The Keys To My Kingdom

Leonardo Da Vinci Drives A Beat Up Lincoln Continental

A red light brought me to a stop when an old crazy looking grey beard honked behind me. I looked up to the rear view mirror and he was driving a decaying Lincoln Continental from the late 70’s. He reached around the floor and pulled up a white piece of paper which for a millisecond I mistook for a gun. The paper read:

“YOUR LEFT TAIL LIGHT IS OUT” and it was typed.

TYPED.

A bit stunned by the unexpected (my left tail light was indeed out), I waved a “thank you” and the light turned green and I speed off. This odd encounter invited some questioning.

1) What kind of man takes it upon himself to warn fellow drivers of potentially life-threatening maintenance issues with their cars on a daily basis? What kind of man prints out his warnings so that they are easily readable for his fellow drivers?

2) Because his action was premeditated, would it be too much to infer that he has multiple pieces of paper in his car, each with a different warning?

“YOUR RIGHT TAIL LIGHT IS OUT”

“YOUR FRONT, RIGHT TIRE SEEMS A LITTLE LOW ON AIR PRESSURE”

“DO YOU CHANGE YOUR OIL EVERY 3,000 MILES?”

3) If he does have multiple pieces of paper, how many pieces of paper does he have? How many contingencies did the man think about and is prepared for? Does he have other types of messages printed out?

“I KNOW I’M AN OLD MAN THAT DRIVES A RUSTED OUT LINCOLN CONTINENTAL, BUT PERHAPS WE COULD GRAB A DRINK? I’D LIKE TO FEEL YOUR FIRM, YOUTHFUL BREASTS GRAZE AGAINST MY PRICKLY OLD MAN BEARD. PLEASE, DON’T LAUGH!!! I’M OLD AND CAN’T GET IT UP AND I’M RUNNING OUT OF HOPE AND I DON’T HAVE VERY MUCH TIME LEFT ON THIS EARTH”

All of these questions were asked and answered mentally within a couple of seconds, but it wasn’t until I arrived home that a more interesting thought crossed my mind. Letters and hence writing appear backwards when reflected in a mirror and this old man had taken this fact of physics into account when typing up his signs. If I was reading this man’s typed message through my car’s rear view mirror, that means the man had typed his message backwards in order for me to be able to read it properly.

It is only after we process these points and put them in their context that it becomes all too clear how much thought and effort he put into these printed warnings. Is it cruel then that he will only be remembered in a blog post on a mildly successful tumblr?

I’M STILL TRYING TO FIGURE THIS OUT

(Source: keystomykingdom)

Ants Love My Cum

It was on a hot summer’s day in high school as I had just finished busting my load when the phone rang. That unique FUCK-what-should-I-do??? type of anxiety that accompanies being interrupted mid-jerk swept over me. The phone call was from a friend who was outside my house at that very moment with some guys and wanted to know if I cared to join them for a bbq at someone’s house. Not wanting to pass up free food, socializing, and a ride, I told him I’d be out in two seconds. I left the house, a fresh load still in the sink.

About six hours later I returned home to find ants had invaded my bathroom, marching single file from outside my house, through the window and to the food source: my dried up nut. Perhaps I’m a twisted fuck, but I was quite honored that this ant colony had chosen my semen for nourishment. Different scenarios started to play out in my head as I imagined thousands of ants taking the stale baby batter back to their nest, distributing it to the other ants and storing it for the cold winter that lay ahead.

But this was just the beginning! My semen had certainly reached the Queen Ant by now, which means royalty of some form has swallowed my load. The Queen had served my cum to foreign ambassadors and diplomats visiting her colony, telling them it was a rare delicacy not unlike caviar or truffles. They’d curiously nibble on it at first before proclaiming how divine it was and ask for second and third helpings. Queen Ant of course obliged, being a student of history and having studied the tactics of Catherine The Great, Elizabeth I, and Cleopatra, she knew that she was projecting the wealth and power of her colony by letting the emissaries gorge themselves on this rarest of treats. The ambassadors would go back to their respective queens and tell them of the great riches and luxury which they had witnessed in Queen Ant’s court.

I tried to repeat this experiment by leaving out a load the next couple of days (I told you, I’m a twisted fuck) and seeing if anything would happen. Perhaps there was food under that initial load or something I had eaten that day was of interest to the ants or maybe even it was a rogue faction of an ant colony which was desperate to survive outside of their home environment, but for whatever reason, the ants did not return to carry off my cum. It’s also a possibility that ants are dumb insignificant insects and didn’t know what the fuck they were eating, but perhaps that’s an oversimplification.

