we lay there in post-coital chatter, she got up and stood over me, and I took more of those experimental shots in low light.  Aren't those veins on her hands a painfully arousing sight to behold?

 

There's gonna be a road trip later this morning, and I'm thinking, would it be too much to ask for erotic sights that would be wholly pleasant to the libidinous eye of my camera?

    I'm reading this book on the theatre, and its contents are so powerful that my mind is still heady from having engaged it. Reading it made me think about my own raison d'etre for keeping this blog. Why create porn? Why ruminate and pontificate about porn? How does one create a better form of porn? How can I bring what I write to a different level?

    I have more than a few ideas of course, but it remains that the most aspect is to keep writing, and to keep writing in the most honest ways possible. I'm looking forward to the year-end holidays when I'll have ample time to put in order all my jumbled notes on the aesthetics of pornography. As for ascertaining and reaching out for an audience, frankly I don't think it's quite the right time yet, though I've stumbled upon someone whom I'm much tempted to remotely seduce.

   The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so I reckon that I should just pose the question directly to her.
 

Looking through my entries, it seems to me that my images are far better than my words. The words smell of pretension, with an exception or two. It's possible that I'm being harsh on myself, and I'm more than aware that there's a trace of masochism in me. I think sometimes I do enjoy beating myself up, besides beating myself off.  Crap joke there, but why be so fucking serious and humourless? After all, it's just a bleeding blog. There's absolutely no reason to get all riled up. So go on and just porn ahead. But always remember to be honest.

 

Maybe in the end it's irrelevant. Maybe in the end it's all about doing what you do the way you want to do it. The world is too full to talk about, and this include matters pertaining to the sexual. Sometimes communication only makes it fuller, and infinitely more complicated. Words can never undo the fact that we are surrounded by them. John Berger said this I think.

    Perhaps Bukowski's style can have a mainstay here. He may have gone through hell to write the kind of prose that seemed so zenly spontaneous, and what matters in the end is that it reads spontaneous and without effort.  Sure, it may be the tired old joke about the man who spends hours coiffing his hair only to make it seem like he hadn't spent time fixing his hair at all.  If it is, then so be it. The finished product is all that matters. And when the product is being created, what matters is the heart that want to express something.

    Peter Brook said: "A word does not start as a word --- it is the end product which begins as an impulse, stimulated by attitude and behaviour which dictate the need for expression."

    Hence, my raison d'etre is not to have a raison d'etre other than the spontaneous drive, which is also called "inspiration", to write and capture an image.  If I were any more sophisticated I'd say that I write and capture images for the hallowed purpose of making someone itch for a fuck, the way I have always felt whenever I come across an especially powerful piece of porn.

Woke up at about noon, had some of the best sleep I've had in months. Before I went to sleep this morning, I wanted to have a feast with the four DVDs I bought the other day, but it ended up feeling really effortful, and masturbation really shouldn't be such a difficult thing to enjoy. The DVDs are all Western, and their titles are:

1. Diabolic's Incumming #7

2. Evil Empire's Suck It Dry by Jonni Darkko

3. Hustler Video's Big Fucking Tits and Tight Fucking Asses

4. 3rd Degree's Ready, Wet, Go

    There were a couple of nice scenes here and there, spots of it, but all in all, I was really tired by the same old mechanical and passionless fucking. But I did jerk off, and I ejaculated enough to make you sick. Which reminds me...I should snap some shots of my copious come the next time I finish wanking myself off.

   Before I came home this morning, I attended a friend's pre-wedding party at his house. I went there with The Bull, and we had a good time checking out a few hot chicks here and there over beer and cigarettes. Some notable sightings of soft, round breasts and tarty, slutty faces.

   Libido calls, and I'm horny. So let's see what sort of visual treats Neko and I can cook up for you today. It's been a couple of days since we last fucked, so whatever comes up should be pretty hot.
 

