Really, when it’s all said and done, it’s really true that, "it’s only kinky the first time."  I can easily recall every exquisite detail of the first time a boy put me on my hands and knees to have sex.  Oh my, oh my.  I was barely past virginity and I thought I’d be marrying this boy and having babies in the future.  He was a hulking giant (6’4′) of bulk and brawn, and I was a little thing of 105 pounds.  I needed his permission and his man-hungriness lust to encourage me, show me the way.  To teach me to be kinky.  And at that time, being on my hands and knees — naked! — was very kinky, indeed. 

I felt dirty.  I felt slutty.  I felt fucking wonderful.  He could see me, all of me, lusty and lewd and hungry.  Oh, I was so dirty, dirty. dirty.  And he knew it.  And it made his fucking cock so hard to see me losing control like that.  Right there in front of him.  Right there atop my own mother’s coffee table, where he could fondle me and finger me and touch me and eventually … fuck the living daylights out of me.

Later — think of Diane Lane sitting on that bus in ‘Unfaithful’ — over and over again I’d replay what we’d done, how bad I’d been, how dirty and hot I’d felt and how good it was.  Oh it was soooo good to be bad.  It was so damn good and I wanted more, more, more.  And so we continued to learn, explore and stretch our sexuality in new and devious and dirty ways.

My passion (and lust) for that boy eventually waned.  No marriage, no babies.  I was off to college; off to bigger and better things.  I was off to open up the world — open it wide for myself and all my dreams.  It was the only path I could take, but I’m so glad I didn’t know that until it was upon me; that in my innocence and blush of first love, I was able to submerge my "good girl Catholicism" deep into my Delphic heart and learn the joy of "feeling dirty" with this boy so eager to teach me.

What amazes me is that these numbered of years later — internet-enlightened and supposedly sexually wiser than the "free love" generation — so many of us walk one way and talk another when it comes to kinky, fetish-y, dirty-ish S E X.  I know you’re doing it!  I know you’re doing a helluva lot of it!  I specialized in Kinky Phone Sex, Fetish Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex.  So don’t you go forgetting that.  Not even for one minute.  I’ve got your number!

Well, er, you’ve got MY number.  Semantics.  Let’s move on.

But really — and I do mean REALLY — think about the porn you access, think about what YOU think about when you masturbate.  I certainly don’t masturbate to vanilla scenarios. NOT EVER.  And I’m pretty sure you don’t either.  Come on … fess up.  You can tell me all about it.  Or maybe you conveniently don’t remember/think about the particular bent piece of brain  candy you were chewing away at the last time it was hands-on solo?

I say "conveniently" because I used to do that.  Guilty as charged!  I’d have this horrifically perverse psycho-drama playing in my head as I, as the boys say, "rubbed one out."  I would get hot and itchy and crazy-lustful.  Which transferred into a seriously out-of-this-world breath-taking orgasm. YUMM-FUCKING-Y!  Then I’d think to myself, you’re a bad girl.  Shame on you. There is something wrong with you.  You are disgusting.  And so I’d promptly and ever-so-efficiently forget it, erase it, deny it.  Gone, gone, gone.

And wouldn’t you know it?  There it would be, right back where it belonged: that bright & shiny Halo right there atop my good little Catholic school girl head.  A little crooked, perhaps, but none the worse for the wear.  Now that all that "naughtiness" was for all intents & purposes erased, I could go about the business of being conventionally normal.  Just like everybody else.  Which is quite the trick isn’t it?

The slippery part of this business is that — when our halos are back in place — we’ve really do forget.  It’s an intermittent amnesia of sorts (because you can bet we’ll revisit those vile scenarios and nasty thoughts sooner rather than later … and often) which affords us quite the lofty spot from which to express our shock, our disgust at "those other people" with the "weird fetishes" and "forbidden desires" and "perverse kinks."

Which is just silliness. Because one man’s Panty Fetish is another man’s BDSM is another man’s Body Worship is another man’s CFNM is another man’s Strap-On Training is another man’s Public Masturbation, is another man’s CBT is another man’s Forced-Bi is another man’s Castration is another man’s Puppy Training is another man’s Cuckolding is another man’s Tease & Denial is another man’s …

You get my point?  Don’t you?

