"Can we, as a country, all
spent my entire life trying to please women. It's very
important that my lady partners experience maximum pleasure
when they go
a-layin' with me. I actually get more pleasure giving
them an orgasm than I do having an orgasm.
It sounds selfless, but it's actually a power thing. I
like the power of making their bodies shake. And I've
become good at it. I've pleased some of them so much,
they have a pathological inability to ever let go of me.
such an obsessive need to please women has sometimes rendered
me a two-pump chump between the sheets, and that's what
I'm here to discuss. I've had so many humiliating sexual
experiences, it's a wonder I haven't killed myself. Or
at least gone permanently limp.
been a limp noodle and a quick shooter. I've been horrifyingly
impotent, my cock a wrinkled baby turtle afraid to poke
out its head. There was a time...recently...when, naked
in bed with a girl, I came all over my leg even before
I had a chance to stick it in her and then had to try
and clean up the mess before she noticed.
pitiful creatures we are. Mother Nature places us on a
giant stage and then laughs at us. She gives us bodies
that often betray us in nasty, nasty ways. We are animals,
but we are also something more than animals, and it's
this "something more" part which always ruins sex. You
never hear of impotence or premature ejaculation in the
anxiety, the perpetual affliction of the sexually insecure,
works a cruel, wicked inversion upon its victims. With
mathematical precision, concern for one's performance
works in inverse proportion to the actual performance
that results. Self-consciousness, for all its good intentions,
works against you. Sex is always worse when you're worried
about making it better. And the less you care, the better
you'll perform. This is a natural law and has never been
WORSE than not being able to get it up or cumming too
quick? How about cumming too quick before you've even
fully gotten it up? That happened to me about a year ago
at a cathouse just south of Reno.
a white guy who doesn't feel guilty for being white, but
I also enjoy having sexual relations with Negro women.
And before you call me a racist for using the word "Negro,"
ask yourself this--have YOU had sex with three Negresses
like I have? That's right, I said it--THREE of 'em! I
had Jungle Fever back before it was cool, byaaaatch! Black
women smell like honey, candle wax, and a hint of chicken
soup, and that's all right with this here peckerwood.
I like black chicks and they like me, so ya betta check
yo'self before ya wreck yo'self.
met my first Negress sex toy around the time I graduated
from college. She was a dark-skinned, big-booty sista
from Allentown, Pennsylvania, who was so shy she used
to undress underneath the sheets, but once you got her
goin'...rrrroowW! A real jungle cat. But come to
think of it, I once had trouble getting it up with her
after I'd blown off half my face snorting coke.
have severe problems with the idea of paying for sex,
but when someone offers you a free hooker, what do you
expect me to do? Early last summer, a friend of Exotic's
gave me and my entire travelin' crew a free pass at a
Reno whorehouse. As I exited the blinding desert heat
and entered the dark, icy-cold, high-tech bordello, the
hookers lined up obediently in the front parlor. Wearing
my gray Rebel soldier hat, I went straight for a nineteen-year-old
dark-chocolate chick from Watts with a flat nose, big
bubble butt, and greasy Jheri-curl ringlets. She said
her name was "Bamboo."
"It was an awfully
weak orgasm, and I felt like an absolute
idiot for blowing my load so quickly.
I told her I'd already cum, she laughed out loud."
escorted me to a service desk and told the madame that
I had chosen her for a private "party." We retired to
her small room. She lit some incense, turned on the black
light, and flicked on her boombox to some buttery soul
we lounged around her bed sipping soft drinks, she told
me she only
started hooking in Nevada two weeks ago in order to get
money while her man languished in LA County Jail. I'm
sort of surprised I didn't get a huge erection merely
from listening to her hard-luck story. I wanted to reenact
the Watts riots between her legs.
I was thinking too much, and that's always a bad thing.
I started feeling that dreadfully familiar stony/frozen
apprehension. I explained to her that I felt weird because
there's something...artificial about having sex
with a hooker.
My whole head trip revolves around
knowing that the chick likes me and
is willing to lose control with me, but a
hooker...well, she's like a paid temp worker.
but I'm attracted to you," she said, with no way
of me knowing whether or not it
was a lie. "I think I might even have an orgasm with you."
try, honey, but I wasn't getting hard. She wiped off my
pee-pee, still pathetically shriveled, with an antiseptic
wet-nap before trying to apply a condom. My pathetic wormy
half-hard bone-bone nuzzled itself halfway up the condom
before shooting a meager milky spurt right as she was
putting on the rubber. Blop...blop...blop...a few
quick, anxious squirts into the rubber, and I was down
for the count. I didn't even get a chance to stick it
in her. It was an awfully weak orgasm, and I felt like
an absolute idiot for
blowing my load so quickly. When I told her I'd
already cum, she laughed out loud. "I'm da bomb!"
she shouted, thinking that her pulsating sexual heat was
what forced me to shoot my gunk so quickly. No, she had
almost nothing to do with it. It's all about me and my
THAT NIGHT, I was talking in the whorehouse parking lot
with another black girl, a huge, stomping, Chaka Khan-styled
hippo with a happy-happy, fun-fun personality. Wearing
a swirly, leopard-patterned sarong thing, she said she
was a fan of my writing. Then, out of nowhere, she offered
to blow me for free in the front seat of her car, which
was parked right in front of the cathouse entrance. Wow...two
Negro girls in the same night in this almost-all-white
state! Go, white boy, go! I became excited by the idea
of getting caught and possibly lynched by an angry, torch-bearing
mob of Nevadans. I unzipped my jeans and pulled it out.
had no problem getting really hard. I was proud of my
white-boy cock as her big bushy hair bobbed up and down
on my lap. She stopped to compliment my dick and then
kept sucking. She was good at it, too. I arched my back
and shot a mighty load down her throat. Over a late-night
breakfast at a greasy restaurant, she later told me she
used to hook for a living and is now a madame at a whorehouse
across town. A few days later she met up again with me
in LA and we got a hotel room for the night. No problems
at all. We both get off. The next day she drove me down
the coast to San Diego, and white boy got a severe sunburn.
why no performance anxiety in this case? Because this
girl wasn't getting paid to do it...she wanted to
do it. And that made all the difference to me. I enjoy
being worshipped by women. If that makes me an asshole,
well, just hope this asshole doesn't shit in your mouth.
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