Once in a Blue Agave Moon: “…but wait!…there’s More!

Chapter Seventeen, Part Two

(Jed):

“I have to admit that I’ve lost track of how many languages Amy speaks, but she usually manages to communicate or at least listen to make sure they’re not talking shit about us right under our noses.”

(Leigh-Ann):

”More often than not, somebody involved on the other end tries to ‘re-negotiate’ the deal at the last minute, but you won’t find a better haggler than her; in fact I’ve even seen her raise the price just to teach them a lesson for trying, with all of us ready to walk on her cue. But here’s the really beautiful part…she can argue any angle from either direction, and make it sound like the only option to take.”

“It works like this: she knows how to play the egos of any man she deals with because she always gives them a way to feel good about themselves when they do business with her because she never lets her real intelligence show unless she absolutely has to; but even if she has to put them in their place, she gives them some kind of out so they can pretend to have won by doing what she wanted in the first place.”

“She says that all those psychology courses gave her insights into channelling talents she already possessed.”

“All I can say is that it’s a gift she has; twenty years ago we weren’t exactly the best of friends, but we’ve both learned a great deal since then, and have developed a mutual admiration and I can tell you right here and now that to observe her working a deal is a thing of beauty.”

“Rebel also brings her tattoo gear along. I don’t think we have ever made a trip out that somebody hasn’t wanted to trade something extremely valuable or desirable for one of her works of art. It’s getting so that people look out for us just to meet her. She has  a growing cult of fans that keep driving up the value of her work.”

“She is more or less considered the visionary artist of the Apocalypse. People are again starting to believe that certain talismans and symbols impart invulnerability to their wearers; hell, she won’t ever consider doing a tat unless she looks into their soul first; she calls it scrying…learned it from her grandmother.”

“But she picked up Wicca after she left Virginia; after her grandma died she started studying Shamanism from the local Cherokee, Algonquin and Chickahominy tribes.”

“There are places we go where we get safe passage just because she is with us. I’m not saying she doesn’t have some kind of miraculous talent, but  the worse that times get, the more that people turn to the Meta realm for protection.”

“Taken on balance, we are something between Santa Claus, a carnival, a traveling medicine, monster truck and gun show, and a flea market, except we are very scrupulous about making sure that everyone feels they got a fair trade for whatever they want, which is usually something nobody else has, or better quality than what is available elsewhere.”

(Rebel):

“We also give a lot of shit away to the locals. If we shoot a wild hog or a deer, we cook for everyone who shows up until it’s all gone. Our barbecues are famous. We also fix fish, ‘gator or frogs when they are available, as well as cabbage palm, which is called ‘swamp cabbage’ here in the Southeast.”

“We like to bring the party with us wherever we go, but the goodwill it generates is something we kind of stumbled onto while we were out on the road.”

(Jed):

“Nobody with even a little bit of good sense wants to rob or harm us…and if anybody tried, the locals everywhere would come to our rescue (if we actually needed it) because we are loved, needed AND feared.”

(Rebel):

“In fact, about six months ago, this drunk asshole tried to put his hands all over Amy; it was almost sundown…called her a slut and ripped her shirt off…really big guy, a truly intimidating bully…with a very bad rep in that area…got used to getting his way with the locals.”

“He jumped her from behind, but before she could even get up, people came out of nowhere and beat the living shit out of him. They hog-tied him and said they were going to lynch him right then and there.”

“I sure didn’t have any problem wth that; if they hadn’t grabbed him first I would have taken him out right then and there, but Jed stepped up and told them all to stop…the guy was already beat so bad that I doubted that he could have survived anyway, but Jed not only talked them out of it, but then he had Leigh-Ann treat his injuries, set his broken bones and even gave him antibiotics.”

“I thought Jed was nuts at first; called him a pussy for not standing up for Amy…(not in front of anyone else of course) but I didn’t see the logic in doing that. I thought it would hurt our rep, but the guy also had a family; wife and kids, parents, brothers and sisters.”

“So Jed starts talking to what was for all intents and purposes a very self-righteous lynch-mob. The guy was still unconscious and bleeding very badly. Jed thanked them all for standing up to this guy that had intimidated them all for years…turns out he used to be the sheriff in fact…he praised them for their courage, but then he said ‘look…you proved that you don’t have to fear him anymore, but if you kill him, you better kill his whole family right then and there, ‘cause they will want revenge.’ Then he said mercy is a luxury of the powerful and the wise, and how justice is not compromised by kindness, so give him just one more chance to see the error of his ways.”

“But then Jed added that if he steps out of line just one more time, take out his whole family…even the kids, and if they think they can’t handle it, get on the radio and let him know because we will personally come back and do it ourselves…no mercy, no prisoners, no survivors, and zero possibility for revenge.”

“We stayed on until he was well enough to understand we meant business, and made sure his whole family knew the consequences if they didn’t all behave. His parents were elderly, and embarrassed by him because they already knew he was a cruel piece of shit. They were old-fashioned Southern Baptists, so Jed knew just how to  appeal to their Christian values, and the rest of the family was just glad to still be alive.”

“Now every time we go back there, the locals all come to Jed for advice, like he was fuckin’ Solomon or something, but that story has made the rounds all  over Florida, so most people know not to fuck with us,”

“A few have tried…but….(Jed’s voice trails off as he stares at Chiana.)

(Leigh-Ann smiles slightly, looks down and shakes her head, sighs, and resumes control):

“Rebel even does a full-body armor tattoo that involves having the subjects allow themselves to be bitten by a rattlesnake before she soul-gazes into their eyes in a sweat lodge.”

“Apparently, it’s part of an Apache warrior’s ritual with just a touch of Yakuza and a dash of VooDoo.”