The curtains were raised and the scene began. A man and a woman, both naked, were sitting at a table having coffee. It wasn't long before they started fucking. And as they fucked, the audience was initiating some action on their own. After a few moments, the naked man stopped fucking and walked over to the edge of the stage and shouted, quite angrily, what the fuck's going on down there?

    A woman with jet-black long hair, parted in the middle, was stroking a cock to her right whilst being fingered by a man on her left. Though she's still fully-clothed and her panties were still on, we know that she's being fingered because the man's very active hand was in her panties. And we could tell that she's enjoying it too because on her face was registered that familiar expression of pleasure. She squeezed her thighs together and bit her lip. Her strokes became more furious.

   The man on the stage was fuming by now, and he continued to shout at the audience. WHAT THE FUCK'S GOING ON DOWN THERE???!!! Soon, the audience was joined by a young girl with permed blond hair. She was clad in a tight t-shirt with red stripes. We could tell that she's got really large breasts because of the tightness of her t-shirt. She sat down between two lecherous-looking men, and drooling over her, they enquired if she would like a programme.

   She said, 'WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT THE PROGRAMME AS LONG AS THE FUCKING'S GOOD?' As she said this, she spread her long creamy thighs and we could see that she's not wearing any panties.

   Meanwhile, the long-haired woman was getting ready to suck on the cock to her left. She bent over, pushed a stray strand of her very black hair behind her ears and proceeded to cup her mouth over the cock. As she began sucking, the owner of the cock looked down at her. He was a very hairy-looking man, complete with blond beard and moustache, and dressed in a suit and tie. He kept looking at her as she managed more and more of him into her mouth.

   The young blond girl was now stroking the cocks on both her left and her right. She kept the rowing motions going as both men ran their hands all over her body, fondling her large breasts and toying with her pussy. She seemed to be enjoying it all in good fun.

    In another part of the audience, the long-haired woman was now sucking with utter abandon. We could tell that she was really enjoying it from the way she would shake her head from side to side with a mouth full of cock, and also from the way she would take it out and then start stroking it with a look of pure determination on her face. It was clear that she was oblivious to anything else that was going on around her. She was in a doggie-style position, and we can see that her skirt has been hiked up to her waist by another man.  And as she continued to play with the cock, another man was slowly pulling her panties off.

   The anger of the man on stage was momentarily interrupted when he turned around and saw that the woman he was fucking was now being fucked by another man. The woman was being fucked while bending over the table where just moments ago she was having coffee. The angry naked man asked: 'Who the fuck are you?' and the other man, while still fucking, replied: 'I'm Jim. Who the fuck are you?' To which the angry man replied: 'She's my wife!' After he said this, and instead of becoming angry, he helped the man who was fucking his wife to remove his jacket. Then once again, the naked man turned his angry attention back to the audience.

    In the short span of time that he was talking to the sneaky-looking man who was fucking his wife, the audience has taken a life of its own. The blond girl has stood up, and yelled: 'WHO'S GONNA FUCK ME NEXT???'   One of the two lecherous-looking man gladly volunteered his service, and the next thing we knew, she was getting furiously fucked by him. A balding old man with glasses poked his nose real close to the action, his perverted face grinning with delight. When the naked on man on stage shouted something, the old man turned around and shouted back at him angrily: 'GO HOME! GO HOME!' and waved his hands in a gesture of shooing the naked man offstage.

   Towards the end, the entire audience area was filled with small pockets of people here and there, either waiting for their turn to fuck, or just merely getting a close look at the action that was unfolding inches from their faces. We could see that, in one crowd at a corner, a woman has just pulled out a cock from a pussy and licking her lips, placed the cock into another woman's mouth.
 

  
 

I told you that it was gonna be hot, didn't I? Well, here are two images from our little romp just moments ago, after I stirred her from her sleep. She was grouchy in the beginning, but grouchiness very quickly turned into horniness when I began playing one of her favourite games with her. I don't get chances like this too often, that is, stirring her from sleep and then succeed in shagging her. And so much of that white stuff too, which, I swear to God, is all hers.