This doesn’t mean we’re running around every day salivating and humping and chomping our fetish fangs all over the place.  I mean that wouldn’t look very nice at church now, would it?  Plus it would make for a lot of dry cleaning.  In my REAL LIFE I  have tender and romantic sex, with the occasional wild and crazy encounter.  And if you want to know more about that … well, you’re going to have to at least buy me dinner.  🙂

But I am quite serious when I iterate that all of us have THE RIGHT to Feel Dirty.  It’s just one part of our multi-faceted sexual selves.  If we deny this part of us, harness our super powers (prayer, hobbies, nightly bouts of self-flagellation) and Just Say No to the Kryptonite (get out of my head, lewd thoughts and craven images), we’re really just perpetuating out-dated psycho-sexual mythology and carnal misconceptions.  And then inflicting this erroneous crap on ourselves and others. 

As a wise woman once told me:  Thou shalt not should on thyself.  I thought it was good advice at the time and I’ve always kept it handy for the occasional crisis of conscience. I would just hope we remember to not should on others, either.  

How about this for a bumper sticker: Eradicate Sexual Obscurantism! 

xo, Angela

Porno Person by Doktor Kosmos – B&W from Mike White on Vimeo.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Juice:  A Queerly Medical Fantasy

Doctor’s Visit

by Porno Person

My wife and I had been trying to get pregnant to no avail. I had grown up in a really toxic area and had the sinking feeling that my swimmers weren’t treading water.

I had been putting off this appointment for months. It’s not that I detest doctors or office visits; I simply can’t stand the whole "referral process" that requires me to see my regular doctor, knowing that he needs to send me to a specialist but has to set up on official referral. Such a crock. It’s a waste of my time, the doctor’s time, and everyone’s money.

I had expected a simple "jerk into a cup" kind of appointment with the specialist, Dr. Lan. What I got was something quite different.

We started with a series of questions. He wasn’t shy asking about how often I masturbate, the frequency of sex with my wife, and when both things had last occurred.

You would think that I would be fine admitting how frequently I jerk off but it still caught in my throat; the Catholic guilt runs deep. "Three times a week," I croaked and mentally added, "More, if I can." As for sex, after sixteen months of trying my wife seemed to put sex on indefinite hiatus. It had been two months since we’d last "engaged in copulation" (as the doctor put it).

He nodded to each of my responses and marked my chart.

His questions exhausted, I thought that now was the time for the cup and squirt. Far from it. He rolled his chair over next to the padded, paper-covered table on which I sat and cuffed my arm to take my blood pressure. I could smell his cologne, it was a nice counterpoint to the typical medical office odor.

He tore off the cuff when he was done and, like every doctor or nurse I’ve ever had, didn’t tell me the results.

And then began the part of the exam that I had never before experienced at a doctor’s office. He had me stand up and take off my shirt. While I did that he retrieved a tape measurer. He unspooled it and wrapped it around my chest with my arms down. Getting the number of inches he marked these on a chart next to a line drawing of a figure. He repeated the process around my stomach, around my shoulders, along one arm and then the other.

Initially I felt like I was being measured for a suit but quickly I found that Dr. Lan was being far more thorough in his assessment. Up and down my arm, even noting the length of my fingers.

He requested that I remove my pants as well and, once I was finished, he began unspooling the tape measurer down my legs, his fingers brushing under my buttocks.

He told me to turn around so he could do the same for the front. I was hesitant to do so as I found myself with the beginnings of a hard-on. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice, that he’d be too involved with my legs to not look at the bulge in my underpants.

All the way up and down my legs he worked, the warmth of his hands a welcome presence in the cool of the examination room. He knelt down as he took his myriad measurements, his head even with my crotch. Though I tried not to, it was then that I started thinking about Dr. Lan in sexual terms.

When standing he was a half a head taller than me. Handsome, with an strikingly handsome face. Far thinner than me, he was still muscular and, noting that his white coat was opened, I wondered what he might look like naked. I tried to shake these thoughts from my head as they continued to make my erection more prevalent.