Giant Cum Load From Nowhere

My cock was hard and I had just read the same paragraph for the eighth time. I stopped pretending that I could focus on my book and admitted that I had to go bust a nut if I wanted to get on with my day and be a functioning member of society again.

It was a bit cramped in my briefs, so my dick was thrilled when I pulled down my pants so he could breath. “Finally, relief from that wretched dark prison!!!” my penis yelled with excitement. I put my balls on the edge of the bathroom counter (a great trick) and started stroking nice and slow and mentally replaying the sexual highlight reel from my life. Four or five minutes passed and I could start to feel an orgasm building. My balls started to tingle and felt good with the countertop rubbing up under them. I started to breath heavier and tried to keep it back for a little longer before the Load From Nowhere sprung forth.

The first pump shot over the sink and onto the bathroom mirror with a force I was not expecting. Rather than dying down, the cum kept on coming, from where I had no fucking idea. I was really proud of myself about three-fourths of the way through and for the last couple of squirts I found this magical load hilarious. “Where on earth did all this fucking baby batter come from!?!?!” I started laughing hysterically because the whole experience seemed more like a circus trick or a vaudeville act rather than your run of the mill masturbation session. My muscles stopped contracting and my jolly mood turned into one of annoyance as I realized that I had to clean up all of the globs and globs of cum. This annoyance morphed into one of sadness because I couldn’t share this achievement with the world. Unless of course……..

I found the Guinness Book of World Records website and located the instructions on how to submit a record. “Jesus, look at all these fucking hoops I have to jump through.” Registrations and submissions and verifications and bureaucratic red tape at every step. How is the world supposed to learn of my momentous accomplishment with all of these hurdles in my way? Do the men in management with their gray flannel suits realize that they are obstacles to their own success? I quickly lost interest in my idea and proceeded to clean up Lake Cum with about half a roll of toilet paper. The book I was reading was waiting for me right where I left it.

What Is A Slut?

If you ask most people what a slut is, they’ll tell you something along the lines of “a girl who fucks a lot of guys.” There are multiple problems with this definition, one being what does “a lot” mean concretely? The person you’re asking will probably spit out a number, like 20 or 5 or 31. “By what age are they allowed to have these partners,” you ask. I mean, a 14 year old that’s fucked 15 guys has gotten around but an 80 year old that’s fucked 30 guys isn’t really whoring her self out, is she? The person you’re asking will now throw out an arbitrary age and before you know it, the definition of a slut has footnotes!

Here’s the problem: everyone has a different number, hence we cannot use this definition because it is subjective. But let’s just pretend that the entire world were to agree on a number via an international treaty or a U.N. convention of some kind, this definition still wouldn’t work because it doesn’t make logical sense. If for example our slut number is 13, does that mean that a girl who’s fucked 12 guys is an angel but once she fucks guy number 13 she’s a cum guzzling whore??? OF COURSE NOT!!! You don’t become a slut by fucking just one extra guy; there’s no critical mass of slutdom or something.

So what is a definition that we can work with? Simply put, a slut is a girl (or a guy; we’ll get to that) that fucks someone who isn’t respected by others. Let me give you an example you have probably witnessed before. At my high school, there was this attractive girl who in middle school was a straight A student and overall kept a low profile. Freshman year rolls around and she starts dating this other freshman who, simply put, was considered white trash, stupid, and a vagrant.

She was instantly labeled a slut, even though he was her first boyfriend of any kind. In other words, it wasn’t the amount of guys who she was with, but the guy she was with. What works with this definition is that it applies to males too (which has always been a problem coming up with a good definition). I have heard many girls say, “I was into Boy X until I heard that he hooked up with Sleazy Suzie. Can you believe that? Who on earth would wanna fuck him now?” Have you ever been in a bar and seen a guy hanging around girls who where trash? What did you think of him? You might not have called him a “slut,” but he certainly didn’t make a good name for himself, now did he?

However, the subject of sluts becomes still more complicated because people change as they get older. If a girl was a slut in college, she might swing to the opposite direction after graduation. Likewise, a girl that only dated alter boys early on might go for something a little more dangerous as she gets older. I always tell myself that every sinner has a future, a saint a past.