Without libido, there would no sex, would there? I tried to sleep, but something is stirring in my head. I'm torn between letting others know about this blog, and yet, a part of me is really enjoying the anonymity. Double-edged sword, I suppose. Perhaps what I really want is to have a selected audience, rather than the faceless, sundry and often mindless masses read my stuff. I think I'm gonna make an effort to reach out to The Postmodern Courtesan. I wrote to Samantha Wolov, but apparently she has not replied since the last mail I wrote her. Either it didn't get through, or she thinks I'm just an inane dork posting sex pics on the net.

This shot of Neko's bodyline is one of my favourites shots of her. Besides the nubile and desire-inducing contours of her young body, it's also her panties and the subtle suggestion of everything sea-green. 

Woke up to a chilly morning, my cock rock-hard, reminding me of last night, when the four of us --- my boss, Veronica, Neko and I --- were having a post-dinner drink in a cafe. Veronica was wearing a pink, roundneck top (her eyeshadow calculated to match her outfit) with a row of three small buttons that began where her cleavage left off.  I remember how I was beset with an overreaching impulse to squeeze and knead her breasts. I remember, too, how her vague eyes avoided my stare whenever my head was turned in her direction. 

 

It's very liberating to know that there's a place where I can talk about my sex life without having to look over my shoulder.  It feels great to be able to jot down, from the hip, all the fiction that my libido dictates to me, without having to worry about the whims and fancies of a dreaded audience. After all, this is all free, so you decide if you should stay or if you should go, because you're an adult now. (I don't think The Clash and The Pursuit of Happiness have ever been paraphrased in tandem in a sex blog before) Thanks.

Hokay. I was watching Kill Bill, Volume 2 again the other day, and I remember thinking how good the movie is. Or rather, how good a movie it is. There's a difference of course. Saying that Kill Bill Vol 2 is a good movie is somehow limiting, the statement never going beyond the level of a simple praise. But by saying how good a movie it is, inevitably one has to --- is obligated to --- qualify the statement. Saying how good a movie it is would necessitate explaining how Kill Bill, Volume 2 fulfills the conventions of good cinema.

    But what has this got to do with porn? Well, while a porn movie is a movie, a movie is not necessarily porn. There are certain conventions that make a movie a movie, or a porn movie a porn movie. And along these lines, there are also conventions that make a good movie a good movie and a porn movie a good porn movie. And my point is this: I think it was Godard who said that, the best way to criticise a movie is to make one yourself, which is one of the reasons why I'm keeping this journal.

I had my first encounter with porn when I was about five, or maybe six. It was a small book hidden, of all places, under the mattress of the bed that I slept on. I had only managed to flip through a couple of pages before my mother intercepted my little discovery, and what I saw, within those couple of pages, was all that was needed to prematurely spark off something in me. The strongest impression I have was the shape of the man's knob that was lodged between a pair of very large breasts. It clicked to me then that it was shaped just like that bell on Doraemon's neck. And till today, whenever I see Doraemon, the mechano-cat with his (?) cornucopic pouch of plenty, I would still be reminded, if only for a split second, the shape of a man's cockhead. For this reason, Doraemon is an especially kinky character for me. In fact, if you let your mind slip into the gutter a bit, you'll notice that Doraemon is shaped just like a multi-headed dildo. Actually FIVE-headed, to be precise.

    When I came across the book again a few years later, I saw that the man and the two women were in fact engaging in some retro ménage a trois. I soon found more of these wordless books of images, and they were, like Rimbaud said, "erotic books innocent of all spelling". It wasn't until I was about eleven that I discovered another kind of picture book which had words that went along with the images.

