Are you missing me?

Cuz I am missing you.

So I’ve been hanging out in this ultra-modern loft, decorated with primary colors, so very different from my digs.  But I will be going home soon…to the serenity of my creams and whites.  And then we will be getting down to some serious business.  The business of talking dirty, mind you, so be prepared.

I’ve been home a few times, but just to check on Fedrick the Cross-Dressing Cat.  He is fine but is anxious to have me home.  I’d been a tad worried that the allergy problems I mentioned previously, might be caused by the little fellow, but this time away has at least proven that theory wrong.  So it seems Sir Fredrick’s cherished presense in my happy little haven will continue.

I spent yesterday at a spa.  HEAVEN.  And had a pedicure and manicure at a place down the street.  They did a very good job, but I am spoiled by my regular salon, so they won’t be getting much repeat business from me.

And I ran into some people in the elevator and was invited to a party.  I passed on it, but we did exchange phone numbers for the next time.

So this has been fun and interesting and a nice change of pace.

But I wanna go home.  Soon, darling.  Very soon.

The last three entries (Spam-O-Lot Parts 1, 2 and 3) were originally published as an essay at Sex Kitten, which you can read as one cohesive piece here. 

Due to technical difficulties, I deleted my entry of May 20 which explained that I was going on a working vacation and would be publishing the essay in three parts while I got settled into this loft where I am staying (probably for another six or seven days).  

Anyway, here I am and there you are and Taylor with the pretty eyelashes is our new American Idol. 

And after witnessing Mary K. Blige‘s duet with Elliott, I must own every CD she’s ever recorded. 

Anyway, it is turning into a semi-working vacation as I am taking off more than I’d planned.  That is if you don’t mind?  Don’t get me wrong; I am around, you just have to try a little harder.

I probably will republish the “lost blog entry” once I’ve returned to my home and office.  It’s just weird trying to fix the technical problems to which I alluded when utilizing a borrowed PC.  So look for that soon. 

I am also dealing with, have been dealing with, major allergy issues.  This includes non-stop sneezing, sinus headaches and watery eyes.  For the past few days I’ve slept quite a bit and I really think my body is just getting tired of fighting all of this and needs some rest. 

But I’m still sexy and don’t you forget it.

Spam-O-Lot:  Close Encounters of the Kinkiest Kind.

Many are probed, but few are chosen…

Is There Hope for the Human Race?

As sex-crazed as the aliens appear, I really don’t think it is their fault. As I noted a few paragraphs ago, while I continue to receive their emails, it has been a one-way communication. It isn’t that I haven’t tried. I’ve sent them email after email (Hello out there? Is anybody home? I come in peace!), eager to initiate a species-to-species dialogue.

It seems that an entity, going by the moniker mailer-daemon, has compromised their inboxes and is circumventing my emails to them. Every single time I attempt to make contact, I get an officiously worded dispatch from the nefarious creep saying basically, in one way or another, that my email cannot be delivered. It doesn’t take a Carl Sagan to hypothesize that if mailer-daemon is controlling the aliens’ Internet communiqués, then he is in all probability controlling the aliens themselves.

In other words, the daemon made them do it!

There is no doubt the little ever-ready stellar stumpers are reaching out to me. Desperate for help, their emails have evolved. Some make references to Viagra, which they probably sorely need at this point. Others bring tears to my eyes with their desperate petitions of “we need your feedback.” Quite a few are trying to get my attention by warning me that my eBay account needs updating, when they know very well I don’t have an eBay account. A particularly creative alien wrote to me in German regarding the erotik-deutschland newsletter when he knew very well that I don’t speak German and have never subscribed to that particular periodical.

With mailer-daemon thwarting each and every attempt I’ve made to respond to my new friends, I have to admit I’ve been feeling pretty demoralized. I mean, after all, who is this guy who is so powerful that he is able to control this obviously advanced species that found its way to our Internet?

Today I received another email, this one from wpyyhgotf@yarjah.es, the subject box containing three simple words: Choose your Destiny! Wanting to throw off the ever-present mailer-daemon, he, of course, included a link to a porn site in the email, but I heard him loud and clear.

I will not give up! I will find a way, even if it takes the rest of my life, to defeat mailer-daemon. I will find a way to free the aliens from their sexual slavery and deliver humankind from the treachery of anal probes!

For you, for me, for mrkdlvm@jaxqi.org and all the other brave solar system sluts, and most of all for wpyyhgotf@yarjah.es, who inspired me because he believes in me, I will set us free. I will….CHOOSE MY DESTINY!!!

(But, like I said before, just in case this takes a while, keep the Vaseline and condoms handy.)

 

 

Spam-O-Lot: Close Encounters of the Kinkiest Kind.

Many are probed, but few are chosen…

Don’t Believe Me, Huh?

Hey! Don’t shoot me! I’m only the piano player. I was just moseying along, doing my own thing, writing my little articles, taking my kinky calls, putting my little website together, and then…

BAM! All of a sudden —if you build it they will come— my website inbox was overflowing with their valiant and insistent efforts to reach out and touch someone, that someone being yours truly. Quite frankly, I was slow to catch on to the little celestial socialites’ efforts and kept haphazardly deleting their emails. God bless their little multi-chambered hearts (as is the anatomy of aliens), they just refused to give up. Day after day, email after email, they stalwartly clamored for my attention.

As they knew I would—that’s why they chose me, after all—I eventually caught on. I mean, after all, I’m no dummy. And while I haven’t been around the universe a time or two or three or four as these little star jumpers have (as is the itinerary of aliens), I have been around the block a few times.