I’m writing about this because I can tell that some girls in the messages I receive equate “sluttiness” with anything sexual. That is tragic: you are a human being and you have sexual needs and desires that must be filled. There is nothing wrong with wanting to fuck someone and there is nothing wrong with acting upon that thought. But in addition to that, NEVER worry about “your number.” Really, it doesn’t matter. I’m not saying fuck anything with a penis (or a vagina if you’re a guy), I’m saying fuck whoever you want to fuck without having hangups about it. You’ll be a happier person because of it.

To The Women At the Gym

The gym is a place of both great pleasure and torture; torture because I bust my ass in there and pleasure because it is infested with hot women.

The first group that I love are the yoga girls. Imagine a sea of blond ponytails and tight asses in spandex twisting and bending and sweating and grunting on hardwood floors surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Obnoxious electronic music that they don’t even listen to in Europe blares out from cheap speakers and an even more offensive workout instructor yells out pathetic attempts of inspiration like, “C’MON, YOU CAN DO IT! LIFT THOSE LEGS!!!”

While I love all of the provocative positions the yoga girls twist themselves into, there is one that never fails to catch my attention: hands and feet on the ground and asses in the air.

Picture literally forty women in this position, a rainbow of spandex colors hugging tight heart-shaped, Southern California asses. It’s an incredible sight having forty women present their pussies to you like that; it hits you in a place you don’t even know exists in your brain, a place made up of primal instincts that’s been overrun by other parts of your mind that let you do calculus and speak languages. I have a fantasy of going behind one of these women and sort of gently push her against the floor. “Um, what are you doing???” she asks nervously. “Shhhhhhh, I’m going to fuck you.” “Oh….but…I mean….there’s people all around us.” “No one can see us. Look, is anyone saying anything?” I let her look around the room and everyone is focused on doing yoga and listening to the instructor. “Do you see them? They all are dead inside. I picked you for a reason.”

She’s laying on her tummy and I’m on her back, letting her support my body weight. She’s very warm and is still breathing heavily from the workout. I kiss her neck right where her hairline meets the skin. I taste salt with the smallest pinch of musk, which I happen to like; those imperfect smells remind you that humans are actually just domesticated animals and we have the same animal urges that bears and tigers and other wild animals possess. I pull down her workout pants until they rest about five or six inches below her ass on her thighs. 

I take my right hand and cross it underneath her body so I’m gabbing her left shoulder, limiting her movement.  With my left hand, I pull down my gym shorts, position my hard cock at the entrance of her pussy, and then in one motion penetrate her and grab her left tit with my free hand. Everyone continues to do yoga all around us as if nothing were happening. I get a nice rhythm going and pump away until I nut inside of her and just stay on top of her for awhile, breathing heavily in her ear as I cum down. “Thanks babe, I really needed that,” I pant. I kiss her on the cheek, pull out, pull her spandex back up over that golden California ass. Half my load has already dripped out, but there’s still some of me in her. I pull up my workout shorts and go back to doing my pull ups.

——

The only other girl I have a fantasy about at the gym is a girl I call “Bambi,” because she has olive skin and thin limbs. She’s the kind of girl that probably gets overlooked a lot because she appears homely, but she turns me on quite a bit. Her workout routine is insane too; she’s not some milf that lifts 2 lb weights in front of the mirror and calls it a day, she does squats and pull ups and push ups and shit I don’t even know the names for. She’s toned, not gross, and she works up a sweat and her skin glistens with a thin layer of perspiration that gives her a beautiful glow. 

My upper body and back always ache a bit after the gym and I wish I could be like, “Hey Bambi, why don’t you come over and give me a massage.” We’d go home and take a shower together and then dry off with cashmere towels or something exotic like that. I’d then lie naked with my tummy to the bed and she’d sit on my lower back and slowly massage my shoulders and back with her little hands. It’d be peaceful.

Mothers and Sluts, Fathers and Dominant Sex

There has been somewhat of a theme this last week in the messages I’m getting. A number of girls don’t have the skill to express the idea in their head, but one young woman in a brilliant message nailed it:

“It’s so refreshing to see a man earnestly praising women for everything thing they are outside of the bedroom, but still owning up to his sexual desire for them. It’s so tiring to listen to men on either extreme (hyper-sexual or overly sentimental), and it’s just really nice to know that at least one knows how to appreciate both.”

Yes! This is something I always thought was obvious, but it deserves just a little bit of elaboration. As I’ve said before, humans are incredibly complex. You can be many different things at the same time and these things don’t necessarily contradict each other.

