We had to pick up the air tickets and we were late.

    "Where?"

    Someone made a phone call.

    "Isn't it there?"

    "No, the man said it's the same place where you booked it."

    "What?!"

    "Do you know where it is?"

    Of course I did. To get there I had to walk up and down these endless flights of Escher stairs built into this run-down mini shopping mall at the corner, right across from McDonald's. The moment you stepped into the mall you went down this stairwell of mahjong-sized black and white tiles, and after walking a few minutes you had to walk up again. Once I was in, there was absolutely no indication of where I was heading, but somehow I knew where I was going. The staircases were almost always deserted, and I understood that for most people it was scary as Hell. Especially when they end up having to go up flights of narrow, hyper-claustrophobic stairs that you could barely squeeze through. And those brown stains on the wall, they look kinda like dried blood don't they?

    And so I kept moving, up down, down up. I was going down when I saw a woman and her child totally engrossed in this pinball-type machine. Their backs were facing me, and as I passed them I didn't bother to find out what they looked like. Chances were, they either had no faces, or hollow, skull faces calculated to evoke fear in sinners. As I turned the corner, I felt their heads turning to look at me, but I was in such a hurry that even goosebumps were a luxury.

    I finally reached a roundabout. Yeah, a fucking roundabout in the middle of a fucking labyrinth. I took the nine o'clock and after a few steps, reached that God-forsaken travel agency and grabbed those fucking tickets from the hands of the fat, sweaty man.

christy, there was a time I used to dig you so much, until that one time when I saw you on tv, and you sounded so much like an airhead, punctuating every one of your sentences with "like," and making every one of your sentences sound like a question. But seeing here your doppelgänger of the dunes, I'd still do you, if you'd just come in and have a hot shower and wash off all that ck sand from your beautiful ass.

    In one of my dreams I saw a world where beauty resides only in the hearts of ugly things. The most grotesque Spawn figurines being worshipped with utter devotion within temples, the minute cracks and crevices of their plastic-moulded decay covered by fine layers of ashes from incense and joss-sticks. Extreme bukkake becomes a means of initiation into sainthood for young, photogenic Chinese girls. Semen collected from the rites are bottled into chilled beverages and frozen into popsicles, then marketed as health supplements targeted at children. Ubiquitous, middled-aged women pin high-definition images of their hairy cunts in place of name tags as industrially-approved signs of friendliness.

    Where, then, does karma fit in this scheme of things?

    on some tantalising night gown mornings before the rising heat comes, some housewives look their natural best with their sexy bedhair, panties and round asses; and that sleepy look on their faces hinting of just one thing.

    their ritualistic watering of plants and trimming of bushes a boon to properly-socialised perverts like myself who derive such a singular pleasure from watching them bend over at the waist (large, voluminous breasts swaying in sped-up slow-mo) and crouch (round asses and snug panty lines brought out in sharp relief) like oiled-up sex marionettes.

    ::: oiled-up sex marionettes, when you're tired, take a nap :::

    as she turned away from me to print my receipt, my eyes lingered at the spot where the softness of her ass connected with the seat. Friendliness on such a pretty face is always such a turn-on. And when she pointed at me in jest, and in a manner so brazen --- see, demure Malay girls never point; they indicate with their thumb --- I had wanted to fellate that finger.

    ::: subsonic hum, the laughter of buzzing electrons :::

    carbon monoxide afternoon, flaring nostrils and international fingers at the ready. Look, over there, rack-thin pinafore jail bait with a huge rack, bouncing by a derelict dog dreaming of diamonds.

    ::: saints and fairies, gods and deities waiting for their cue to call :::

    she wakes me from my nap and sets off a crisis in my crotch. Reconnaissance mission to exact a full-blown erection. She yanks off her panties, and with her dress carelessly hiked up she reveals her peach to me. I get on my knees like a fucking zombie. The moment I enter, that's when they appear.

    ::: the beating of their whispering wings, a celestial frenzy, sampling with impunity from the massive stockpile of pornographic imagery in my head :::

    hexy l'amour being speared at both ends in that murky hospital scenario, sans postmodern cosplay...

    bumsimaus, platinum blonde with dark rings under half-lidded eyes, struggling with a hot Viking cock deep inside her, yearning for death and groaning for more...

    ::: round and round they circled all around me as I went in and out, desire spinning like an overheating dynamo; if we were robots, there would have been sparks and short circuits :::

    taking a breather, I sit on my haunches like an aristocratic trishaw puller, my wet member sticking out like a swollen international finger, an effrontery to all that's decent and proper in the outside world. corn on the cob fellatio. she nibbles on it till I yearn for a horribly painful death.

    we resume our non-linear fucking --- fellatio and coitus in a jumbled postmodern mix --- and let ourselves be sucked into that whirlpool of degradation.