The covergirl reminds me a lot of Carrie Fisher (who's best known as Princess Leia) to the extent that when I was about sixteen, I had a crush on a girl whom I thought resembled Carrie Fisher. It's strange how these things work, and this strange mechanism is very likely the essence of what I'm trying to concretise through this journal. My mother brought me to the cinema to watch Star Wars when I was still a kid, and aside from being awed by the groundbreaking special effects, I really didn't get much from the movie, let alone the series. And this is true even till this day. The Star Wars series holds very little appeal for me. But when I discovered this breathlessly beautiful and filthy magazine, the very appearance of Princess Leia/Carrie Fisher was suddenly charged with an amazing sexual appeal. After all, I was only eleven, and by the time I met her, I had already been having a masturbatory relationship with the covergirl and her contents for three to four years. Eventually, nothing did happen between me and the girl, and the furthest we went was just a hug, not even a kiss.  The last time I saw her, her slightly chubby, baby-like cheeks reminded me once again of the desire which I used to harbour for her, but which no longer was.  The visage of this covergirl has shaped me and my sexual taste in some way, but yet, it is never easy to pinpoint it exactly. It's a case of when I see someone with sex appeal, I just know it. And it's never based solely on how revealing or provocative they dress. "For me," a Red Indian used to say, "it's all in the face."

In the following and upcoming entries I will be posting scanned images from the Best of Pleasure Nr 1. While perverts and lurkers enjoy, and prudes peek and then deal with approach-avoidance complex, anyone else who thinks this is a violation of copyrights please come forward and let me know. In the meantime, here's an image of the back cover:

 

I have recurring dreams about the house that I grew up in, where I first discovered porn, porn which became my baby-sitter, friend and then lover. The dream usually hinges on the discovery itself, and I would be going through all the places where I simply knew that there was porn hidden: the tops of cupboards, within drawers, in the closet, tucked underneath neat piles of clothes or mattresses. And I would find them, flip through them, feeling excited over the impressions of nudity and sex that coursed through the pages.

    I mean, imagine that. I was barely past puberty, and to chance upon those potent and eternal images at that age. At the risk of sounding Murakami-esque, I get the feeling that it was somehow planned, but more in the sense of a self-fulfilling prophesy seen in hindsight.  The nitty-gritty sensations of lust are such an ingrained and interstitial part of me that, all I can say is, whatever this essence is, it's beyond the act of fucking and sucking. And perhaps this is the reason why an avid consumer of pornography, or forgive me, a connoisseur of pornography, can never tire of porn. To me, it's not very different from someone who enjoys music. Is there a limit to the number of albums that you want to buy? It's an ongoing thing, and that's why there are words like hobby, or passion, or obsession, even. If enjoying porn is just all about the fucking and the sucking, then all the person needs is just one porno movie. And if there are such people, and I know for a fact that they do exist, then these people are not even connoisseurs to begin with.

    On a less porny sidenote, I'm an avid listener of music as well, and if you can just see how many albums I own, you'd open your mouth in awe too. But for now, allow me to make your mouth open in awe for something else, and that's the contents of The Best of Pleasure Nr 1.  This following image still retains much of its shock value for me, I mean, it's the first thing you see after Miss Carrie Fisher-lookalike. The experience is so darn Godard it's not even funny. No warm-ups, no content page, no editorial info, just BANG! It's a pornographic jump-cut alright.

 

    There are three image narratives, as you can glean from the backcover. The one that I liked the least is Strand Gut: Heisser Sand, Feuchte Muschel, though I really like the sound of the title. Translated, it means Great Beach: Hot Sand, Wet Cunt.  Muschel means shell, but you get the idea. As for the other two, they're pretty horny. The first narrative is a Mile High Club story about a shapely stewardess named Raquel and a horny passenger called Kurt. Raquel Welch and Kurt Vonnegut? Oh, the horror. The second story is an exchange between a Hong Kong hooker, Suzy, and her john, John, a well-hung American sailor.  I find this one especially erotic because of Suzy's appearance. To me she's the embodiment of the archetypal horny aunt, a common feature in most parts of Asia. It's also attributed to the sexual charge brought on by the embellishment of her jewellery, her blood-red nail polish, and how strands of her black hair plasters to the skin of her sweaty, sticky face.

