To: BlogNgr, Dr.Cocktagon, Ty
From: The FoOl
2:19 a.m.
Strippers are fucked man.
I swear to god there isn't one sane, normal stripper in the entire world. They are all chicks with father issues who like the attention and money their jobs afford them and have a crazy self-delusion regarding the normalcy of their lifestyle.
I've never once met a stripper whose self perception was anywhere near accurate.
Anyway, so we go to the bar across the street cause my buddy is meeting up with this stripper he picked up the other week and her friend is supposed to be there so I figure fuck it why not. I break the ice with this chick, ignore the fact her mannerisms and conversation are strange (everything out of her mouth was contradictory or self-referential) and try to work her cause
1) she's stinking hot
and
2) what else am i gonna do at a bar on a Wednesday? Karaoke Chumbawumba? Deez nuts nigga, deez nuts.
So whatever, I don't have a bad time and things are pleasant enough but I can tell it's going nowhere. Then out of nowhere she goes "wanna see what kinda guy I'm into", so I'm like sure - hoping she'll whip out a picture of someone who looks vaguely like me maybe. What do you think she does next?
Breaks out her fucking iPhone and shows me a picture of some severely middle aged Italian guy with scruffy facial hair and a ergonomically designed pot belly. So I'm like "who is that, your dad?", knowing full well that since she's a stripper that's nearly impossible since they never really have dads, hence the stripping, and she goes "no its my boyfriend. He's 42."
Long pause while I try to not offend her with a look that says "you're a fucking sociopath, know that?".
She then tells me how he's so loving and says the main selling point for her was the fact he's the kind of guy who'd "take off my boots for me when I get home. He always buys me flowers". Suuuurrrre. It's not cause you subconciously want to fuck your absentee father, thus proving you were always worthy of the affection he never bestowed upon you - it's cause the middle aged couch sitter buys you flowers that he's such a great guy.
I've been out with strippers more than a handful of times now. Every single time the night consists of them trying to establish their lives as normal before pissing all over everything they say and exposing themselves for the headcases they truly are. They're not bad people and they're not even bad people to be around but there's something to be said about people that can be so disconnected from the reality of what their lives are. They're so oblivious to the true motivators that drive their compulsions. They're some strange blend of insecure and oblvious of self, if you can grasp what I mean when I say that. It's the classic disjunction between "what is told" and "what is shown".
Like, I had no chance with this chick tonight. Not cause of anything to do with me, but because she's not looking for a good looking or successful or intelligent guy. The criteria by which she evaluates a man's desirability all relate back to her unique psychosis - lack of a loving father, no strong male figure in her life....whatever...and since I can't help her quell any of those gaping holes in her psyche cause I don't fit the requisite archetype to be a 'father figure' or whatever I have no value to her. It's fucked. Strippers are such uniquely damaged people man. The young one's especially. The older ones, if you ever get to talk to them (I have) are also usually people with damaged lives but they've adjusted well enough to survive into middle age and maybe have made peace with themselves. The look in their eyes when they drop the act and talk for real is akin to what I imagine a Gulf War veteran's would be like post-service.
And the fucking horror stories! Tonight the two strippers we were hanging with told us about a girl they knew personally who was killed by her pimp when she failed to make quota. He tied her to a bed and put a curling iron into her vagina and left her in a hotel room to die. I wouldn't have believed it - would have figured it for an urban legend, but you could tell from the way they told the story the shit was legit. Names, times, hotel names etc.
I never know how to talk to these girls man. I always get caught in the middle cause I'm a genuinely good person so instead of just telling them what they want to hear to get pussy I call bullshit on their lifestyle a lot of the time cause for whatever reason it bothers me to see people on such a negative trajectory. Of course this does me no favours and I go home alone. Whatever. At least I keep it real.
I fast typed this entire thing just now to vent before I pass out into sleep. Just wanted to bleed this shit out of my head before I go to bed so I don't dream of dead strippers and 20 year old girls getting fucked by 42 year old perverts who look like their father.
In closing: Strippers - who the fuck knows man. I will say this though: when I reach my 40's I'll always make it a point to hit on the 20 year old girls, cause you never know which ones are just fucked up enough to say yes.
