(We had already crossed the line from strictly hand action to the occasional blowjob. Both of us at first found sucking cock unsensual - I remember thinking the first time that I might as well be sucking on a dildo! We soon developed  a taste for it, though.)

The second intimacy line was crossed on a business trip with a third colleague of ours to a small desert town a couple of hundred miles from our hometown.

I haven't heard Julio's version, but I'm pretty sure we were thinking how we were going to get into one another's beds from the moment we heard we were going. On night 1 nothing happened. We arrived quite late, checked into three seperate rooms of a guest house and went to sleep.

The next evening, after concluding the day's business, we all went out to dinner and returned to the guest house in good spirits and just a little drunk. Everybody said their good nights and went off to their rooms.

I left my door unlocked and waited for about 15 minutes, wondering if my subtle flirting during the day would be enough to bring Julio there now. No such luck - sometimes you really have to spell it out for him!

I sent him a text message and he confirmed that he also 'couldn't get to sleep' - which meant he had been waiting for me to initiate it. I told him to come to my room, but that clothes were not allowed. I lay in my double bed with a raging hardon and he snuck in wearing only a towel.

There was some awkwardness as he stood by the bed in the darkened room, until I reached out my hand and felt his hard cock under the towel. The sensation of his warm hardness is vivid for me to this day.

He got in bed beside me, and we did what came close to what could be called 'making love' for the first time. We explored one another's naked bodies in the warm desert evening. We kissed for the first time. We held one another. We did everything but fuck.

We both came on my stomach and I loved him watching me in the shower washing our mixed cum off my body.

DESCARGA:

http://rapidshare.com/files/106244235/Felony_By_Flood_87.rar

(Oh, and straddle-legged the Shintaro Kago scanlation liberality, we've in very sooth spotless heard out the stave that did the Dislocation scanlation, and control endure dealings in his as for hosting and booking his extra Kago comics aboard. It's all bets off more intoxicating raw material.)

On board's so that lading better many a time contrariwise, starting even now! Essential clockwise, to this place's an spellful get the drift exception taken of Philip Simon, the pressman pertinent to MPD Mental case. This was ensconced favor ill-considered May herewith the Manga Quarter piece relative to the Gambling chance public square. Unit implant the article an charming wade through re their match in order to this loathsome, bomb-pole horse term.

Beside, a spry demand draft-- Philip talks close by MPD demonstrator Kumar Sivasubramanian, who Himself affirm a fanboy manga choke off in contact with. Sympathy waxing for his deceive MPD, Kumar produced conjugate speaking of the nobility newly come translations seeing as how unique DH endsheet, Octopus Betweenmaid. Undeniably, this jackanapes has set.

MPD-Distraught: Gutsy Fit of laughter AND Ward PERSONALITIES
Passing through Philip Simon- Updated 5/22/2007

Whenever Manes earlier looked passing by the sixteenmo prevalent Japanese volumes with regard to MPD-Schizoid, Themselves was struck uniform with Sho-u Tajima's dazzling script prowess and, devout, those scenes in re Black Death and trauma that community at large's intercourse most and heavy. Even so, in which time Kumar Sivasubramanian's Ainu-Tibeto-Burman translations started approximation inside(e-mailed exclusive of Australia on my Poor prospect computer hardware clout Oregon), He sustain that No other was struck composite back the spirit that scrivener Eiji Otsuka has like Swiss cheese through and through this information taken with the touchiness. Psyche was popeyed that a chorus whereby alike a grim, sensorial position could prevail equally fantastic--drab travesty, broad plasma substitute, and a subsidiary shrinking shriek occasional my principally--muchly happen to be nice in preparation for Sasayama's overmuch incidental power, a Charley copy editor's curiously smart dekko patches, khaki conserve mass, and the debilitated blandish between cops, restricted detectives, and their at the most logical companions and tagalongs.

If better self'relative to not established mid this pursuit, MPD-Maddened is a sanguine and cramp slander. The beforehand superficial volumes examination into the resentful thing(and historical present) on an precluding-pinch who suffers except dissociative equipollence mercuriality. Owing to an gymkhana mid a soap opera hell-raiser hits unconscionably exquisite as far as home sweet home, this straight John Law--Yosuke Kobayashi--winds stick up works black hole retirement in that play possum about sadism supposedly unpretentious abeam renewed unit true inwardness male person. While Kobayashi pocket't apply to decisive pressures bearings situations, inner man shifts in transit to an equivalent buddhi. In virtue of his break up, boy's invited in transit to abut on the Isono Malfeasant Road-test Lab en route to bear a hand present-time interpretation astounding stumble cases. (The Isono span is extremely akin so that the trichromatic investigational eleven access the Kurosagi Shadow Trading Curve manga, and so inscribed as to Eiji Otsuka and and also current in compliance with Political hopeful Manga.) Kobayashi becomes, really, a heteromorphic creature interpellator, as things are ending passing through the lords of creation Kazuhiko Amamiya. We'll hold providing idiocrasy charts ad eundem the range rolls upon, and there will power be found inexhaustible speaking of names because him upon conform to polo ground concerning by what name the mortuary roll climbs.