For example, if I’m a guy that likes to be “dominant” (I hate that word) or take control in the bedroom, that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate women for their non-sexual role in my life. If I’m banging a girl doggie style and grab her by the hair and make her suck on my balls and call her a dirty slut and then spit in her face, that does not mean that I can’t treat her with respect outside (or for that matter inside) of the bedroom. That’s only a part of me. If I like to be dominant, that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate women for being women. Furthermore, it also doesn’t mean that I can’t visit my grandparents every weekend, volunteer, vote, or be a good father. ALL OF THESE THINGS ARE INDEPENDENT OF EACH OTHER!!! Just like every once in a while you hear about someone who runs a charity get caught with child pornography; the two are independent aspects of his life.  

Quite frankly, I think men need to hear this more than women: don’t judge a woman for being sexual or having “weird” fantasies; there are none! If a woman wants you to treat her like a fuck doll, that doesn’t mean that she’s not a human being that has thoughts, opinions, dreams, desires, and vulnerabilities like everyone else in the world. If her fantasies include being raped, fucking fourteen guys in a gang bang, and blowing a priest, that doesn’t mean that she can’t be the mother of your children, an entrepreneur, a professor, or the leader of a book club. 

The two posts above this one aren’t unrelated to this post: wanting to fuck your brains out doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate your emotional strength. I thought this idea was obvious, but to many it’s not. Don’t judge people for being sexual and don’t think their sexuality defines them. There are an infinite amount of things that go into making up a person’s personality; sexuality is just one of them.

Loneliness is a Sore Nut Sack and a Sweaty Merona T-Shirt

I had just wrapped up my third year of college and I was having lunch with a friend who was a year younger than me from high school. I asked, “So, how was sophomore year? Did you have the ‘sophomore slump’ that all of us had?” “Yeah, I did. It’s bizarre ya know, I feel like all I did was just stay in my room and jack off.” Taken a bit back by his comment, “Really??? That’s…sort of weird, because that’s pretty much all I did my sophomore year…”

——

If you’ve been to Target then you might be familiar with the Merona brand, which is Target’s generic brand. I have a couple Merona white undershirts that I wear from time to time. Because these shirts are poorly constructed, made of thin material and have the worst fit imaginable, I limit wearings to mostly yard work and sick days. You would never want to be caught dead outside in a Merona shirt.

That said, there are times when wearing a Merona t-shirt is a sign of defeat. You don’t really have anything planned for the night and you’re not gonna waste a good shirt on sitting around the house. As you toss the shapeless garment over your body, you are painfully reminded that you should be outside doing something fun and taking advantage of your youth; it is a symbol of unused potential and idleness.

——

I never really had access to porn in high school; it was a novelty to me. I used to jerk off to unfiltered Google images of porn (I know, how incredibly pathetic). Towards the end of my senior year of high school, this short little weasel of a kid sold me a couple scratched up DVD’s for $5. They were ok…when they didn’t skip. I remember being excited that my parents would be out for the night and that I got to finally watch some porn. Woohoo! 

I got my first taste in the variety that porn had to offer freshman year of college. I’m not very computer savvy, so a friend of mine told me to download Limewire and get porn from there. I’d start the download at night, set my computer to the “never sleep” mode and would wake up in the morning with a scene on my desktop. Still, it was difficult to actually get a lot of clips and watching it was tricky due to my roommate situation.

So sophomore year rolled around and it was the first time that I didn’t really have someone in the same room with me. My roommate would go home every weekend leaving me with complete privacy for possibly the first time in my life.

Jerking off in middle school/high school, for the most part, was something I did in the shower. This led to an obvious time constraint as I didn’t want my parents to ask that oh so embarrassing question, “What are you doing in there???” Even when they were gone, say on a trip, I’d never really jerk off for long periods of time. The first time I tried to, I remember saying, “I’m gonna see if I can masturbate for twenty minutes.” I started stroking and after what felt like an eternity to me, looked down at my cell phone. Four minutes had passed. “Jesus Christ, this is fucking impossible!” I thought.

Hence, sophomore year of college was the first time I could really explore masturbating for long periods of time with quality porn. All of those Youtube like porn websites were *just* coming out, which meant getting as much porn as you wanted quickly and for free. The problem, though I didn’t realize it at the time, was that “as much porn as you wanted” part. I wasn’t used to having a lot of it around, so I really had a huuuuuuuge world to explore.