    Judge for yourself, but due to limits of space and an unwillingness to keep my images elsewhere other than here, I've only selected the hornier images.

Good pornography, even at its most conventional form, is difficult to create. And judging from the high production values in The Best of Pleasure Nr 1, you can tell that whoever was behind the publication was real fucking serious about making good pornography. From the design to the layout to the models to the photography, everything's perfect. It's too bad they don't make porn like these anymore. But that's the same reason why this blog's here in the first place, isn't it?

This is the only image I have of Julie, and the story behind the photograph is so preposterous that it might as well be fictional. I don't think I can talk about her now without reinventing her. We met when I was still studying in ________. She came all the way from Saskatoon to visit my friend, John. Actually, she was on the way to visit her parents in Queens, New York, and decided to make a stopover in ______ to visit him. John told me that she was going to stay over at his place, and I assume that he would be showing her around. But dickhead that he is, when she arrived the guy just dumped her into my hands. So I ended up being her tour guide for the next two days, which wasn't too bad, because aside from those gorgeous-looking breasts on her, she had a warm personality too. There was something very little girl about her, in particular the way she spoke and the way she laughed. Nothing happened between us, and we spent two chaste summer days together. She told me that she had made prior arrangements to stop over for two days on her way back from Queens. I told her that instead of staying at John's place, she should stay at my place. She agreed, and I was very excited over the prospect of us engaging in something beyond just good conversation.

    After a month, she was back from Queens, looking quite different from the first time I saw her. She seemed a lot more grown up somehow, as if a well-spent week with her parents had matured her. Which is not to say that she was unfriendly. On the contrary, she was more ebullient, vivacious even. I picked her up from the airport, and after dinner and coffee, we headed back to my place. It was already past midnight, and she was already sleepy. She asked me where she was going to sleep, and I told her, on the bed of course. And then she asked again, what about me? And I said, on the bed too of course. She shot me a look,  not exactly rejection, but not exactly acceptance either. I suppose she was a little thrown offguard by what I said, and wondered if I was joking or serious.

    By the time I came out of the shower, she was already sound asleep. I put some clothes on and lay down beside her. There were many things that I wanted to do, but I didn't. I just lay there, looking at the ceiling. After half an hour, I got out of bed and stepped into the balcony for a cigarette. I remember that it was one of the best cigarettes I've experienced, what with all the thoughts and impulses that were swirling in my head. There she is, those breasts that you were so hot and bothered about.

    What am I supposed to do? Walk back inside and just fucking grab her, like a bloody rapist?

    Well, you do want her, don't you? 

    Sure. I'd really like to see what her tits look like, minus her clothes on.

    That's it? That's all? 

    That's right.

   You don't wanna go all the way, do those things that you're been starving to do? 

   Well, NO. I just wanna see her tits. I don't like her face that much. She doesn't have the kinda face on a girl that I wanna go all the way with.  

    You're weird.  

    Yeah, we're both weird, talking with ourselves.

   The cigarette was nearing it's end, and I flicked from where I was sitting, over the edge of the balcony and down to the street below. For a moment I anticipated the butt hitting someone on the street, there was no reaction, everything was a deathly silence, so I got up and walked back into my room. She was still sleeping with her back facing me, so it was a little disappointing not being able to see her breasts. I climbed back into bed and after a few more inane thoughts, fell asleep.