Dr. Lan had me turn around again and walk across the room to watch the way my hips worked, checking for any kind of dysplasia. I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrored surfaces of the room, feeling ridiculous stripped down to my whity-tighties tented out with a hard-on. Worse, after walking away from him I had to walk back, I could feel my dick bobbing in my underpants and hoped that he didn’t notice it.

If he did, there was no reaction. Instead, he asked me to repeat my walk a few times before he had me walk in place. While I did so, he put his hands on my hips, pushing his fingers along my joints. Finally he let me stop and marked more notations on my chart. I tried to spy what all he was writing but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He got back up and, putting down his pen, donned a pair of rubber gloves.

"I need you to remove your underwear," he said. I felt my heart jump. As I lowered my underpants I half-expected to hear a cartoon sound effect, "Sproing!"

My "one-eyed snake" stared Dr. Lan in the face. Ignoring it, he reached underneath and grabbed onto my testicles. "Turn to the right and cough," he instructed. His hand felt wonderful on my balls. I wanted him to tug on them. I coughed for him and he had me repeat this a few times.

"I’m going to take your temperature," he said, getting up and going to his cabinet. I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling under my ass. As he returned with a thermometer he said, "I prefer to do it rectally."

I shrugged and got off of the table to turn around for him. "Reach back and spread your cheeks for me," he said. As I did I felt the cool of lubrication being applied to my sphincter. This gentle rubbing was all too quickly interrupted by the intrusion of the thermometer sliding inside of me. I stood there in this awkward position, my erection pressed between my body and the exam table and my hand spreading my ass cheeks for what seemed like an eternity, all the while one of his hands rested on my lower back.

His watch beeped and he took out the thermometer. He read it and put it aside before he began sliding his fingers gently inside of me. He slid them in deep until he began gently prodding my prostate gland. My cock jumped at his touch.

His fingers seemed to linger longer than maybe they should have as they continued to press against my prostate. I felt a tingle in my loins, the kind that comes with urination or orgasm, that "loss of control" sensation. I tried my best to resist it.

"Very good," he said, removing his gloves with a snap behind me.

"Please get up on the table," he instructed as he disposed of his gloves and donned a new pair.

I lay back on the table, my legs hanging off the edge and my cock waving.

Standing next to me, Dr. Lan looked down, a small white plastic cup in his hand, and said, "I need a sample of your sperm so I can test the motility. There are a few ways we can do this; you can manipulate yourself, I can give you a prostate massage, or I can give a prostate massage and manipulate you at the same time."

I gulped and wondered if he could be serious about his offer. Rather than repeating what he said I merely indicated, "The last one, please."

"In that case, I’d prefer if you kept your eyes closed." He reached into a drawer underneath the exam table and brought out some gauze. He unrolled a bit and placed it over my eyes. I lifted my head and he began wrapping the gauze around it until he was satisfied that I couldn’t see. I could still make out shapes and shadows but only through a white curtain.

After adding some more lubrication to his gloves, Dr. Lan reached down between my legs and to insert a finger inside of me again. This time he found my prostate immediately and began rubbing it softly. Meanwhile, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around my cock and began stroking me. His firm, sure grasp made me moan before I could even realize what I was doing.

I could hear the sound of lubrication squelching in my bottom as he began moving his finger in and out of me in time with his hand pumping my cock. It felt so good as he expertly jerked my cock.

"What do you usually think about when you masturbate?" he asked me. The question startled and embarrassed me. Moreover, it perplexed me. Did he want the truth or did he want to hear something that would please him? What would make him happiest to hear? Why was he asking? Was this turning him on too? Did he want to know so that he could fulfill my turn-on?

These questions flew through my mind while my mouth quietly uttered, "Sucking cock."

Again, I couldn’t believe that I had admitted this to anyone, much less this stoic physician. My body seemed to be in revolt. I wasn’t saying or doing what I thought was right, only what, apparently, was necessary. This became completely evident as I reached my hand out to where I thought the front of his slacks should be.

I found his cock tenting his pants and gently rubbed my palm against it. He felt huge and rock hard. I hoped that I wasn’t stroking his otoscope. His reaction made it clear that I wasn’t. He pushed himself against my hand and I felt the wonderful upward curve of his cock filling my fingers.

"Would it make it easier to ejaculate if you were holding that?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor."