I’d pick a website, open up maybe 15 tabs in my browser of different videos and just whack off. Let me tell you something: four minutes turned into half an hour, which turned into an hour, which turned into…

——

Increasingly, I wasn’t happy with my social circle. They were pretty boring and the girls were complete duds. I was beginning to realize how incredibly rare true friendship is and found it more interesting to spend the night in my room alone masturbating than hanging out with people I wasn’t too crazy about. One time, I pretended to fall asleep during a movie we were all watching and then “awoke” fifteen minutes later and told everyone I had to go because I was too tired. That’s how disenchanted I was with that group of college “friends.”

I’d begin by going to a website and open up maybe twelve different tabs of porn. It would be totally dark in my room and I’d wear headphones so my suite mates couldn’t hear anything. I’d get hot and sweaty and there would literally be a pool of sweat under my ass from the physical demands of masturbating for that long. After about an hour, I’d stop to put the trashcan on top of my desk and nut in the trashcan. For some reason I remember those loads being enormous. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t used to jerking it for that long or maybe because I was still new to porn and it turned me on, or maybe even youth, but I haven’t blown loads like that since then. What’s funny is that I don’t have a good sense of smell and that I didn’t realize it then but in hindsight the room probably reeked of cum. By the way, I realized this like two months ago. Anyyyyyyways…

The problem was that I did this routine every fucking weekend sophomore year. The first third of my junior year was my nadir. I was living completely alone, which means I could masturbate 24/7 if I wanted too. Having no friends, not even hang out buddies, I would literally wake up, get ready for class, go to school, come home and then beat off for two hours in the dark. That was the highlight of my day. Later on at night, I’d beat off again. I didn’t beat off so much because I was insanely horny, I beat off that much because I was lonely. No one was calling me up to go hang out and I wasn’t twenty-one yet, which meant few going out options. The only thing remotely fun was cumming, so I did. When I went home for the weekend or over winter break, I literally never thought about porn because I was having fun doing other things. For me at least, it really was just a tool that helped me pass my time.

I went through a three or four month period where I’d beat off two to three times a day, each session lasting an hour or more (my record was three hours and fifteen minutes). The absolute worst was during finals week. I beat off seven times in one day during finals. I just couldn’t help myself. I’d be studying at four in the morning and I wanted to beat off even though I had just blown a load two hours earlier. It was taking a behavior that I was using to make my loneliness bearable and taking it to the limit in an effort to take my mind off of studying.

What’s incredibly sad is that those orgasms were so…dull. There were no fireworks or shooting stars or stadiums full of people singing rock ‘n roll anthems that should accompany a really good load. It was like, “Ok… I guess that’s it…” Cleaning up the cum was depressing too because while you had physical proof that you had busted, you never felt like you came either physically or spiritually. And on top of that, the amount of semen you’d actually produce was pitiful and yet another reminder that you were overdoing it with the whole masturbation thing. Whacking off became trying to chase that orgasm that could never be reached.

By the end of that first quarter junior year, my balls were sore and they hurt slightly when I came. I was actually scared and started researching testicular health over winter break and self diagnosed myself with something I didn’t really have. I then looked in the mirror and admitted to myself that I had a serious problem and that I’d have to return to my normal pattern of five to seven loads a week and to masturbate for normal amounts of time. Most importantly of all, I had to improve my social situation and find friends and girls that I clicked with.

I was pretty embarrassed about the sore dick and balls though. Only fifty year old losers that live in their mom’s basement watch that much porn or whack off that much. What I realized later on, after that lunch with my younger friend, was that every guy (and maybe some girls?) has gone through a whackoffathon phase in their life before, they just don’t talk about it. Every guy, no matter if he’s a total loser or if he gets more ass than a toilet seat, has spent an hour in front of the computer jerking off with a pool of sweat under his hairy ass. This is more true now than at any time before, due to how incredibly easy it is to get as much porn as you want. It’s not just dorks or awkward guys that are abusing it, everyone is or has. 

Fitting our generation’s lifestyle completely, this makes complete sense: we frequently experience places and events indirectly, not directly. When we are out with friends, we aren’t really out with them, we are out with all of Facebook. Cameras come out not to capture the moment, but to show everyone online how cool our night was. We go to the Grand Canyon and think, “Man this is gonna make one great album!!! Maybe even Suzie will comment on a pic and that will lead to us hanging out and maybe even a makeout or a blow job!” Wait a minute? WHAT THE FUCK!!! I’m at the Grand FUCKING Canyon! Just enjoy the moment for yourself (and grow a pair and ask Suzie out while you’re at it). We see and experience life via that little fucking screen on our digital cameras instead of with our own eyes.