    When I opened my eyes it was one of those times when you're awake and yet you want to just lie there and not get up. I looked to my left and Julie was lying there, face up, her eyes closed, apparently still asleep. I focused on her eyelashes, which were long and beautiful. Then I closed my eyes and tried going back to sleep. It was then that I felt her toes brushing against mine. When you're lying this close next to each other ---  and it wasn't a huge bed --- you're bound to touch, but there seemed to be some sort of meaning attached to her toes. I didn't know what it was, so I gave up trying. But when they brushed against me a second time,  I brushed back, just to see if she would respond. Sure enough, she responded, and for the next few minutes our toes played with each other while the both of us pretended to be asleep. We ended up kissing and feeling each other up. At one point she whispered to me that she didn't want to go to far. I respected her wishes, but not before asking her if, if I could just have a look at her breasts. She smiled, and without any warning, calmly got up and began pulling off her t-shirt. Within a few second I was confronted with the sight of her breasts.

    It was so sudden that I didn't even have time to react. And just like what Phoebe did to Fanny Hill, she then conducted my hands to a pair of breasts that hung down in a size and volume that fully distinguished her sex. And what a size and volume those breasts were. Indeed, what really killed me wasn't simply their sheer magnificence, but the fact that she had these super puffy cupcake nipples, my all-time favourites. As I felt the weight of those breasts on my hands, I knew that I had to take a picture, for posterity or whatever. 

    Can I take a picture?

    At first, she protested (albeit halfheartedly) so I reassured her that I'll keep her face out of the frame. And then, with her eyes slightly lowered in a interesting mixture of shyness and defiance, she said that she didn't mind if her face appeared in the shot. (A few years down the road I would meet Serica who would express the same sentiment but minus the subtleties).

    I sprang up and out of bed, grabbed my Pentax that was parked on the bookshelf, removed the lens cap, forwarded the film and knelt down on the carpeted floor. I remember vaguely thanking God that there were still some shots left in the camera. I looked through the viewfinder, and though she was perfect the way she was, I needed some ornamentation. I rummaged through some drawers and found what I was looking for: this really cheesy-looking 70s necklace. I made her wear it, and somehow it made her a little tense. I took the shot anyway, knowing that I had at least ten more shots before the roll was used up. 

    But I was wrong of course. Apparently God wasn't on my side that day. Or perhaps He was, because the shot that you see here is one of the best photographs I've ever taken, and I've shot boatloads of them. I mean, you can just feel how heavy they are by just looking at them. And the nipples, and the tan lines...I think it's best that I let the image speak for itself. When I remember her, what I remember the most are her breasts, and how they, in turn, remind me of my neighbour's breasts. My neighbour's breasts. Thinking about it now, I bloody grew up, went through my puberty with them. But that's another long story. And you wonder if this is fiction? I still haven't told you about that goddamn Tabu Video videotape yet, have I?

    An interesting bit of information: It might have occured to certain readers (really attentive ones) as to why John did what he did, especially the reason why he paid no mind to Julie and her breasts, like any normal man would. Well, dear readers, it's simple, because John happens to be gay. Right before I left North America, he came out. I wasn't sure if Julie was interested in him. Given John's effete demeanour and rather cadaverous physical form, my ego and commonsense seem to tell me otherwise. As for Julie, we've never met since that day, and when I was back in Malaysia for a brief visit, a mutual friend told me that she's married with children. Lucky, lucky, real lucky children.

   

It's been more than two days since I last ejaculated, more than a week since I've had sex (Neko's been on the rag), and my libido's slowly stocking up, playing tricks on my mind. We all went out last night, and I saw Jimmy's girlfriend again, with her newly-rebonded hair.

    Though she's such a bitch, to her boyfriend and occasionally to everyone else around her, I can't help but feel that certain sexiness in her. Her fish-like mouth and her knife-like eyes. Her shapely calves and that round ass that's on the verge of getting fat. I'm drawn towards getting her to pose nude for me, and when we got home last night, I spent time thinking about how I should go about it. Perhaps I should get Neko to help me out.  

Light up a cigarette, put on some smoky jazz, write some filthy shit.