Nite.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
3rd Generation Feminist Would Rather Eat Ass Than Cook
I finish up the week over at Black Beatles today with some relationship advice.
Check it out here.
Bless.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The FoOl Presents - True Confessions: The Criagslist Post That Almost Made Me Gay
So you all know the game “What If?” , right?
Good.
Here's a question for the guys only -
Quickly, tell me what you would do if you were trapped in the body of a woman for a day?
(theme music for Final Jeopardy...)
Okay times up.
Now every man at some point has already thought about this shit or been asked this exact same question and the one and only acceptable answer, if you're straight, is:
Lock yourself in a room and masturbate all day.
It's a universal phenomenon. A real no brainer that transcends all divides.
You couldnt' get a room of Republicans and Democrats to agree on whether or not Lance Bass is in fact gay, but give Newt Gingrich and James Carville a pussy for a day and you bet your ass they'd BOTH be working their clits like they were the A/B buttons and they just got knocked down for the second time in Punch Out.
In the entire history of that question being asked the only person I know who ever answered differently was my buddy Pauly. He spent twenty minutes thinking it over, as though it were the final question on the LSAT's, before answering as follows:
“Well I actually think I'd want to have sex with a guy. I mean hear me out – aren't you curious about what it would be like to experience sex from a woman's perspective?”
Predictably, last I heard Pauly was tricking John's on Jarvis for meth money. His days now consist of swallowing salty anonymous loads in conveniently located and discrete parking facilities. I hear he's a big hit with the power lunch crowd and I bet he knows all he ever wanted to know about what it feels like 'from a woman's perspective'.
******************************
It was a random day just like any other. I and I was burning down some tightly packed bowls of the sacrament with the boys when I came up with this classic “What If?” conundrum:
Would you fuck a smoking hot post-op trans man who was now fully a woman as far as the physical goes ?
The question was deeper than I even realized. Immediately everyone took notice. There was a pause and I could see that they needed some clarification. My buddy Eddie asked
Like...would he have a pussy? A real pussy?
To which I answered
Yeah. Yeah man exactly. He'd be a she in all the ways that count. In fact the only way you'd be able to tell any different from the physical point of view would be cause they mentioned to you they were trans. Otherwise you couldn't tell.
Then there was a really long fucking pause and everyone started looking at each other for a clue about what the right answer to such a difficult question might be. Eventually fear ruled the day and the first 'No!' started off an insecure chorus of 'No!'s that in a more controlled environment might have very well been 'Yes!'s. I didn't feel as though their answers were honest and somewhere inside I felt like the long silence that preceded the eventual verdict of 'No!' was where the real answer was to be found.
******************************
When I'm at work and I want to vent my brain for fifteen odd minutes my one sanctuary is the Craigslist casual encounters forum. It's the only place on the world wide web where I can truly tune in, turn on and drop out. A pervert like me can put his mind on cruise control and surf through dozens of listings real and fake, occasionally stopping to squeeze off a desperately hopeful e-mail that never receives a reply in kind. It's a ritual for me. The one release I have during the 9 to 5.
I was just going through the motions on Craiggie's a few months back when I happened across this (click and examine this screen capture):
It was really very early in the morning so my brain wasn't picking up all the details it normally would. I was just so transfixed by the picture. As I felt a surge of Morning Wood Revival starting to take place I figured why not shoot out an e-mail and test the waters. Here's literally what I wrote:
Dear Dirty Bitch,
For the last three days there has been a swell growing in my balls; a swell without a purpose. That is – until I came across your post. I now know without a doubt that it is the destiny of my load to be shot across your slutty little face. I imagine a passionate evening for us. We start off watching romantic comedy's like Fool's Rush In and 50 First Dates, then cap off the night with me fucking you in the ass doggystyle while fish hooking your mouth from behind and calling you a whore. I know I don't know much about you, but I think I can love you. In time we cou
This is as far as I got into typing up a reply before noticing that the “W” in the “W4M” heading wasn't a “W” at all, but instead a very disturbing “T”.
FTW?!?!?!?!??!