Doesn’t porn fit right in then? Instead of going out and trying to meet girls, we stay inside and watch another guy get his dick wet for us. And this makes us happy? Even worse is the “I’ll just watch some porn quickly to get aroused so I can pop one off fast.” We need help getting aroused??? I’m in the prime of my fucking life and if I can’t get horny using my own imagination, there is something wrong with me. And, might I add, I’ve been there and back and there again so I can yell at you because I’ve yelled at myself many times over on these subjects. While I am not anti-porn, I am definitely not pro-porn and currently watch it maybe once or twice a month. The ease at which people can watch literally days worth of content nonstop can be really damaging in my opinion and experience. Like everything in life, moderation is key.

Ok, so we go on the internet, open up three or four tabs of porn and jerk off. We’re not yet satisfied really, so we go on a search then for a hot clip that is good enough to “finish to.” Six, seven, eight tabs later, we’re still not satisfied. An hour and a half has passed and the only light that exists in the room is from your computer screen. You’re not even horny, you’re just chasing an imperfect orgasm and what’s worse, your dick is trying to tell you that it’s had enough. It’s about sixty-five percent hard and has lost its enthusiasm for life; it’s red and sore and in pain. But you ignore it because you want to bust a nut, a nut that’s dead on arrival.

And what’s mind blowing is that there are hot girls out there who desperately want to get fucked! Either they’re rubbing one out themselves or they’re boning someone out of necessity to keep them sane, even though they don’t even like the guy. That’s insane!!! But outside the realm of sex, there’s so much to do too that you’re ignoring. There’s music and art shows and movies and great restaurants and house parties. Actually, we should have started off with people: there are other human beings out there that share your interests and are just as bored as you are with their dildo group of “friends.” Find them. Go grab a drink with him, catch a cab back and drunkenly sing the songs you grew up with on guitar till the sun rises.

Wouldn’t that be better than indirect experiences and Facebook and porn? Because you honestly have nothing to show for yourself with those other things, do you? Nope. Nothing but a sore nut sack and a sweaty Merona t-shirt.

Highlights from the Last Couple of Days

I was shaving my sack and shaft in the hopes of showing off that huge load I’ve been building for the past two-plus weeks (sadly nothing happened that night between me and the girl). As I’m about half way through the process, my iTunes played “Wonderwall.” WONDERWALL!!!! That song is so fucking perfect that between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, I had convinced myself it sucked because it was too good. As you get older and realize that it’s ok to like things that other people like, you can appreciate how truly amazing it is.

(lifts flacid dick to shave backside of cock)

AND AFTER AAAAAAAAALLLLLL, YOU’RE MY WONDAAAHHHWAAAAAHAAAAAL

(begins shaving underside of balls)

BECAUSE MAYBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, YOU’RE GONNA BE THE ONE THAT SAVES MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

It was great.

Unrelated, I’m eating dinner with a group of people at a well respected restaurant. My friend is sending out texts every so often and halfway though the dinner says, “Keys, check out the second to last line, but keep a pokerface.” As I turn my head and lean in, I admire the great job I did rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. The text reads, “Hurry up. I’m bored and horny.”

BORED AND HORNY

How fucking beautiful are those words sitting next to each other? Just look at them. Poetry. Fuck Shakespeare and Thoreau, these three word are better than anything they ever wrote.

“OK, so we’re gonna leave and I’m going to drive you there.” I say. We had carpooled with two other people, so our situation was difficult and he didn’t have access to a car. “Are you serious? You would do that for me?” “OF COURSE I’D DO THAT FOR YOU,” I whisperyell. 

Forty minutes later, we walk to the car at a brisk pace. We get inside and start up the engine. I feel like I’m in NASA’s command center overlooking the the moon landing, “All right, I’m gonna need directions on how to get there and we’re gonna have to stop somewhere to pick up condoms.” He pulls out his phone, “I’ll have both of those things ready for you. Right now, go straight and take a left at the light.”