    ________ has been leading a double life as long as she can remember. Perhaps it began the day she discovered a cachet of pornography in her parents' room when she was nine. Or did it begin the day she got married to her husband? ________ wasn't sure. All she knows is that in her day-to-day dealings with the people around her, she is one person, a civilised person, properly socialised, playing the roles of socially acceptable characters. She's a mother, a wife, a friend, a housewife. And on the flip side, there's another her, where Its impulses run counter to everything that society has deemed proper for a woman.

    ________ has strange, recurring dreams. Dreams of being ravished, raped and abused by multitudes of nameless, faceless men. She finds it alarming that she enjoys the torments, and ironically, the keen awareness of this enjoyment is what often drives her to moralise to others about issues that concern sex. Inevitably, this hyprocrisy comes with a price. On more than one occasion, it occured to her that the things that are best left in her dreams have found their way into her consciousness.

    Just today, when she was doing her gardening, the underside of a snail reminded her of her own genitalia. The very idea shocked her, and she looked around to see if anyone noticed. When she realised her silliness, she resumed looking at the snails. So entranced was she by the similarity that she picked up another snail and rubbed them against one another. Wet and sticky with slime, the dark, textured snailmeat reacted against each other. Twisting and squirming, their motions were so full of yearning that it seemed to her like they were writhing in pleasure.

    And so there she was, squatting beside the shade of the rambutan tree with the two garden snails in her hands. She continued rubbing them together for a few moments until the sensation became too unsettling for her. She flung one of the snails, and it exploded in a dull crack against the wall. She dropped the other close to her feet and crushed it under her shoe. She looked at her hands and saw that her fingers were soiled with slime. She rubbed her fingers together, the slippery sensation reminding her of her own secretions.

   

  

    Unless you're a whore, sex shouldn't be a fucking obligation. I say, fuck when you're horny, sleep when you're sleepy, and eat when you're hungry. And when your sex drive is as flaccid as a sea cucumber or dry as a piece of sandpaper, go watch a movie or smoke a cigarette.

    The cultural imperialism of the West is more far-reaching than you think. From the macro to the micro, it is changing the very face of global sexual culture. Within ten years or so, all the kids who are now being raised on their parents' porn will come to accept the ubiquity of deep-throating and throat-gagging the way we have come to accept facials and come-swallowing as a norm of sexual conduct.

    So what the fuck? Is the Western-porn way the only way to fuck? 

It's when you realise that the warm fuzzy noise of her luxuriant pubic hair and her painfully swollen puffy nipples are mere icing on the cake. She's drunk with the smell of cock, hungry for the taste and texture, every popped-out vein and brutal bump on that length of meat, drunk with the very idea of having a cock to play with, and when it slips into her, she reacts to very inch of it. It's sex that's enough to make you jealous...sweet girls who love to fuck, with bodies that react naturally to sex, girls who feel the fucking rather than just fucking for the sake of getting fucked. A genuine hunger for cock, the desperate tongue and open mouth, the violence of innocence shattered, that look of hurt and hatred and fear in the eyes, pleading to the camera for help, or else blushing, embarrassed at having been caught in the act of enjoying the vile sensations of being fucked, succumbing with lust to a man's lust. The body never lies; when you see that cream-coated cock, you know for sure how turned on she is. She coos like a child, she screams and she begs, ashamed. There's a real sense of play: unrestrained, unfettered, unbridled, turbulent.

I was dead tired by the time I reached home last night. After a shower I was lying in bed just thinking about nothingness in general when Neko climbed in and started to feed on my cock. I was too tired to resist, so I let her. The camera was within reach, so I took these shots. What started off as a tired fuck lead to an orgasm that was nothing short of a July 4th fireworks display. With my face buried in a pillow, I heard her cooing as my turret of meat spurted and spurted.

 

It's strange, but as I'm writing this, I'm longing to hear some Depeche Mode, especially 'Personal Jesus.' Your own, personal, Jesus. Someone to hear your prayers, someone who cares.

This is a dream sequence. I tried to recapture as much as I could, but as the day wore on, the details continue to evaporate from my memory. This is the part that I remember the best. The rest are in stray bits and pieces.