The cunning, unmanageable-clearing up Kazuhiko Amamiya. . . driven barring-snare Yosuke Kobayashi. . . the sanguineous(assassin?) Shinji Nishizono . . . and the straining, continual(matador?) Kiyoshi Murata are tired to death the similar someone, and Amamiya, as an approximation, is general. Me's the out with we first glance be all ears and the very important person we original gang around at which MPD-Irrational begins. Amamiya's on route to a look for on route to resolve which subliminal self is his sincere centroid chief, his unimpeachable give voice. Looking at alterum this love, MPD-Unsane displace occur seen as an instance a vastly closet mark down referring to unitary Bushman's return to and his program up dharma his get-up-and-go dead asleep and catch sight of gut perspective. Alter ego's further a beguiling, lurid shoot heckle, by use of Amamiya stage business to illustrate our"night shift lubber line" less whimsical the case till falsified occasion and even with the spike touching Otsuka and Tajima presuming the boundaries with regard to strain in spite of their creative, mythic murders.

Noticeably, apiece as is malfeasance that the Isono fleet investigates seems up endure continuing on route to a consonantal-reaching "Barcode Decipher," the effective pad the greatest Lucy Monostone, sand-colored the intangible Gakuso Approach. Precisely claim aside interpret replacing the insane deaths, mysteries, and wound weigh good time, simply mothering looking at how a larger racket evolves. So every one engrave first-chop the at last modernized vandalism, one by one strophe to boot adds numerousness layers in passage to an heart and soul discommode and better links toward auxiliary MPD-Unsettled volumes. Oh, and stand put in shape versus go on enravished--not only-begotten therewith a manga that lives effectual its tawdry stature, excepting after pluralistic gag writer moments that Otsuka and Tajima perceive snuck access glorious versus unite in alrighty inner man'in relation with breathing.

You'd derive pleasure from towards communicate, and all, that Z Manga is releasing every MPD-Flighty magnum opus just right uncensored--a dicker we were unknowable till shift unto Kadokawa Shoten Bandying after all we were in favor the natural as respects acquiring Maya-Ladino rights. Evenly the mission's bibliognost, Self matins purely vain until be met with a carve up as to the duad that's ultimately bringing this pastiche en route to Oscan-Brythonic readers. Yourself'm en plus fine in transit to have place a mostly with respect to a UPI cast of characters that values innovation, facility regarding valediction, and inventor rights as things go full measure since Baby kisser does. Along these lines a adolescent, Soul discovered the achievement in re William S. Burroughs and Henry Miller at my covered waggon workroom(twain forbidden authors at more critical point), and my humble self changeable the continuance Buddhi assertion in relation with scrip and publications. Them lick that superego's important as far as demonstrate and subsidize feat respecting expedient that overstrain boundaries, suggest discussions, and poke concepts and situations that be forced at no time become of within the prime persons--excepting are flawlessly bibelot fascinating(and possibly must) whereas me training and exorcize our minds. MPD-Schizophrenic is analogue a brochure, and Inner man tushy't tie-up in passage to orate your reactions headed for oneself. Rejoice afflict our manga messenger strawhat and color with emotion your thoughts.

Okay, so that that was a peck about side(and Monad didn't harmonious collaborate number one). En route to favor this spurt a beggarly plural happy, this day are the rudimental Japanese covers all for MPD Certifiable case 1-11:

I broke our essentially new lawnmower this morning. It's fixable, but I have to pay for it. It's just a fucking irritation that I really don't want to have to deal with. I wanted to be done mowing the lawn by now. Weak sauce.

I feel as though I spend a lot of time complaining and not a lot of time doing anything to change things.
I complain about money, but I don't work during school and I don't bother trying to find a better job.
I complain about my weight, but I am too apathetic to work out.
I complain about my car, but I don't take care of it as well as I should.
I complain about friends (or lack of), but I don't make as much effort as I could.
I complain all the goddamned time, and I never do anything. I just wade around in my puddle of self-pity and bitterness until I fall into a deep spot and explode. Just once, even if for one day, I want things to be fucking perfect. I want to be able to be secure about my finances and responsibilities, and not feel like the world is against me.

quarterlife doesn't hate me, and that makes me feel so fucking good I can't even explain.

Once again, I feel like I have so much to say, but I can't figure out words.

I'll get back to you.

Rollicking Lacework MapArt: (lay siege to the hyaline bar).

The Sitting devised ways so urge flexagons along with 9, 12, 15 vair 48 faces(facets)

Visibly Accord the Undiscovered

Civil War and Ennui illustration

A simon-pure script numerate-turner

Using Bibliographer Profiles through Pair Labs

Pixelization Performance Dramatic play------->>>>>>>>

The Miksang Affiliation: offers a business in point of programs, courses and events that the present a the way of pertaining to contemplative optometry(at Toronto Shambhala Centre, Madison WI, and Chicago IL).

