Viewing the local antiquities

On Saturday 
I do my shopping at 2:00.

And then again at 4:00.


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Friday pussy blogging 

Yes, black and white does represent volume better than color ever can...

From the continually astonishing lili:



LAST WEEK Venus anadyomene.

Why doggy style is stlll my favorite position 

Her cheeks are restsoftful to sink in like the well-worn armchair that greets me at the end of a long day: I throw my head back and grip them:

What good sound she gives me, as I steady myself into a beat: muffled, dull, resilient, repetitive: an energy absorbing whumpf: At impact, the sound reminds me of my mother beating a rug in the back yard, back in the day when Hoovers were rare; a sound heard down the block when housewives were working, their hair up in kerchiefs; a sound that reminds me of Annie's.

From a kneeling start I accelerate down the track, plant myself, then leap into flailing climax: a broad-jump: but instead of a sandy pit and measurements taken, coos and grunts: Angel kegeling now:

Her sticky cunt smiles round my aftercomes: Still mounted on her, still up her, erect, I bend forward, lay myself down along the length of her back, as she smiles again: Nuzzle her neck as she smiles: my belly to her back, my crotch at her ass, my thighs at her thighs, my knees either side of her legs, my feet next to her feet.

In the wall mirror at left, a pretty picture: She on all fours, skin tan, her head down; Me kneeling behind her, draped over her, enveloping her, skin pink, my head next to hers. I slide my head back and rest my cheek on her shoulderblade.

She came; perhaps she came; she might have come—she sweats when she comes, and her back is moist; are her nipples engorged? I reach both hands under her, find both her breasts—twin volumes, galoptious—perform the inspection: Yes, long and hard. Cupping her breasts, I jounce them gently, scissor her nipples: She smiles around me again.

I never thought of talking during the act, or during penetration; talk was for my gift or her cigarette: Now, still up her and hard:

"Caviar girl..."

Her voice comes from beneath me: "Do you remember the first time you came to see me?"

One flesh.


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Lili G. 
tagged me! What an honor. Coming...

NOTE Lili G is a Friday Pussy Blogger Emeritus, not just once, but twice.


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Legalize it 

Don't criticize it.

DirtyTalkingGirl keeps sending me useful links, and I keep forgetting to post them and thank her. Here's one such: passionate arguments, pro and con, about unionizing prostitutes in Spain.

The comment thread poses a dichotomy between legalizing prostitution and helping people to leave (or escape) it. My view (granted, an interested and partial one) is that this dichotomy is false. In fact, the contrary is true:
To legalize the Life is to enable people to leave it, because legalization makes the whore's exit strategy—i.e., recycling her earnings into the aboveground economy—so much cleaner.
Granted, legalization doesn't directly address the issue of human trafficking; but that social evil will continue until, at a minimum, there is a minimum worldwide wage.


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NOTE DirtyTalkingGirl is a Friday Pussy Blogger Emeritus; in fact, the first at VLA.

Did the mama-san just ask me for a date? 

"How was the massage?"

"The best ever." As it was.

"And the other?"

I gesture: So so. I'd paid for two penetrations, gotten one, but been compensated with two hours of imaginative, thorough massage, beginning with a table shower where she detailed my entire body with a scrub brush, and ending with the blood singing in my scalp. Afterwards, she lit up a cigarette, smoked half, stubbed it out, then wrapped the stub carefully up in a tissue. "Scratchy," the mama-san said, before my whore took me upstairs. "You see."
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And now, in the green room, the table is laid with chopsticks and Korean savories: Pale orange sliced rounds of radishes, kimchee, chewy potatoes steeped in soy sauce with hot peppers and onions, an egg dish with tofu and chives.

The mama-san shouts downstairs: Jennifer! and for a moment I think she hasn't recycled the name, but No, not gracile Jennifer (newly endowed): a big tall slow heavy-eyed girl belting a white fluffy bathrobe round her amplitude.

She and the other whores squat round the table: the whore I just had, in clean flowered flannel pajamas: a tiny overly even-tanned half-breed in pink hot pants: a too-tall girl with a long face:

Each of them pointedly not eating the "spare ribs," which, under the sauce, seem not pig's knuckles, but elbows, or even knees. By what theory does she invite me to dinner? Can she imagine that, seeing me make a polite show of eating the ribs, the whores will eat such meat willingly?

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"Where do you buy your meat?"

"Korean Market."

"Try Central Market."

"Where's that?"

"Right near here; downtown."

"I don't know that."

"Of course, you don't leave the house!"

"No, I live in the bainlieu. You show me; we drive there."


VLA #3 in Japan! 

For certain specialized searches, that is.

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And I confess to savoring the picture of a Japanese john reading post #3, and trying to work out which perverse acts are implied by tutoyer...


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Gilt-edged dumpsters 
in the slant of sweet light: silver-rimmed puddles archipelago in the alley's dark tarmac: skewed shadows of fire escapes fret black the red brick:

"When I was a hostess, in Phuket, I would sit every night with a client and look over the ocean; every night was a beautiful sunset."


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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