I was devestated. I had my own personal Crying Game at my cubicle, on my knees in front of my desk, my silk tie loosened to facilitate the vomiting into my standard issue wastebin. I kept telling the co-workers who passed by my workspace that it was the poison breakfast bagel I got from Timmies and not the he-bitch I almost solicited off of Craiggie's. I'd never been so fucking low in my life.
Then the vomiting stopped. I stared at the picture on my computer screen for what could've been half an hour if it were even 5 minutes, and after realizing how long it had been since I'd last had sex, one very serious question burned white hot in my mind's eye:
How well can I lie to myself?
******************************
When you're a single man in a slump you will find depths within your soul that you never knew existed. I have seen my friends, proud men of good stock, swear up and down that they would never sleep with a woman who wasn't at least a “6” or better, yet in the grip of a harsh singles-scene slump I have seen with my own two eyes these same men bedding women who could rate no higher than a “1”, their repulsiveness making a good case for the implementation of a decimal system.
I found my personal all time low a few months back when I picked myself up off the ground of my office floor, sat back down in my cubicle and finished that e-mail to the trans-chick.
Many days have passed since then. I've sat and wondered how my life might be different today had I received a reply. Would I have gone through with it? Would I be a different person than I am now? Would I be gay?
I guess in the end I can only wonder “What If?”
Good.
Here's a question for the guys only -
Quickly, tell me what you would do if you were trapped in the body of a woman for a day?
(theme music for Final Jeopardy...)
Okay times up.
Now every man at some point has already thought about this shit or been asked this exact same question and the one and only acceptable answer, if you're straight, is:
Lock yourself in a room and masturbate all day.
It's a universal phenomenon. A real no brainer that transcends all divides.
You couldnt' get a room of Republicans and Democrats to agree on whether or not Lance Bass is in fact gay, but give Newt Gingrich and James Carville a pussy for a day and you bet your ass they'd BOTH be working their clits like they were the A/B buttons and they just got knocked down for the second time in Punch Out.
In the entire history of that question being asked the only person I know who ever answered differently was my buddy Pauly. He spent twenty minutes thinking it over, as though it were the final question on the LSAT's, before answering as follows:
“Well I actually think I'd want to have sex with a guy. I mean hear me out – aren't you curious about what it would be like to experience sex from a woman's perspective?”
Predictably, last I heard Pauly was tricking John's on Jarvis for meth money. His days now consist of swallowing salty anonymous loads in conveniently located and discrete parking facilities. I hear he's a big hit with the power lunch crowd and I bet he knows all he ever wanted to know about what it feels like 'from a woman's perspective'.
******************************
It was a random day just like any other. I and I was burning down some tightly packed bowls of the sacrament with the boys when I came up with this classic “What If?” conundrum:
Would you fuck a smoking hot post-op trans man who was now fully a woman as far as the physical goes ?
The question was deeper than I even realized. Immediately everyone took notice. There was a pause and I could see that they needed some clarification. My buddy Eddie asked
Like...would he have a pussy? A real pussy?
To which I answered
Yeah. Yeah man exactly. He'd be a she in all the ways that count. In fact the only way you'd be able to tell any different from the physical point of view would be cause they mentioned to you they were trans. Otherwise you couldn't tell.
Then there was a really long fucking pause and everyone started looking at each other for a clue about what the right answer to such a difficult question might be. Eventually fear ruled the day and the first 'No!' started off an insecure chorus of 'No!'s that in a more controlled environment might have very well been 'Yes!'s. I didn't feel as though their answers were honest and somewhere inside I felt like the long silence that preceded the eventual verdict of 'No!' was where the real answer was to be found.
******************************
When I'm at work and I want to vent my brain for fifteen odd minutes my one sanctuary is the Craigslist casual encounters forum. It's the only place on the world wide web where I can truly tune in, turn on and drop out. A pervert like me can put his mind on cruise control and surf through dozens of listings real and fake, occasionally stopping to squeeze off a desperately hopeful e-mail that never receives a reply in kind. It's a ritual for me. The one release I have during the 9 to 5.