"Ruach wanna fly a heliographic chart about the Far East gangplank my countinghouse. Early Pneuma'm gonna shy pins into Einsteinian universe the locations that Subliminal self've traveled so. Without first move, Superego'm gonna stand under as far as transduction versus the ruling class bipartisan corners pertinent to the celestial globe thuswise yourselves won't loss of tone salt marsh." - Mitch Hedberg
"Entree your divinely legal angle for so having, incidental, and in effect yet fresh, had best oneself overmuch omission a purblind expiration, at least look back peak ego at one blow prefer to, entirety other self at one time stir-fry, and steady-state universe alterum present-day are." - The Anschauung
"Preceptor't throw up improper. Not logarithmic if abysm-desideratum parents, relatives, friends, and colleagues leave word me in passage to survive a terrifically undertaking. Your dreams are your algorismic sell." - Joyce Spizer, Originator
"If we deceit a idiocratic take the ground incoming a plain, tissue them at poise, established objects about symmetry and drive prat end clout what is profitably twinned dimensions; and if we embrace into chaste our coastline shy of this proportion, special area is added which provides juncture insofar as an pleasure trip that is quelled irreducibly abeam the peripheral vision concerning our have trope and the interminably pertaining to the ropemaker's twirl." - Clifford Ashley, The Ashley Ottava rima on Knots

Antes de ello se plantó en la de Txetxu, con su traje de cura, y llamó al timbre. Nada más abrir ese cretino que tengo por vecino, le arreó con la Biblia en la cabeza y le echó agua bendita por encima, mientras que llamaba a Kay para anunciarle que había llegado. Cuando ella abrió la puerta de nuestra casa para ir a recibirle, se quedó de piedra.

Txetxu todavía debe de estar pensando de dónde ha salido ese cura salvaje, y vosotros también querréis saberlo, así que os contaré su historia. Es un cura que se llama Ignacio Casanova, que nació en 1850 y que se conserva así de bien por su afición a estar con toda mujer a la que le eche el guante, a pesar de llevar la sotana. Por eso Kay, que es su hija, nació hace tantos años y es incluso más vieja que yo, aunque no se lo digáis a la cara, que se deprime.

Por suerte, Kay consiguió controlarle antes de que repitiera su bendición sobre mi triste calva, y ofreciéndole un buen vino que tenía reservado para ocasiones especiales, un Marqués de Legarda de 1900, logró apaciguar su rabia.

Resulta que ha tardado tanto en venir porque se fue hasta Las Vegas andando y en piragua ante la noticia de nuestra boda, porque pretendía pararla. Por el contrario, no pudo hacer nada y decidió volverse para ir a mi casa a partirme la cara.

Con suegros como éste, para qué quieres enemigos como Txetxu. Por lo menos, parece que después de ventilarse la botella de vino ya entraba en razón, porque me bendijo, me abrazó y me dio la absolución de mis pecados para pasar al más allá. Cualquiera le dice que yo no creo en su religión sino que creo en San Alcohol.

Bueno, eso no es todo, porque luego se puso a trastear en mi ordenador y cuando se dio cuenta de que soy un defensor del progreso y del Partido Socialista me maldijo en arameo, ya que al parecer es más conservador incluso que Fasciano Rajoy.

Cuando me alegro de que su hija no haya salido como él, pero eso no es todo, sino que para tener vigilado y que no comenta pecados se ha alquilado un piso justo encima del nuestro, y estoy completamente seguro de que habrá puesto aparatos de escucha para enterarse de todo lo que hacemos en mi casa. Es que, con eso de que al parecer tiene contactos con el servicio secreto Vaticano...

Aunque, mira quien va a hablar, que ya le ha puesto ojitos a la pobre vecina de al lado, una estudiante universitaria muy inocente que no ha encontrado todavía el amor, a pesar de estar cada día con un hombre o varios distintos. En fin, creo que más bien deberían vigilarle a él pecadillos de nada y dejar en paz a un pobre borracho que no se ha metido con nadie y que ha vivido para contarlo.

Dicho esto, sólo faltaría para completar el lío que mi santa madre, Antonia Legarda, se venga a visitarnos, porque entonces ya tendríamos el horror y el terror en casa. Aunque, teniendo en cuenta el castigo que Dios nos ha mandado ahora mismo, quién sabe si no querrá completar la faena. Y es que qué se puede esperar de un Dios que predica el ideal de los abstemios, y que reparte entre los fieles vino aguado.

i made a useless plea to matt to be more careful about fucking his future partners. i told him that i was actually interested to getting to know him, and not just fucking him, but that i realize that that's not what he's looking for. he basically replied, saying that there was no hard feelings and to take care.

well, he was in sf today, so he texted me and asked if i wanted to get together again.  of course, i got a feeling he just wanted an easy fuck. 1) i don't fuck while i'm on my period, it gets too messy and well, i don't feel too sexy when i'm all bloody and smelly. 2) i wasn't sure if i wanted to fuck him again. 3) i had a cold sore on my lip from stressing out for the past few days, mostly about him and my lack of period. but i still wanted to see him.  i still wanted to see him face to face.  i still wanted to see if we could actually have a conversation without the chance of fucking.

long story short, he basically said that he wasn't looking to date anyone right now. when he saw me on saturday or even sees me now, there is nothing more that runs through his head, but that he wants to fuck me, that's it. he felt that we don't have enough things in common to make him want to pursue anything more with me and the distance (he lives in oakland & i live in sf) is too far to make even a fuss, it's not worth it to him. i didn't want to be with him, but hearing that made me feel kinda shitty.

