This is for the gang, especially Kurippi [aka Mr.19] because he thought this movie's precursor was snubbed at the Oscars. For days I had to console Nineteen after Oscar nomination day. But there is hope, in the form of this golden DVD dropped down by the hand of God straight from heaven:

The Butterfly Effect. "Now even more buttery."

I'm weak.

Holy fucking shit did this movie stench up my apartment. To the pits of hell is where it will return (i.e., Blockbuster).

Bay Street, barbecue, and boo-tay

A day was had at the Emreryville outdoor shopping center across the bay from San Francisco. I go to this area usually to get my IKEA fix; today, it was an Asquew Grille fix. Its a place that specializes in skewers, like barbecue chicken with grilled and buttered corn-on-the-cob, with the best mashed potatoes around, all for an affordable price. That's Asquew Grille, across the bay for your dining needs.

Today, my dinner was half a barbecue chicken.

Bay Street shopping center.

My Asian pussy strays too far from her master. Needless to say she got her "warning."

The definition of irony.

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K

By the time my Hong Kong cream puff gets back from her day trip, I've emptied four loads on tokyotopless.com. Tokyo Topless is an interesting website in that many of the girls are photographed from the chin down and all boast huge natural breasts. Me being a breast man, I love it. Especially the Japanese-style anonymity of everything.

They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.

My dick is over-jacked and swollen from unlubed palming. It pokes out like a beggar's index finger aiming a stranger down a village road. I've just showered and dressed. My Asian pussy needs to fill the gas tank for tomorrow's business trip. I need to buy some beer.

In the car she starts talking about blow jobs. This is one of my favorite topics. By the time the gas station attendant tops off the tank, I'm boasting a full-blown stiffy. We pull up to convenience store. I stand and smile at the group of twenty-something girls and guys sitting at a picnic table near the door. Suddenly all four of them burst into laughter. \\

Now I'm a big white guy. I get a lot of looks in China. People smile. Maybe attempt some English. But I'm not used to this level of attention. I feel their eyes on me. Their laughter saws at my ears.

Just when I'm trying to figure out what's happening, my wife shouts, "What the fuck is wrong with you! Your cock's swinging everywhere!"

I scramble into the store. Now that she mentions it, I do feel a little unbound. My mammoth member sway with my steps. It points straight out, tenting my pants. After showering, I'd neglected to don underwear. I'd just thrown on zipped off Structure (yeah, back before they rebranded as "Express for Men" to show you how often I clothes-shop) cargo pants. The top button came off during a holiday pie spree. The zipper sags, providing the masses with an unwelcome shot of my creeping pubic hair. I wear shitty Wal-Mart slippers and neglected toe-nails.

Inside, I ditch the idea of beer and go straight for the slurpy machine. I pile the mango flavored ice high. I spoon it with the straw. My wife unzipped her purse to pay. Her office lady clothing gives her an austere elegance.

On my way out the door, my audience chides me further. "Whip that motherfucker out!" a guy hollers in wispy Mandarin. I bow my head and enjoy my slurpy, trying not to make eye contact with their giggly girl friends. Some things are best left alone. They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.

Labels: Best of

Blowjob in a can

Japanese inventions know no limit of creativity, especially when it comes to solo endeavors

Back during Q-Pounder's single-but-not-frequently-getting-laid era, a close friend returned from Japan with a souvenir that shed some pink on my hopelessly pale shaft. What has since come to be called the "blow job in a can" came to the rescue during one lonely weekend.

The can sat in my medicine cabinet for a few days, serving as a cheap evening laugh when I applied my rogaine before going to sleep (I've since given up on that shit. Nothing can stop these manic hormones coursing through me). The tube, roughly six inches in depth, was as wide as a lubed-up fist. Katakana words like "realistic" and "intense" striped the cardboard exterior. Just beneath its Pringles-style cap, a thin wall of pink foam glistened with lube. It was sliced like an asterisk symbol.