I was just going through the motions on Craiggie's a few months back when I happened across this (click and examine this screen capture):
It was really very early in the morning so my brain wasn't picking up all the details it normally would. I was just so transfixed by the picture. As I felt a surge of Morning Wood Revival starting to take place I figured why not shoot out an e-mail and test the waters. Here's literally what I wrote:
Dear Dirty Bitch,
For the last three days there has been a swell growing in my balls; a swell without a purpose. That is – until I came across your post. I now know without a doubt that it is the destiny of my load to be shot across your slutty little face. I imagine a passionate evening for us. We start off watching romantic comedy's like Fool's Rush In and 50 First Dates, then cap off the night with me fucking you in the ass doggystyle while fish hooking your mouth from behind and calling you a whore. I know I don't know much about you, but I think I can love you. In time we cou
This is as far as I got into typing up a reply before noticing that the “W” in the “W4M” heading wasn't a “W” at all, but instead a very disturbing “T”.
FTW?!?!?!?!??!
I was devestated. I had my own personal Crying Game at my cubicle, on my knees in front of my desk, my silk tie loosened to facilitate the vomiting into my standard issue wastebin. I kept telling the co-workers who passed by my workspace that it was the poison breakfast bagel I got from Timmies and not the he-bitch I almost solicited off of Craiggie's. I'd never been so fucking low in my life.
Then the vomiting stopped. I stared at the picture on my computer screen for what could've been half an hour if it were even 5 minutes, and after realizing how long it had been since I'd last had sex, one very serious question burned white hot in my mind's eye:
How well can I lie to myself?
******************************
When you're a single man in a slump you will find depths within your soul that you never knew existed. I have seen my friends, proud men of good stock, swear up and down that they would never sleep with a woman who wasn't at least a “6” or better, yet in the grip of a harsh singles-scene slump I have seen with my own two eyes these same men bedding women who could rate no higher than a “1”, their repulsiveness making a good case for the implementation of a decimal system.
I found my personal all time low a few months back when I picked myself up off the ground of my office floor, sat back down in my cubicle and finished that e-mail to the trans-chick.
Many days have passed since then. I've sat and wondered how my life might be different today had I received a reply. Would I have gone through with it? Would I be a different person than I am now? Would I be gay?
I guess in the end I can only wonder “What If?”
Shimmy Shimmy Ya
Good people - my latest post for the Black Beatles has gone up.
You can find it here.
It's called Latex Allergy - A Cautionary Tale. I encourage you all to read it and then e-mail me to tell me about how I'm going to die of HIV.
Bless.
You can find it here.
It's called Latex Allergy - A Cautionary Tale. I encourage you all to read it and then e-mail me to tell me about how I'm going to die of HIV.
Bless.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The Black Beatles Invade North America
Okay I've been sitting on this for a while but it's time to bring you all up to speed...
There was a meeting of the minds that took place sometime just after the New Year, a Geneva Convention for blogging if you will. From those meetings an idea was born...
Why not have the best original writers out there in the game right now come together to form a powerhouse blog that will takeover the internet once and for all ?
Well fuck it, Ladies and Gentlemen I present....
The Black Beatles
The concept is simple: A website that will provide a daily fix for all the fiends of the blogosphere using only the highest quality scriptsmanship. It's the official website for the writing collective that consists of:
Blognigger
Dr. Cocktagon
The FoOl
Ty
Collectively we are known as the Black Beatles. The website will be updated daily and the whole thing kicks of Monday Feb. 9th (this Monday).
So to quickly address what this will mean for Suffer...
I will still be writing for this site but on a more limited basis. The site won't die but it will probably slow down a lot. I recommend that you continue to check back in every so often and I will at a minimum try to have at least one new post on here each week going forward. I will still respond to your comments and e-mails and you can continue to reach me through Suffer. I'll also probably link to my posts on Black Beatles from Suffer so you can still access everything from here if you so choose.
There's not really much else to say.
New and exciting ways to get your fix.
And really you should be excited. All of the other contributors to the site are excellent fucking writers who kill it on the regular.
I believe the site is gonna kick off with a Blognigger cross post and then my shit goes up on the 10th.
Watch for it.
Bless.
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