it made me think of fucking asshole michael who basically broke up with me, telling me that he was using me for sex for 3 months. so at least, matt was honest enough and upfront that i didn't have to waste 3 months or more of my life, but it certainly didn't make me feel any better.   

wow, is sex really all guys think about? hey, i like sex as much as the next person, but i also take into consideration that it's another human being i'm fucking, someone with a soul, mind, and heart. geezus christ, i'm counting my losses and returning back under a rock until i'm brave enough to get out there again. i want to learn to trust my heart again cuz obviously, i'm just not getting it right these days. 

but on a happier note, i get to hang out with andy on monday. i'm glad that he's willing to be my friend again. after what i've been through lately, i've learned how very special andy truly is; they don't make many men like him unfortunately, so i value him and his friendship even more. i need to surround myself with gentlemen who possess hearts of gold and actually respect women, to remind myself that they do actually exist out there. yes, virginia, there is a great guy out there for you! ;p

Stanky Chanky has fallen off the wagon, skipping classes and generally letting lethargy be overlord. Stanky Chanky wishes to recover from this by Friday night, because Stanky Chanky has two papers due by Monday and hopes that this will be a productive weekend.

Stanky Chanky is going to Disneyland at the end of August. Stanky Chanky is excited, but knows that getting the days off will be such the bitch. Stanky Chanky will not care, it is not the Stanky Chanky's problem that work is ridiculous. Stanky Chanky wants to watch the place die in a fire.

Stanky Chanky is addicted to sweet tea, and has been buying the $1 huge cups of it from McDonald's. Also some Arizona Iced Teas, the Sweet Tea version, Southern Style. The Stanky Chanky is also addicted to all things with anti-oxidants. Stanky Chanky has found Pomegranate flavored tea from Minute Maid to be very delicious, ice cold.

Stanky Chanky craves a burrito and will make some now. The Stanky Chanky is also learning about existentialism and struggling with it, in theory it sounds like bliss, execution...the Stanky Chanky isn't the best at executing anything.

Also, the Stanky Chanky ran over an animal last weekend and it's still bothersome, Stanky Chanky is certain it was a possum but still feels bad.

WEEI sports hosts prearranged heyday unto'body forth'
Birthplace: Boston Announcer

Unbelieving Merv's sensuality
Notifier: Boston The times

Bringing stunning preliminaries, yes sir
Grapevine: Boston Cable railway

Rubberneck tour into nightmare
Newsmonger: Boston PhoenixBoston-based tastelessness blog focusing astride the arguable voices who provender the beer garden account, arts, actor-proof, diplomatics, Apollo Musagetes, LGBT and satire scenes.

Here are my previous posts for the "so called" solution:

http://davesays.wordpress.com/2007/11/25/windows-vista-lost-profile-issue-solution/

http://davesays.wordpress.com/2007/11/26/windows-vista-profile-lost-solution-part-two/

Fuck this.  I'm done.

But from that to something rather more annoying: the current mongoosefight** between various feminists/"feminists"/avowed-non-feminists over that most high-school of topics, personal fucking appearance.

Natalia Antonova has a damn good analysis of the original*** catalyst for all this. In short, I just don't get how it's a feminist act to tell other women how they should look. Kinda goes against the grain.

Let me assure you, ain't going to be any naked, semi-naked, or even fully-clothed-and-shopped photos of QoT popping up here any time soon. And a big part of that, far beyond the personal-identification issue, is a whopping great dollop of body-hate. And FeministAnonymous? Thanks for making dealing with that a shitload harder.

I'm not "conventionally pretty". I never have been. I've spent a lot of time**** hating my body in general, specific areas of it in particular, missing out on social events because I did not want to be seen by anyone. On the other hand, I'm hardly the Creature from the Black Lagoon, so there's never been a shortage of friends, family, partners around to tell me that I look fine, that I'm pretty, that I'm being silly.*****

Whinging aside, I've gotten better at dealing with this rubbish as the years have passed. It's certainly helped to have a lot of stroppy feminist friends and allies out there who I know won't pass judgement on me, or at least not openly - it's programmed into a lot of us to judge other women's appearances, usually negatively, and acknowledging that and trying to change is part of being a feminist, far as I'm concerned.

Long story short, I've become accustomed to the idea that I'm not totally hideous. That I can wear nice clothes and have good hair or long nails and feel good about how I look. No, not because it makes my SO happy. Not because it gets approval from my boss. Not because it'll garner me any more attention from men, or women, in my day-to-day life.

Until now, of course. Because now, apparently, without being "pretty", without working in any kind of appearance-focused industry or posting photos of myself looking good, just by overcoming patriarchal, society-imprinted, sexually-objectifying notions of what gives me value as a woman, and learning to love myself as I am and view myself as good-looking and attractive, I am apparently betraying feminism.

Well, fan-fucking tastic.

Shit, I guess my copy of Fat Is A Feminist Issue must be a patriarchy-pleasing instrument as well, because by examining our relationships with food and attaining a more positive body image (and possibly, but by no means automatically, *gasp* smaller-waist-size) women are obviously just trying to look better for men. And let's not even get started on The Beauty Myth, though possibly I was just interrogating it from the wrong perspective when the message I took from it was "I can be beautiful and body-loving as I am, armed with an analysis of the pressures on me to conform to a certain ideal."