He stopped stroking me and I heard the sound of his belt and zipper being undone, his pants falling to the floor with a jangle of keys and change. He put his hand back on me and I reached again for his cock, fumbling in the dark until my fingers found him and wrapped around him.

His cock felt wonderful, so hot and hard. I could feel the tendrils of pubic hair as my fist went down his length and the dribble of precum as I moved back up him again. I licked my lips and began jerking his cock in time with the way he stroked mine. "Tighter," he said. I obliged, tightening my grip on his manhood. He groaned in appreciation and I squeezed even more, so tight that it was difficult to stroke him completely. He helped by pumping his cock into my fist.

His cock was like a living relief map. I could feel the veins throbbing in my hand. He groaned again, I looked up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction but was unable to see anything but a blurry shadow through the gauze.

He plunged his fingers in deeper inside of me and I knew that I was going to cum soon. I felt him pushing me farther along, taking me to that place I love to go. Needing him there with me, I pumped him harder, faster.

His manipulation put me over the edge. I felt hot drops of spunk landing on my stomach. They were quickly joined by more on my chest as Dr. Lan began cumming. My hand was wrapped around him so tightly that I could feel the cum moving under my thumb as he drained himself onto me.

I didn’t want to take my hand off of him. I wanted more of him. I could feel his pulse pounding in my hand. He slowly removed his fingers from inside of me and took his hand off my cock. I did the same for him. He ran the plastic cup along my belly, collecting some of my ejaculate.

"That should be enough for testing," he said, the zip of his pants loud in my ear. "Though, we may need to take another sample if the lab can’t process this."

I felt him wiping me off with a wet towel, cleaning himself off of me, before he cut away the gauze over my eyes. I felt like proclaiming, "I can see!" but ruled that a little melodramatic. By the time I sat up on the table he looked as if nothing had happened.

He made one more mark on my chart before off-handedly saying that I’d have my results back in two weeks and to make a follow-up appointment at the front desk before leaving me to re-dress alone in the exam room. I made my appointment and knew I wouldn’t mind spending the money on my co-pay the next time I came around.

__________________________________

Ah, Porno Person.  He’s such a kinky guy and I simply adore him for it.  The man’s mind is a wicked, wicked place and perpetually in hyper-drive. 

Lucky for us.

Visit Porno Person’s blog, Prurient Interests, to be inspired, shocked, amazed and feel the overwhelming urge to masturbate furiously.

America, you’re a fat, sweaty bastard. For your sake, and for all of our sakes really, you need to embrace pornography.

You’re The Great Satan. You’re a canker sore in the mouths of countless people around the world. For every good thing you do, there are a dozen bad decisions you make, another hairy, beady-eyed war criminal painting his ugly visage on the yellow and orange slums of whatever Third World country you decided to rape this year. There are thoughtful, intelligent, decent people within your borders who embody the true meaning of the American Spirit…most of whom are crudely silenced by their overweight, dimwitted American counterparts.

You’re secretive. You love to lie. When you make a mistake, it takes you years to admit it. Basically, you’re the international equivalent of a terrible, cheating girlfriend. Except when the girlfriend makes mistakes, it results in a drunken argument at 3 am. When you, the USA, makes a mistake, it results in smart bombs blowing the turbans off numerous brown-skinned peoples.

People in the Third World hate you so much that they follow badly dressed psychopaths masquerading as heads of state. They hate you so much that they’ll blame you for anything; if the people of Venezuela are stricken with a nationwide case of hemorrhoids, Venezuelans will no doubt blame their predicament on CIA administered poison toilet paper. My friend, they hate you so much they’re willing to strap pretty much anything flammable to their chests and run screaming into your embassies. Hell man, some crazy bastards hated you so much they even crashed fuckin airplanes into buildings. And it wasn’t even an accident.