"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.

One night, after watching short free porn clips (this was before peer-to-peer and torrent took off), I decided to give it a toss. I whipped out my fat yellow bastard and poked him through the pink wall. His shiny tip slid past the flap of foam and into a long band of tight rubber. After some elbow grease, I was in. The rubber membrane stretch to accommodate my mighty girth. I flopped onto my floored mattress and stared up at the popcorn spray-on ceiling of my cookie-cutter dry wall apartment.

If only Andy Warhol had been near by with a camcorder. What he would have captured would not have deviated from the splendor of his finest short film, Blow job, a ten minute video of a guy's face while he's getting a blow job. It was that intense. That real. The katakana hadn't lied. I splooged in a minute flat.

It was, at the time, the best blow job I'd ever had, and I'd had many. (My wife, of course, can deep throat, suck really hard and massage my balls, so obviously this can wasn't on par with her. But this was before I'd met my Hong Kong cream puff). The rubber tube locked downlike a python. The lube, while slick, didn't soak into my tender skin. The foam padding near the end of the tube cushioned my thrusts like a swollen cervix. I blew my load, fully dressed, my feet spasming on the carpet and eyes rolled back in my head. I leaned forward, withdrew, then capped the can and put it back in the medicine cabinet. A strong wave of post-orgasm effect overtook me. I felt giddy. Lazy. I feared the need for pillow talk. I wanted to go do other manly things.

Twenty minutes later I spilled through my door, hard-on in hand, and scoured the medicine cabinet. I booted my computer (in vane. I was to blow my wad well before Microsoft's obnoxious "welcome" screen appeared). I jammed in my cock. The foam "cherry" was no longer intact. The rubber tubing and lube, however, worked like new. Add to this the creamy aesthetic of sloppy seconds. I popped in no time, capped it off, then tossed it in the medicine cabinet and forgot about it.

The next day, a routine visit from a close friend ended in near disaster. "So this is your new place!" my friend exclaimed, stepping through the front door and folding his sunglasses. He eyed the ugly fireplace and thrift-store furniture. He shrugged. "Not bad." Hot on his tail was his own piece of Asian pussy. She walked through and lit the room with her smile before she quickly lost interest in my bland quarters.

"So, uh," I said, knowing I should make this quick, "You wanna see my room?"

They piled in and explored the bookshelf. The young Asian asked, "Can I go to the bathroom?"

My friend and I sat on the mattress and looked at the unframed art prints I'd bought at Hobby Lobby. The toilet flushed. The girlfriend stepped out with an innocent expression. "Wow. Your bathroom's pretty clean for a bachelor."

"Of course," I said, stepping in and showing them the wing of tiled chamber that served as my closet. "Gotta keep the place together in case a young Asian kitten shows up on my doorstep lost and meowing for milk."

The girl nodded, perhaps not getting the then nonexistent reference to an exploit of a fellow Asian Pussy Pounder. She opened the cabinet. "So this is where you keep your toothpaste and stuff?" she asked.

I was frozen, watching her hoist herself onto her tip-toes and reach for the top shelf. The neurons in my brain shook off their residual THC long enough to piece together a horrific prophesy.

"What's this? Realistic? Intense?" She squinted at the katakana. She popped the top.

"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.

The top drifted toward the linoleum tile like a feather jilted from an owl's coat. The pink opening glowed with bubbly white jism. The Asian watched the can roll toward the toilet. Only when it stopped rolling could she make out the characters along the side that specified its purpose. She shrieked. She embraced my friend and together they howled like radiated puppies.

The apartment tour was over. I was alone again. I locked the door behind my fleeing friends and sulked on my mattress. I looked up. The can was still there, oozing yesterday's loads onto the tile. I snatched it up and cursed it. "I should have thrown you away long ago!" I barked. I froze over the trash can, staring down the knocked back teeth and cum-bubble uvula of passion.