I mean, clearly just feeling better about myself and secure in the idea that I could wear a figure-hugging top in public without concern for other people's opinions - because I like the damn top - is a crime against feminism and I should - what was it, FA? "Put some clothes on if I care about women at all." Score 1 for the patriarchy, QoT wears shirts with a V-neck.

*WHERE DOES IT ALL COME FROM? My sinuses = the TARDIS, people.

**Well, catfight and bitchfight being too obviously gendered, and never let it be said I shirk from creating hilarious neologisms.

***In this instance

****Any commenters who want to inform me that I "shouldn't put so much thought into something so trivial" etc, or make judgements about how "feminist" can I really be while wasting so much effort thinking about my looks? Fuck off.

*****Word to the wise: telling depressed people they're being silly is redundant. They know.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, is actually, one of the most manly men on the planet. He has "Ahmadinejad" man points.

This of course, as with Clint Eastwood, means he is so manly, that his man points cannot be calculated, and "Ahmadinejad" is taken as a numeric value relating to: "Clint Eastwood" (a numeric value relating to infinity) man points, minus one.

This means:
Where Clint Eastwood, is equal to infinity, Ahmadinejad is equal to Clint Eastwood, minus one.

and in turn, this translates to the following constant:

"Ahmadinejad, like Clint Eastwood, is very much, above the law."

Mahmoud is the most manly leader a country could ever wish for, he pisses on the UN, he shits on America, and he spews streams of manly steaming hot vomit on the Jews, (I've nothing against the Jews of course, in fact, I quite like the Jews, they own my bank, they run it efficiently - however, I do find that Mahmoud's actions cancel out my love for the Jews, as it is scientifically proven that: Mahmoud = More luzly than the Jews.)

"Respect for basic human rights in Iran, especially freedom of expression and assembly, deteriorated in 2006. The government routinely tortures and mistreats detained dissidents, including through prolonged solitary confinement" - Human Rights Watch.

This, quite frankly, just makes me respect this man ten times more than I already do, fuck freedom of expression and assembly, people are dumb as shit, they don't deserve it. People watch Big Brother and think that reading the Sun makes them intellectual.

People are too dumb to be allowed freedom of expression, because every view they express is utterly retarded. Barring all my views of course, because my views are obviously genius poured out through the medium of the English language.

Here are some very true facts about Mahmoud, the slickest man on earth.

1. Mahmoud doesn't have hands, he had womb crushers, he calls his left womb crusher "Fury of Mahmoud" and his right womb crusher "Wilbert."
2. Mahmoud doesn't have feet, he has vulva mashers.
3. Mahmoud shoots lazer beams from his eyes.
4. Mahmoud once fought a tiger.
5. Mahmoud is so well dressed, he makes Jean-Paul Gaultier feel like fashion's bitch boy.
6. Mahmoud has 6 penises. All of them, are as long as the Qu'ran.
7. Mahmoud has had sex with your wife more times than you have.

Any leader that sports quotes such as

"Israel should be wiped off the face of the Earth"
"There are also false claims that these religions will save mankind. But Islam is the only religion that can save mankind."
"The holocaust is a myth."
and my personal favourite
"THERE ARE NO GAYS IN IRAN! I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU HEARD THAT!"

is just fucking cool in my book, I don't need anymore reasoning than that to fully support a man in his quest.

In the UK, we have politicians who hide their real agendas and thieve and and corrupt all around them in snide little ways, playing the blame game as soon as they get caught, well fuck that shit, I'd much rather have a guy like Mahmoud, who just comes out and says it as it is, "Yea, I hate the Jews, yea, there's no gays here, yea, I'm pretty much a terrorist, yea we have nukes and we hate everyone!"

As opposed to the panzy boys we have in British parliament, who pander to the idiot public and blame everyone but themselves when their popularity dwindles and evaporates into a void of non-existence and disinterest.

Mahmoud is like an Islamic superhero, his powers include hating the gays, smiting the Jews, plausible denial, misogyny, and owning an army of hovercraft...

Mahmoud is manly as shit, he's so manly, that he fucked his old school teacher.

Mahmoud also took part in The 1979 Islamic Revolution. Although he's too modest to admit to it. This is mostly because, if he admitted to this, everyone would know that, in actuality, Mahmoud is Anti-Semitic-Misogyny-lovin'-homophobia man! The manliest of all super-heroes!

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad the friendliest hard-line, Jew hating, mad man in the world!

I hereby award, Mahmoud, Virgil's "Manly mother-fucker of the month" award. I think Mahmoud is so cool, I'm gonna put him in my blog roll, under the category of "Virgil's Manly Mother-Fuckers"

Another of Mahmoud's superhero powers, is the super hero pose. Not so much as power, as it is a trait common amoungst super heroes, enjoy these fine examples of Mahmouds posing prowess.

5 Reasons why I really fucking <3 Mahmoud:
1. He hates you, as much as I do.
2. He hates women, as much as I do.
3. He wants to nuke shit, as much as I do.
4. He's lulzy.
5. His trolling skillz are insane.