Now now, don’t get defensive. Millions of your citizens would jump to your defense, scream that America is an innocent and god-fearing nation, then proceed to slit our throats and burn Liberating Porn to the ground for uttering such unspeakable insults about their country, all in defense of the freedom of speech. You need to stop listening to your yes-men: the piss poor hicks, the capitalists raping the planet, the assbackward, football coach generals, the captains of the booming lapel flag industry. These people are sucking on your huge, glistening, red, white, and blue nipples. You need to listen to the citizens who love you, but don’t hesitate to call you out on your mistakes. These are the dissenters, the true and honest patriots of all stripes, the intellectuals, the generous middle class, the free thinking working class, poor, and disenfranchised. Or, as your most ardent supporters refer to them, ‘terrorists’.

There’s a reason why people hate you. Though you present yourself as a benevolent force for good, more often than not you act like a sniveling corporate douchebag. You’re in it for the money. You broker backdoor deals with thugs and gangsters from countries with unpronounceable names. And you cover it up. You’re a no good stinking liar. You sweep all your dirt under the couch, then kill the maid.

Sure, we could advocate nationwide revolution. Americans certainly have the weaponry to do this; compared to the average citizens of Camden, New Jersey, the resistance in Iraq looks like a squad of poor kids playing with Soviet Nerf guns. Having a handgun in Philadelphia is laughable; even the most peaceful, law abiding civilians are armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. Let’s not forget the bat-shit insane white people in the Midwest, more than a few of whom belong to paramilitary groups who are right now crawling through shrubbery, acting out their favorite scenes from Red Dawn.

No, instigating armed revolution is not our goal. Instead we suggest that you, America, embrace pornography. Millions of your citizens are avid fans, and very few of them harbor sexual perversions. Well perhaps they do, but these are mostly harmless perversions, legal everywhere in the country except in Texas (where half of the criminal population is on death row while the other half is elected for office).

Sexually uninhibited people are among the healthiest in America. They live longer, happier lives. Mental health-wise, they pop less Prozac. They raise better children. Most people who live happy, sexual lives are liberal in thought and action, open-minded, and tolerant of others. Rarely do they harm anyone, as it’s almost impossible to fly into a murderous rage when you’re getting laid on a regular basis.

Compare these liberated people to the flag waving denizens, the ugly, pimple-faced, angry children of America. Their evangelist says they can’t fuck for fun, so their bedrooms are dull places of god-fearing, supposed do-goodery. It’s not just the obvious nut jobs, either. We live in a democracy, and the angry, non-sex-having people vote for other angry, non-sex-having people. Angry, no-sex having people have done their best to ensure that you, America, come across as the same. But angry, no-sex having countries tend to bomb the piss out of a lot of people.

Yes, even with our new President, we at Liberating Porn fear for you, America. You need to put down the anti-abortion sign with that dead baby picture, smoke a doob and take it easy. Because even with B-rock in the Oval Office, you’re still filled with anger, still the jock doofus who shows off the Lexus his rich daddy bought him. For Christ’s sake, look at you. You’re at those stupid evangelical churches all the time then you finger-bang old men in truck stops. You’re a walking contradiction, a Great Satan that decorates brutal, elitist capitalism with Wal-Mart party balloons and Big Macs while your citizens die fat and poor. Please stop defending your actions with failed ideology. You misinterpret Adam Smith, demonize intellectuals, and have yet to hold a press release to inform the masses that Ayn Rand was a giant cunt.

Embracing porn may not fix all of your problems, but it will help you be honest. Naked people cannot hide much. It’s hard to keep a lobbyist in your pocket if you’re not wearing pants. Let us see your warts, so that we can have a doctor remove them.

So let your cock out, America. Put on a skin flick and crank one out. Hell, you can call Canada over to the house. She’s a sweet chick. We hear that she’s down for just about anything, given that she can get all types of crazy drugs from her free clinics. (Let your beard grow in; Miss Canada loves guys who look like lumberjacks or hockey players.) Get your nut off, experience some free love, then see how you feel in the morning.

With love,

Mitch and Chip — LIBERATING PORN

______________________________

I don’t know Mitch and Chip, but I sure as hell like what they’ve got to say.  Mostly, it’s what I’ve been saying all along, but they say it more  — um — in-your-face poetically than I ever could. 

In fact, it turns me on so much that I’m masturbating to this essay.

… every.  fucking.  word.  of it.

I could say a lot more.  Oh my darlings, soooo much more.  But I want you to savor THEIR WORDS, not mine.  Maybe later.