The undeniable proof, which I am about to reveal to you and every other Doubting Thomas out there, is in the nomenclature. I think you will agree that it isn’t every day you run across someone named fufsmdkgtnr or pnkkvmmqjmp or majonB7y or uutoouicqyfyjz or magilljuju. I mean have you ever dated a guy named kato106 ?

Tell me honestly, when is the last time etkzojryx or didqi faraxh or qzloma or dtdxlzwm sent you flowers? See what I mean? It doesn’t take a Stephen Hawking to figure it out now, does it? These are not earthling names!

Alien Probe: Fact or Fiction?

Well, well, well! I guess we both knew it was going to come to this, didn’t we? I let you in on the biggest news since Roswell—that ET is phoning MY home, and your one-track mind goes right to dirty stuff. Don’t bat those baby blues and feign innocence; you know exactly what I am talking about: Alien Abductions! And you and I know and everybody else on this planet knows what the abductees say about their abductors: Anal Probe!

I won’t beat around the bush, because you are a nosey Parker and aren’t going to let up until I spill the proverbial beans. So while it breaks my heart to say it, say it I must. These little galaxy gallopers are in all likelihood serial inter-species heinie-humpers, methodically leap-frogging their way across our little blue planet. Did they actually communicate this to me? No, they did not. (In fact, all of our close encounters have been one-sided, meaning their-sided, which I will get to in a minute.)

I’ve come to this conclusion due to the hyper-sexual nature of their emails. And, believe me, you can tell a lot about what stirs their peregrine loins by reading those emails! For example, ysudnpsmbwm@numu.com (golden showers!) likes to see “blonde drizzle pee on hot hunk,” while dzbozvyjhcs@yahoo.com (MILF!) is turned-on to see a “mature wife shave pussy,” and walrkvzkvbe@hotmail.com (inter-racial!) is enthralled with a “pigtailed ebony beauty gets cum all over chocolate nipples.” Then there is ivaljibwmmb@yahoo.com (obviously a nature lover) who is preoccupied with a “luscious nymph” who “masturbates her cunt outdoors.”

I have to hand it to them, they’ve even assimilated our earthly fetishes. Take for example tetsuyablanton@yahoo.co.uk who keyed me into his little idée fixe for lingerie with “beach bimbo gets pounded through silk panties” or mondoptqrrr@mordani.net who let the cat out of the bag about his thing for strap-ons with “butt slave worships female’s dildo and jerks off.”

Then you have the ones that are simply all over the map, tri-sexual, as in they “will try anything sexual,” such as mrkdlvm@jaxqi.org who enthusiastically (and probably salivating green alien goop) invites me to watch as “bartender fucks male client” and “Asian lesbians lick pussy” and “porn star spreads in a bikini” and “nasty brunette takes cum bath.”

Filthy little intergalactic interlopers, aren’t they? But there you have it, my friend. If these guys are this consistently tuned-up, you can bet they are sticking their frenzied little alien units into any orifice they happen upon. And we know who those orifices belong to, don’t we?

And while it may not be as unpleasant an experience as we might fear (Did you ever notice that the abductees seem rather benign when relating the details of their abduction and subsequent probing? Indeed, I get the impression that some might have actually enjoyed it.), I am sure that you, like me, prefer to side-step any such encounters. Personally, I’ve lined my walls, floors and ceilings with aluminum foil, and I suggest you do the same. Oh, and you might want to keep a supply of Vaseline and condoms on hand…just in case.

Spam-O-Lot:  Close Encounters of the Kinkiest Kind.

Many are probed, but few are chosen…

Can You Keep A Secret?

Don’t tell Ms. Gracie and the Boudoir Babes, but I’ve recently ascertained that I am quite possibly on the brink of being cosmically famous. No need to adjust your glasses; you read it correctly the first time. I actually mean the kind of heretofore-unheard-of fame that extends far beyond mere earthly borders into the distant metagalactic stratosphere!

How did I come to this conclusion you might very well ask, and I might very well answer. Hold on to your Ursula K. Le Guin blow-up doll, because this is going to be quite a shocker. The simple truth is that every day, come hell or high water —neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds— zillions of alien entities are vying for my attention with a multitude of ingeniously worded emails sent surreptitiously to my inbox.

And while my fellow Kittens would no doubt find this amazing development absolutely plausible due to my endearing charm, pseudo-intellectualism, hot-to-trot sexuality, and haughty-taughty attitude, I prefer you keep this between you and me. Girls will be girls, after all, and Kittens will be Kittens! And if I ruffle all that pretty fur —the venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth— well, we’re gonna have quite a nasty catfight on our hands!

So, Can We Talk?

While you must be wondering why our little friends chose this particular time and place to make themselves known to the human race, I am pretty sure that I have it all figured out. Think about it: What better time and place, now that most earthlings are dallying in cyberspace more often than not? My best guess is that, being far more advanced than our own little planet, they’ve been waiting very patiently for a very long time for us to catch-up.

Imagine how their little alien intra-communication devices must have been tittering away when Al Gore invented the Internet and William Gibson reached out to them with the newly-coined term, “cyberspace.” Innately discerning, the little dickens would have immediately recognized the prefix “cyber” as a term for networking. Just what they’d been waiting at least centuries, most likely eons, to do: Cyberspace = Network in Space!

Being logical (as is the nature of aliens), their first order of business was deciding whom to approach. No doubt they surmised that the deciphering of their clandestine “transmissions” would require someone of superior intellect, that special person with the astute ability to read between the lines. Which is where I come into the picture. Obviously, in their diligent scanning of this new Internet Galaxy, they happened upon mon oeuvre and realized they’d found the perfect contact in moi!