Eight minutes later we’re outside her place, but with no condoms and we’re already fifteen minutes late. “Crap, ok, there’s a liquor store three minutes away. I pull into the parking lot and he gets out. “WAIT, buy me a lotto ticket,” I say as I reach for my wallet to get cash. “What? Why???” “It’s a fucking SIGN dude. Just go inside, I’ll be out here.” He goes inside and I park and turn off the engine. There’s a cop car with a cop inside of it staring at me. I look inside and my friend can’t seem to find the condoms and there’s a big line at the register. After about six minutes, my friend is at the register and gets the condoms (which were behind the cashier) and the lotto ticket. I turn on the engine and pull out and he gets in. 

“Shit,” I say. If we want to be there faster we’d have to make an illegal left that crosses the double yellow lines. The cop is gonna see me. “Fuck it, my sleeves are rolled up.” I dart out and make the turn.

I was reciting my speech I’d say to the cop, “Do you know why I pulled y…” “Officer I’m not trying to interrupt and be disrespectful, but my friend got a text from this hot chick that said she’s bored and horny and we’re already late. Could you please let u…” “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, why didn’t you say so???? Here, let me escort you guys. Just follow me.” He turns on his siren and we follow him as cars are pulling over to the side of the road. He gets on the loudspeaker, “Pull over To the side Of the road. This is an Emergency: A female Is bored And horny.”

That never happened but it should have. We pull up to the place. “I owe you so much. You have no idea.” “You don’t owe me anything. That’s what friends are for.” “You’re right, that is what friends are for. Thanks.” 

He goes inside and I speed away.

 ——-

Life is much more interesting than fiction. Wonderwalled smooth sack and “bored and horny.” I still haven’t blown my mega load though. I will not take a picture of it, as someone requested (that’s a little…weird). Inspired by the unpredictable nature of the last couple of days, I feel like I should save it. You never know.

If I do win the lotto though, I will take applications from girls that want to be my muse.

The Incredible Burden Of Female Beauty

Not everyone is going to agree with this post. Oh well…

“Beauty can be as isolating as genius or a deformity. I have always been aware of the relationship between beauty and madness.” -Richard Avedon, iconic fashion photographer

“I always saw beauty as a mask or trap. You’re revered and rewarded for being beautiful on the outside, and nobody wants to know too much more than that. And when the beauty starts to fade, where do you go with your life?”- Shelley Smith (pictured), former print and runway model in the ‘70’s & ‘80’s

Have you ever been in public and saw someone with a physical handicap? If it’s something you see in movies, like a missing arm or leg, I’m pretty good about ignoring the person and letting them continue on with their lives. But when you see something really unique, like a person with third degree burns on his face for example, I find it hard not to take a second look. I almost always think about how that deformity has influenced his personal growth and effects his social interactions. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb to infer that probably every single person he interacts with notices his deformity. 

Fantastically beautiful women, in my opinion, share a similar life experience: they can’t go anywhere without people noticing their attractiveness. “You’re beautiful” is a compliment they have probably heard thousands upon thousands of time. At what point, I wonder, does that get really old?

I first became aware that there were negative effects from being beautiful from an article that appeared in Vogue written by Suzanne Berne. The piece, in general, was praising the magic of female beauty. It concluded, “Because to be beautiful is to be mythic. Begin any story with, ‘She was beautiful’ and whatever follows acquires extra dimension and drama… Physical beauty is rare and wonderful, an enhancement of ordinary life, so it confers a distinction that has to be otherwise earned.”

The next month though, a letter came in from an anonymous beautiful woman pointing out that Berne had completely overlooked the negative effects of being beautiful. Paraphrasing, one of the lines in the letter read, “How would you like it if you were 11 years old and grown men well into their sixties would ogle you? I wish everyday that I wasn’t as beautiful as I am.”

The letter prompted me to start thinking more about it, analyzing how the world and myself treat beautiful women. I also started asking some beautiful women I was comfortable with some questions: “At what age did you realize you had some influence over men,” was my favorite. “By the 6th grade, I had completely realized that I had control over guys.” SIXTH GRADE?????? I had realized nothing about everything when I was in the sixth grade.

A PhD in Common Sense isn’t necessary to guess the themes of such conversations: men AND women gawk at you from a very young age. Many men can’t hide their excitement when they interact with you, like at a cash register or waiting in line at the bank; they’re just happy to talk to a beautiful woman. You get random messages on Facebook from complete strangers. Other women want to be your friend simply because it makes them look better, particularly in the Facebook age where one’s social status can be deduced from their profile page; while still others get jealous of you. The list goes on.