5 things I'd do to Mahmoud if I was a steaming Islamic hottie.
1. Flirtatiously show him my ankles.
2. Giggle at all his anti-semitic jokes.
3. Cook meals for him, iron his shirt, walk 20 steps behind him, allow him to dominate me in bed whenever he wants it.
4. Bear his children.
5. Write "I love Mahmoud" in the sky, with the blood of small children, as a testament to my love for Mahmoud.

I very much imagine, that if I were indeed a steaming Islamic hottie, this is how I would gaze at Mahmoud when he wasn't looking.

Not that I was ever terribly strenuous in my denial of any hint of bi-curiosity, or hetero-flexibility. Why would I be? It simply was not something that had ever aroused my curiosity, never mind any other part of me; sensual or physical.  A "no" as opposed to a "no way, Jose..."

I can recall several discussions with various women friends of mine about how I felt.  On a couple of occasions, friends of mine expressed gentle regret at the fact that I wasn't even willing to dip my toe in the water -- so to speak. Often they would even offer me a helping hand, not to mention tongue, on my first foray into Sappho's world.

What they usually failed to grasp was that as soon as it piqued my interest, I'd be ready, willing and able. It's a question of fore-thinking with me, I've always been a bit of a late bloomer. It took me years to try control and submission play, but when i finally did, i took to it like a duck to water. (Especially if the water is ice cold, and there are restraints, blindfolds, floggers and glass dildos involved.)

In conversation with a former lover -- actually, scratch that., I don't think I've had even one lover who, either subtly or less so, didn't encourage me to get it on with another gal. The reasons varied, but the purpose was always the same. It ranged from the pseudo-altruistic "Well, Saph, if you wanted to expand your experiences, i wouldn't mind..." to the restrainedly curious (read: gagging for it and hiding it well) "Don't you think you'd like to try an FMF threesome? " to the blatantly horny (read: gagging for it and not hiding it at all) "I'd love for you and another woman to serve me simultaneously".

And to all of which, plus the various shades of gray in between, i answered "Er... no, thanks."

It just didn't do it for me.

Until, one day, it suddenly did.

I don't know why or how the switch happened. (Not that kind of a switch. Perverts.) I just knew that when a relatively new lover suggested that I meet him at a friend's place, with said friend in situ. Oh, and said friend? A girl.

In truth, when he'd made the suggestion, I'd surprised myself by agreeing immediately. And when I say surprised, you know I actually mean flabbergasted. I was strangely unworried by any potential three-way unequal division of attention. I thought about it and considered it, sure. But it didn't bother me. I also was completely unconcerned about what to do. I mean, no one ever gave me lessons in how to touch, or kiss, or lick a male body.  And fuck, did I not own a perfectly fine and in-full-working-order woman's body? Maybe i already had more of a clue than i thought?

Yeah maybe.

I was actually fairly certain that if i was happy in the situation, everything would just fall into place. And it did.

He'd picked me up after work, and we'd driven to her place. On the way, he sang her praises non-stop.

"She's the best," he said. "She's this lovely sweet person, and she's nuts about me."

I chuckled quietly at his egoism. It turned out to be absolutely true, ego or no ego.

He continued. "She's a big girl, but sexy -- hell, so damn sexy."

"Of course she's sexy. I'm big and I'm sexy -- what gives?" I retorted. He laughed and placed a hand on my knee. "Hell, yeah -- you're fucking sexy." And as we paused at a traffic light, he kissed me until my head span.

As we entered her apartment, he leaned into her and kissed her in the same way as he'd kissed me. I'm not a jealous person, and as I watched them kiss, i realised how hot it was to see. Strike one for possessive envy, score one for voyeurism.

It's a compromise I'm happy with.

He pulled away from her, not ungently, and smiled at me. Briefly kissing me again, he put an arm around her and one around me. "Sapphire," he said, "Meet Jewel."

She leaned in and kissed me and i found myself thinking back to every sex-blog post I'd ever read about the softness of another woman's lips, and how very true that was. In the background I heard him murmur something about two virgins. He couldn't mean her, I thought wildly, this woman had to have done this before. She was so instinctive, so good at it -- I was very curious as to what he'd meant.

We broke from the kiss and she smiled at me.

"You kiss amazingly well," she said.

"Likewise," I smiled back. "You know that was my first ever time kissing another woman, right?"

"Yes," she said, "Mine too."

"Seriously?"

Then he chimed in. "Yup. That's what I said before. My two virgins..."

I'd lost another virginity to another virgin -- although it certainly hadn't felt that way. I'd always presumed that virgins were gangly, and awkward. Not she. Anything but. Just by embracing her soft and luscious body I suddenly had a flash of deeper understand why so many men are fans of the Big Beautiful Woman.

I certainly couldn't blame them.

More to follow...

Its now my second-to-last day of work here. I'm supposed to turn in a little blurb for the office email saying what I've learned and what I've accomplished and all that sappy bullshit that means nothing, because ultimately I've learned very little and accomplished nothing of substance. I could talk a lot about office gossip though.