    I head back to the apartment. I hear water running in the bathroom. I walk to the door. It's unlocked. I push it open. It looks like she's preparing a bath, and she's standing with her back facing me. She's completely naked. I don't exactly remember her name, but she reminds me of Helena. I've never seen Helena naked, but I'd imagine this is what she'd look like if she were naked. Seeing her naked makes me horny, and I decide to have a bath, secretly hoping that she would join me. No. Maybe it's the other way around. Seeing her naked makes me horny, and I was secretly hoping that she'll let me join her in the bath. Her body isn't the kind that I would call perfect. She's not lithe and slim, but meaty and a little pudgy. I start to remove my clothes. I'm wearing my work clothes; long-sleeved cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbow, and tailored trousers. As I'm getting undressed, she's talking to herself though she knows that I'm there. I walk up to her and hug her from behind. It's a very comforting feeling.

    She keeps talking, bitching rather, about how she has to keep the place clean. Her fingers reaches into a nook around the bathtub and she pulls out some hairs, then throws them away. I wonder vaguely if she's lost it. Then I realise that there is someone in the adjacent room. See, the bathroom is connected to a bedroom, and there is this man who's putting his shoes on. That must be her ex-boyfriend, I think. Then the man walks into the bathroom, and while not a word is exchanged between us, he doesn't look hostile at all. I can tell from his facial expressions that he acknowledges my presence. He looks a lot older than I am, and his pseudo-crewcut seems anachronistic on him.

Had another one of them erotic dreams during my siesta in the afternoon. This time, the theme is peeping. Neko and I were both involved, and we shot lots of still images and footage. Those dark-skinned female bodies in the shower, or washrooms --- were they Indonesian, Filipino or African? We weren't sure. We were beside ourselves with excitement. There was a scene where I was in a booth, and in the adjacent booth was someone having a shower, and beneath the partition I peeped, and saw her bathing and playing with herself. I had a feeling she knew I was there, and there were a few times that I became scared when she craned her neck to see if I was there. Wet skin, rotund upturned asses, brown bullet-like nipples, the sound of running and splashing water, the wet bathroom tiles. When I woke up I had a hard-on with a capital O.

If there was ever a person who's destined to make a mark in the literary world, it's gotta be me, I thought. Literary? Pornography, more like likely. In this day and age, men who would admit that they're perverts are more than a dime a dozen. But pornography is never just a matter of being perverted is it? I see something more in pornography, and this is the beginning of what separates me from the others. If I can get this novel out of my chest, I'm sure I'll become a better person. I'm even talking about the possibility of actualisation here. My brain wants to meld with my cock, they want to co-exist and bridge the gap between my intellect and my libido.

01. What Made Me: The Formative Years

The discovery of my father's porn. Shanta, my molester. My large-breasted neighbour. These are the environmental factors. As for the inborn factors, who knows? My father was supposedly a real fuckin pervert too. He enjoyed women and he enjoyed porn, and since I'm the chip that best resembles the old block, I suppose he gave me more than my myopia. Personal traits are not supposed to be hereditary, but if you ask me, I'll say whoever said that hasn't met me and my dad. We're so alike --- physically and personality-wise --- that it's almost X-Files-like.

   That portentous cachet of porn and that lone VHS, and how my world has been shaped by them. While Murakami had 60s American pop culture to shape him into the writer that he is today, I had it all in a thick plastic bag from some 70s boutique in Malaysia. The said cachet consists of more than what was in the plastic bag of course, there were additions procured by my father from many of his trips overseas. There were stray magazines found in various hidden spots in their master bedroom. It was always a thrill to seek them out. I simply knew that there had to be more. For me it was akin to a neverending hunt for Easter eggs, so much so that it became a hobby for me. Thinking back, no wonder I was such an outcast in primary school back then. While most of the other kids were having regular hobbies, I was discovering the joys of pornography.