    ::: our hairiest and most shameful parts exposed and connected, beautifully thick cream squishing out like an old friend :::

You see some stranger somewhere and all it takes is a subtle gesture or a manner of speech to remind you of someone you used to love and share a bed with. You try to leave this longing behind, along with the wine glass and empty plate, but like a stubborn stain it sticks to you, resting comfortably somewhere in your chest till you see the present love of your life, after which everything starts feeling right as rain again.

A pretty decent photographer, as far as professional photographers go. More of his work can be found here. No worries, it's ad-free.

Well, I remember how I used to get so turned on by the very idea of a shaved cunt, bald as an egg and smooth as butter. I was taking some time off school after an appendectomy, and my father was taking care of me since my mother was convalescing in the hospital after having her gallbladder removed. It was during this time that I came across the April 1982 issue of Penthouse, which I wrote about in this post. Towards the back of the magazine was this delicious ad for an adult picture book that featured this masturbating girl with a shaved twat. I was about nine or ten at that time, and for several years after that, the notion of a shaved, hairless pussy made their occasional appearance in my sexual daydreams.

But then shaved pussies started appearing in almost every magazine and porn film, thus draining away for me much of their erotic value. For me, the following image retain a bit of that elusive aura. If the definition of good hardcore porn is "moments of intense sex captured on film", and soft porn "the pictorial documentation of sexually attractive bodies", I look forward to the day when professional film directors and photographers start imbuing pornography with their brand of artistry.

Or should we rely on ourselves instead, O brothers and sisters?

Unbeknownst to my parents, there was a reason why I did so poorly in school that year. What was I to do, at that impressionable and hormone-addled age, when confronted with a predatory aunt with a lust for incest?

Well, I'm sure most of you have heard about the Virginia Tech Massacre by now. If you haven't, then perhaps you should consider diversifying your surfing patterns beyond porn. Anyhow, this isn't a political blog, unless libido is a political issue, which it is, to a certain extent.

Being a part of the desensitised segment of the world population --- but clearly not desensitised enough to not post about it in this blog --- this "historic" massacre is, to me, just another bloody American event. It's amazing how they worded it, isn't it? They had to suggest, however mildly, how unique the event is, to qualify it as "THE DEADLIEST SHOOTING SPREE IN U.S. HISTORY..."

I'm sorry, but "HEARTACHE" sounds fucking maudlin and glib. And absolutely American. I mean, what were they thinking? The entire American history is built on the notion of fighting for freedom. With guns. So this naturalised Korean-American boy fought to be free from his demons, at the cost of thirty plus lives. Not a huge number if you do the math and balance it against the lives lost in the name of freedom, American-style. Maybe one day someone will come along and turn America around. From the looks of it, things don't look too good. There's gonna be more where this came from. Even as we speak, some fledgling human time bomb is probably ticking its way towards the demented objective of breaking the record. Bigger is bigger, more is more, right?

Instead of being so hot on the trail for weapons of mass destruction in someone else's country, they should be looking for that shit in their own country.

Gleaning through the fallout coverage, you get the idea that there's some element of a twisted libido somewhere. Check out his plays. Warning: THEY'RE PRETTY FUCKING BAD. Now I'm really having a hard time here deciding the title for this entry. Should it be "Weapons of Mass Destruction" or "Weapons of Mass Reproduction"? See, too many guns = weapons of mass destruction, and too many people not getting laid = weapons of mass reproduction. And once in a while, when you put the two together, we get something called a "massacre."

Everything else is just a catalyst.

who are you? is this the real me? no it's not, silly.

there are still some things that i do not get.

naked lunch for example. i mean, it looks and reads like a really fucked-up book. well, maybe i get the book. it's the accolades heaped upon it that i don't.

just finished reading cormac mccarthy's the road in less than, say, five hours. changed the way i look at toothpaste and pretty much everything else. got the oprah's book club sticker off with some rubbing alcohol, and ended up with a really cool black hole sun on the cover, like some sort of reverse solar eclipse.

when everything around you is gone, all that's left are the things in your head.

Is this all you can think about?

Pretty much, the first thing I wake up.

Trapjaw Boy, his big-arsed girlfriend (Joolie Loo) and the flash of his brand new Japanese car, their credit card meals. Subtexts of protracted conversations, unbroken by her glances at my corduroy bulge.

Bet you would like a taste of that, and then some.

But times have changed, and I'm no longer interested in this particular genre of phenomenological erotism.

(infidelity, banging someone else's girl, covert one-upmanship) 

Truth be told, her ass is really something, and a fragmented diegesis found its way into my brain this morning.

We are all alone in the house --- as always, and conveniently so --- and waking up with a gnarled, veiny erection I walk into the bathroom (where she's sitting patiently on the crapper) and feed my cock to her very receptive mouth. She sucks really well, but I don't come. Then I step into the shower.

The fulcrum of the tension, of course, rests on the idea that not a word was exchanged between us. Soon, everybody else comes home, or wakes up, and a sense of normalcy is reinstated, as if nothing had happened between us. And when sex happens, it happens as a matter of factly. We don't scheme and while we keep an eye for opportunities, we don't yearn for them.