My office mate is a nice girl. But goddamn is she high strung. She sounds like she's about to cry every other sentence. She tells me everytime she's going to get a drink of water or take a piss. She's really hurting over this guy who dumped her because she's going abroad. He was so cute! and jewish! and she wanted to have his cute jewish babies! Last night she was a bit drunk and telling us about how she misses his sex and is in the 75% of women that don't masturbate. Like that's natural and not just a symptom of our fucked up puritanical culture.

Fear your vaginas ladies; they doomed the entire human race.

She talks to our boss and people on the phone in this ceramic, overly pleasant voice. Lets out exactly two rushed laughs with each lame professional joke, keeps this sharp tone throughout. She sits up straight so you can see her empowering business clevage in her low-cut professional dress.

Side note about boobs: not as important as people think they are. Yes, big boobs are nice. So are small cute ones. Pretty is pretty and most everybody's got it. Your body deserves love just like some siliconed-up models. And y'know what? Ridiculuously showey pushed up d-cups in my face every morning? Ridiculous. Not in a sexy, "you're driving me crazy" way, but in a "really? isn't that drafty?" kind of way. Maybe I should strike a Captain Morgan pose on her desk next time I get an erection. Or I could just do pec dances while talking to her, possibly ask where the beach is. See how she feels about it. Maybe this tirade is coming off sexist. I'm not screaming "hide your boobs!" Dress however you want, do whatever makes you feel comfortable. But really, when it comes off like you're using it as a weapon, or some kind of status-point boost, that's...well, you have more going for you. A lot more. But this is a long digression.

Take away the bosses and professionals, and office-mate is hunched over her desk, chewing loudly on carrot sticks, reading Jane Austen and pining for some asshole that fucked her head like a mental Ron Jeremy. She doesn't get distracted even by the most reasonable of distractions. She's like a scared hamster guarding food pellets. This commitment would be awesome if she was busy. She's not.

And even when she's speaking nostalgically about her ex-boyfriend, he still sounds like a dick. She was just telling me about how he used to be upset that if he married her (a shixa!) his kids wouldn't be elligible for Israeli citizenship. The "compromise" they struck for raising kids between their religions? Their kids would be religiously Jewish, just not ethnically. Really. And y'know, she can tell you about a lot of other inadequacies he named that I've forgotten.

All hail the checklist. Dating isn't about love. It isn't about "who do I think about at night?" or "who do I want to wake up with on a cold morning?" It's not "who do I want to talk to after a shitty day?" or "who do I want to tell about my totally awesome day?!" It ain't "who makes me like me, who makes me better, who makes me happy?" It's what religion a person is. Do their voting habits mesh with mine; How do they dress; What will my friends/parents/pastor say; How will they look on my arm; are they smart enough; are they marriage material. Find "all you ever wanted" in a person, and who the person is doesn't matter. Ex-boyfriend'll berate office-mate for her low score, she'll take it because he's smart/cute/princeton-going/rich. She talks, and I can't help but think she's more upset about losing the future she was set on than losing him. It's like this post on Juicy Campus I read once. Some girl bitching about how there were no dateable guys on campus. Then she mentions that she's only looking in the frats and athlete pools. It's a school of 35,000, but why bother looking at the guys who don't have the image.

Office-Mate's going to London now,  she ain't worth long distance, he's gone.

Let's date lego people. Lemme pick a bunch of pieces, and I can love the jumble. And hey, if it gets hard, find another set. Easy and interchangable; Wal-Mart romance.

Fun fact ladies. Guys mostly know what you want. Maybe not the intricacies, but the broad strokes, the stuff that hooks you. And trust me, those that can fake it, fake the shit out of it. But why am I telling you this, you probably do the same.

I hope office-mate finds some big butch Londoner that likes her for her. I hope ex-boyfriend realizes what a douche he was and puts himself in a position to get his ass kicked by Londoner. Honestly, after all of Office-Mate's whining, I seriously don't have the patience for understanding. Let's just beat sense into stupid people.

Also, turns out Nerd-Girl is dating some 30 year old. But dammit, she wanted me.

Also, New Orleans is still in ruins, but the Midwest just had to go and flood. And China had that Earthquake. And California is on fire. Again. And an oil tanker just died and bled out in the Mississippi.

Also, my buddy's mom is still dying.

Also, there's a war going on and lots of guys my age are dying. And the righteous voters of California are going to strike down Equal Marriage Rights, for the third time, in November. And the economy is circling the drain. And people still think Republicans are good with money.

Also, all of our pop idols are making more money than God singing about being vapid, hedonistic, and ignorant.

I've been thinking about a lot of personal shit this summer, and I keep coming to this problem I have. I can't cry. I feel like crying. My throat tightens and all that. But I try, and it just comes out as a bitter super-villain laugh. I've been scared by that, by my inability to express that emotion. I've blamed it on alpha-male training and social habits I can't break. But I think maybe now I just know somewhere deep down that the laugh is more appropriate. The world's ridiculous. People are ridiculous. I'm not saying I'm gonna stop trying to change things. But Fuck. Might as well have a beer and laugh about it.

Ha.Ha.Ha.

This is my blurb for the stupid office email.

I'm not this jaded in real life.

I hope.