This, in my opinion, can be a burden, particularly for the fantastically beautiful. I know two girls that are essentially dimes and they sort of live in a different world (though I’m not sure if they’re aware of it). One time at a bar when one of them went to the bathroom, every guy in the group that I had brought texted me or whispered, “Where did you find her? Is she single? She’s so hot! I want to fuck her!” The other dime’s facebook page should be studied by Jane Goodall and other anthropologists for its insight into human behaviors. For example, when she changed her profile to “Single” from “In a Relationship,” she got like thirty-eight wall comments within twenty four hours along the lines of, “Hey loser. We haven’t hung out in a long time. Let’s fix that,” or “heeeeyyyyyy. i think i forgot my sweater in your car from that other night. can i stop by and pick it up?”

I wonder if these beautiful women know that there are literally dozens of guys whose online routine includes checking their Facebook profile every single day to gain some insight into their life or read the latest comments on their walls? Do fantastically beautiful women know that men will divert their shopping karts and go down supermarket isles without needing to buy anything from that isle simply because she happens to be buying peanut butter at that moment? Do they understand that when little Jimmy lent his safety scissors to them to finish the assignment in the second grade that that was his way of making a move and that he thought about that small gesture for months after it happened? Or that pimply faced Jack in high school overheard that she liked “Angie” so he spent forty dollars that he earned from his minimum wage job to take guitar lessons and learn it down pat so that when they’re together on the camping trip, he might be able to impress her? The list is infinite. LITERALLY! The amount of energy and effort that goes into impressing women could probably power all of the homes in America.

What upsets me is that the girls from my personal life mentioned above are brilliant and it seems like no one even notices. If they were guys (perhaps even just normal looking girls), everyone would be like, “He’s sooo smart and and has the most interesting points of view. I always learn something when I’m with him.” If anything, their successes are attributed to their beauty, “I wonder who she had to blow to get that job/grade/promotion, etc…” To sum it up, I don’t think most of their friends understand what great people these girls are. And what’s sad but predictable is that the story above has (and will be) repeated in every corner of the world for as long as beautiful women exist. And of course, if she ever didn’t like being beautiful, she could NEVER say that to anyone. People would rip her apart, “Look at you and your big problems. You poor little thing…” You can’t even express yourself! “Isolating” indeed Mr. Avedon.

Now, what I am definitely NOT saying or implying in this post is that we should pity impossibly beautiful women: the strong ones don’t need it and the weak ones don’t deserve it. Do all beautiful women feel burdened, even slightly? Mmm, highly unlikely. Are there also hot girls that abuse their attractiveness to get things or are total idiots and vapid human beings? Of course there are, but I’m talking about girls that are worth talking about. Am I above it all and immune to beauty? Pffff, hardly. Finally, I am not saying that beauty should be ignored. It’s not necessarily important, but to say that it’s not inspiring would be silly. 

What I am saying is that we should appreciate the beautiful (and the not so beautiful) women in our lives for their character, intelligence, and worldview. If you have daughters or nieces in the future, or are ever in a position of influence over young and impressionable girls, choose your words and compliments carefully. For every one compliment on her appearance, give fifteen on her smarts, humor, artistic abilities, etc and always tell her she looks good last. In short, let her derive self esteem and form her identity from the non-physical.

When you date/marry a beautiful woman, don’t parade her around like she’s a trophy or high five your friends and do other high school shit like that (believe it or not, I have even seen the latter among thirty-somethings). While we’re at it ladies, men are not another accessory to match your wardrobe and handbag: women who use their husband/boyfriend’s economic status and/or physical attractiveness for the sole purpose of impressing their friends are pathetic. Lastly, if you are beautiful, don’t ever apologize for being so. That also means standing up for yourself and having the confidence and the courage to call people out on their bullshit when they try to bring you down.

To the people that will message me to say, “How fucking hypocritical of you KTMK, you only post pictures of girls that are beautiful and your posts often objectify women.” This blog has never just been about beautiful women. There are zillions of tumblrs already about that. 

First and foremost, Keys To My Kingdom is about delicate nuances and the overlooked. It’s about women and men and how they effect each other emotionally. It’s about cock therapy and pussy therapy and cuddling therapy and eating-double-cheeseburgers-together-and-stealing-her-fries therapy. Do I use beautiful women to illustrate these points? Sure, but the ideas behind the beautiful woman are what’s important!

If you haven’t realized that yet, you’ve been missing the point of my tumblr. You don’t need to be conventionally beautiful to share an experience with another human being, you just have to be human.

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