There would be no make-up sex. Only break-up sex. I fucked that can like it was my last request before a firing squad. Then I chucked it in the complex dumpster. Maybe some bum found it. Gave it a little last minute loving on its way to the landfill.

After that, I tried to put the can out of mind. But it was always there, taunting me while I was suffering through teeth-scraping blow jobs or girls with head colds that had to stop every thirty seconds to breath. That perfect blow job. That mouth with no voice.

If anyone is planning a trip to Japan, please bring me back a six-pack. I'll reimburse you. That way next time my wife complains about a sore throat, I can just pop the top and tell her to shake it.

Labels: Best of

Crying blowjob

Long before Q-pounder settled into commitment with high grade Hong Kong cream puff, Japanese was vogue. Hiroko, a nineteen year old nurse, was preparing for a career of changing diapers and bathing horny old men. Based in Yokohama, she commuted daily to Tokyo for class.

I met her in a swank coffee shop near Harajuku. The same day Morning Mesume, a forgettable J-pop band staring a bunch of preschool girls, drew fans from around the city. I dragged Hiroko from the coffee shop out through the throngs of fanboys. Her tall frame, chunky chest and perpetually confused face agreed with me, and sailed behind as I hacked through sweaty summer bodies with my elbows the way Crocodile Dundee does it with a machete. I made my move at the train station. A playful peck on the cheek before darting onto the subway and taking leave of her. She was hooked.

She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.

The next day, well jacked-off and ready to claim my pussy prize, I waited in Shibuya, swapping instant messages asking where the fuck she was. We were supposed to meet at three. Like a whipped bastard, I stuck around until five, trying to ignore the scandalously-dressed teens lapping melty ice cream cones on a nearby bench. I eventually found out, thanks to her shitty English she'd insisted on using over my Japanese, that she'd never intended to meet up that day. She thought we were talking about two days from then. Furious, I stepped into the street, macked on random girls, then ran home to get drunk and eat grilled meat with old guys hanging around the train station.

Misunderstanding or not, she'd wasted the bulk of my afternoon and lots of train fare. She'd blown it off with a light apology. I wanted revenge. Two days later, when we met at an equidistant train station, I did what any angry man would do. I took her home. I fucked the shit out of her. I used the most vulgar, demeaning Japanese I knew, and it was pretty rough considering I learned it from former Kansai gangsters. Hiroko loved it. She was shocked at my every command. You wouldn't have guessed from her nervous reactions, her flinching eyes, but she was loving every word of my demeaning commands. Take off your top. Suck my balls. She did whatever I said. And she always came back.

Flash forward two weeks. I'm thin like a heroine addict from too little expensive Japanese food. Hiroko's been living with me in my cramped hotel room. I've been sleeping all day. She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.

Hiroko isn't happy. Five minutes have passed and I have yet to fill her mouth with cream of corn. She looks up at me with, "can't we just fuck" eyes. I palm the back of her head and drive deeper.

I look up at the clock. Ten minutes have passed. She's gagging and nodding off, tired from all her bobbing. She wants to stop. "Continue!" I bark in the rude command form.

After fifteen minutes, I'm still nowhere close. Her teeth keep grazing my shaft. Her rhythm is erratic. This is going nowhere.

Twenty minutes. I look into her eyes. She's crying with exertion. She's never given a blowjob like this before. Maybe never more than 30 seconds, just to wet the tip and get it sliding in without snags. She'll make it, I think to myself.

Twenty five minutes. I'm still not close. She sniffles and looks up at me with her defeated eyes. I jack myself off for a minute then jam it back into her mouth and blow my wad. She swallows.

She never gave me a "full" blowjob again after that. I never asked her. She was dumb, and she didn't know how to say no. She didn't have much self respect. So she liked me. And me, the kind of guy I was back then? Yeah, I liked her too.

Labels: Best of, Sexploit