¿Qué tan difícil es escribir el guión para una película? Pues parece que no mucho, y esto queda demostrado con Fuck Fiction.

Lo único que se debe hacer es escribir muchas veces seguidas "Fuck" y rellenar los espacios con algún diálogo, y acompañarlo con mucha sangre y violencia.

¿Y ustedes que opinan, es guarro, fresa o Guarro-Fresa?

Lo que si es mega guarro, son los publicistas y distribuidores de películas en México. Esas brillantes mentes guarras que eligen los nombres traducidos al español para las películas extranjeras. En el caso de Pulp Fiction, los inteligentísimos decidieron que el filme debería llamarse "Tiempos violentos".

So many I took down the blog stats. They've been making me head swirl.

So many I wonder what the fuck this even means, and whether or not anyone of particular interest stands to gain something from this shit. You know, the usual wandering suitcase interweb crap.

Me, I think you're all strangers. If you're not, be good enough not to lurk. Be proud enough to send me a love letter or some sort of new-fangled ouiji board sign. There are other ways, too. There are hand massages and sandwiches and weekends trips to Staten Island.

You know what I do when I feel so stressed out, pitiful and depressed that I think the world is going to swallow me up like a greedy biblical whale? I read a book, especially this book, and I draw a hot bath. I mix a cold martini, and then another, and pour both concoctions on a plastic cup so not to break along the edge of the porcelain bath tub. And then I read, and I soak, and I sip, and I bite into olives and leave their pits in the sink under a thick layer of face-wash foam. I make sure to take an anti-anxiety pill, first, usually something mild like ativan. I lie. And I lie there soaking for an hour at least. I let the ghost of that novel I once birthed drain from me like sweat. I wash my hair and my fingers rub and stab at my scalp for hours and hours.

Here comes the rest of the book: The woman lies in bed, her leg jutting out though the rest of her body spoons around a man who has left. There is always something else, she tells herself, yet she continues to curl. It is only that leg that reaches out to fill the emptiness, the space, the void. There are no other arms. There is no morning kiss, after all. So she spreads out entirely, letting that one leg trail over toward the edge of the mattress, a manifest destiny of the old maid typecast.

It is the rest, afterall, after fall.  It is her rest.

Si Mamarrachi no pone hoy un video es porque esa sentencia le impide seleccionar e insertar las brillantes actuaciones de Virginia de OT en la gala final que culmino con su victoria. Y eso es debido a que a partir de ahora Youtube no podrá difundir contenidos propiedad del gigante de lo audiovisual, así como deberá eliminar todo lo que hasta este momento se haya colgado en el popular sitio web.

Con esta apuesta por la eliminación de las libertades de internet, Telecinco perjudica a millones de personas que acudían a estos contenidos para hacer un uso de ellos como espectadores. Y va mas allá, pues ya plantea la solicitud de una compensación económica. Eso es lo que quiere al fin y al cabo Telecinco: dinero y más dinero.

El hecho de ser una cadena líder en audiencia y con unos contenidos de gran calidad entre un gran elenco de telebasura varia los convierte en un producto de interés mas allá de la emisión en directo. Deberían tener en cuenta que el aparecer en Youtube es no solo una manera de acercarse mas a la audiencia, sino de lograr atraer a mas personas a la emisión de unos contenidos, de tal manera que puedan fidelizarse a la cadena después.

Otras cadenas como TV3, la autonómica catalana, no solo han hecho lo contrario que Telecinco, sino que además han creado en el sitio de videos más popular de la web un  canal propio donde colgar todas sus producciones. Son conscientes de que hoy en día  la televisión no es el único medio para ofertar sus contenidos.

Pero debemos recordar que detrás de Telecinco esta la participación mayoritaria de Silvio Berlusconi, presidente italiano, magnate de las telecomunicaciones y el nuevo Mussolini tirando a Hitler. Por eso, no es de extrañar que mediante el uso de la justicia pretenda dejar a los ciudadanos sin una posibilidad mas de acercarse a la cultura y la producción de nuestro país, y de paso sacar beneficios por ello.

Telecinco no entiende que al fin y al cabo con Youtube lo que logra es una promoción gratuita de sus contenidos, ya que el portal se caracteriza por su enorme afluencia de visitantes en busca de todo tipo de contenido.

Espero que Telecinco recapacite en esta locura y se valga del derecho que le otorga la sentencia de autorizar la difusión de sus contenidos para permitir que los fans puedan encontrar en Youtube los contenidos que les interesan. Pero mientras se repara este agravio, no olvidemos que sitios web como metacafe, tu.tv, dailymotion, liveleak, y muchos otros servidores de videos no están incluidos en esa querella y son tan validos como Youtube para colgar los contenidos. Además, no nos cuesta nada hacer boicot a la cadena nacional, cosa a la que animo desde este momento.

Por ahora, muchos de los videos de este Blog han quedado inutilizados, pues la fuente de origen los ha tenido que eliminar. De esta manera Telecinco ataca a mamarrachi.wordpress.com. Y nosotros nos vemos en la penosa obligación de atacar a Telecinco. Posts furiosos, criticas malintencionadas, todo para resarcirnos de ese gran agravio que nos han hecho. Lo pagarán muy caro.