“She’s become the closest equivalent  to a rock star that these times have produced…so far…except for the ArchAngels, who were already famous.”

Elliott and Chiana exchanged glances at the mention of the ArchAngels; they had become fans of the band before the Armageddon Virus hit the reset button on all Western Civilization up to that point.

(Elliott):

“The ArchAngels!…are they still around?”…I mean, after the shit hit the fan, that was pretty much the end of mass media, I thought.”

(Leigh-Ann just laughed as she shook her head, smiling and wetting her lips with her tongue as she rolled her eyes.):

“Well, yes, as far as national sales of just about anything like that, I’d say you were right, but…but just stop to consider that where they live, they are the local talent…well, there’s a lot more to that story to be covered later. I didn’t mean to take us so far off topic just yet.”  There was a glimmer of a sly smile as she re-directed the conversation back to her original destination.

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

copyright  ©  March 13th, 2021  

Fish swim with the tides, in and out of the lagoon as it empties itself, receives from, and flows back into the sea.

*ALL REFERENCES TO ANY PERSONS CONFIRMED STILL LIVING IS PURELY CO-INCIDENTAL…AND THE DEAD ARE TOO BUSY LAUGHING AT US TO CARE.

In My Perfect World

 

If priests had any idea whatsoever about useful or reasonable counseling of their parishioners regarding real life advice, we might anticipate a scenario such as this:

(Interior single-lens over-the shoulder shot of a penitent inside a confessional booth; only the silhouette of the confessor is seen as lit by the dim image of the priest as seen through the ornate screen separating the two.)

“Father, forgive me. I cannot stop sinning; I masturbate at least a dozen times a day. It’s all I can think about, even at work. cold showers, prayer and meditation, even imagining the Mother Superior naked…which is not an attractive image at all…”

“Yikes! You can say that again!…no…come to think about it, please don’t…I have to eat lunch in an hour.”

“Nothing seems to work. It takes up all my time, energy, imagination, and I spend almost all my money on internet porn….

What shall be my penitence?”

A conspicuous silence follows as the priest strokes his short, neatly trimmed beard.

“Hmmmm…I know exactly what is needed here. I am going to give you one hundred dollars from the poor box. I want you to take it and go down to the docks where the hookers stand.”

“You will find a young woman there named Erin O’Clogherty; you can’t miss her…she is quite beautiful. She has a gorgeous head of chestnut hair, fine alabaster skin and jade-green eyes.  You may even recognize her; she sings regularly in our choir.”

“Go to no one else, even wait for her if she is not there when you arrive…do you understand?”

“Yes Father, but what should I do?”

“Well, first of all pay careful attention to what I am telling you, and stop touching yourself…you are going to need all your strength for this.”

“Yes Father.”

“Offer her the hundred dollars to go out with you for dinner and a movie.”

“I want you to go to Marino’s that Italian restaurant about six blocks from here. Their family is in our parish, and they have fallen on hard times despite their excellent cuisine…I’m afraid it’s because of the neighborhood; they’ve lived here for three generations and they don’t want to leave, but that’s another matter….”

“They will appreciate your business, and tell them I sent you. They will understand; Mario will probably give you a wink or two, but trust me, you will not be disappointed. Tip them very generously…this part will all come out of your pocket, by the way; it’s part of your penitence and you can afford it considering what you pay for internet pornography.”

“Are you paying attention?”

“Yes Father.”

“After dinner, I want you to walk her to the movie theater around the corner. It doesn’t matter what’s playing, I want you to go to that theater only.”

“Throughout dinner, and after the movie, be sure to compliment her for how lovely she looks, but don’t go on about it in a salacious way…just notice her for who she truly is.”

“Listen to every word she says and engage her in conversation, but don’t try to impress her with what you have to say; If you two were dancing, I would instruct you to let her lead. She has a sharp wit and an imaginative sense of humor, so it won’t be difficult.”

“Offer to drive her home. She has to use a baby-sitter to watch her three young children, and she has no one else ever since her abusive alcoholic husband abandoned her to run off to Miami with the neighbor’s wife, which taken on balance was probably a blessing for both families, because Molly was quite the tramp, and broke her poor husband’s heart as well.”

“Walk her up to the house. I am quite sure if you mind your manners, she will invite you in; don’t worry, the children will already be asleep.”

“I can guarantee you will not be disappointed, so see to it that she is not either. Her emotional and physical needs should come first…if you’ll pardon the pun.” 

“Is that my penance, Father?…I am not sure that I understand…”

“Well, in case it wasn’t obvious, all of the parties involved…even the family that owns the theater are members of this parish, and each has the ability to help the others.”

“The Marinos need the business, and dinner will be a proper way to begin the evening; Erin needs not just the money, but the validation of her worth as a human being who is valued for more than just her body…and YOU definitely need to get out more often!”

 

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

02/27/2017

And Now for Something Completely Different…

This is a copy of an engraving I purchased at a sidewalk art show on the Jersey shore in the summer of 1971.

It is an unsigned print by an author named Hans Bellmer, a German Surrealist/Dada/Erotic artist of exceptional talent.

It is entitled Madame Eduarda. At the time I bought it, I had no idea of who he was or the significance of his works.

I thought I would share it with our readers; If it appeals to you, I would highly recommend looking him up on the internet. He was incredibly prolific, and there are many images of his works there.

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

 

 

 

Favorites #5

Our Seventy-Two Hour Honeymoon

Elope with me for a weekend
together at my villa
in Dreamland,
built on the grounds
of an abandoned test range
for nuclear sex toys,
dangerous dildos,
poison plastic peckers from China,
toxic-waste jellies
and flammable lube.
(…don’t worry, it’s safe now…
the Night Porter told me so….)
Besides,
who wants to live forever?
We can consort in feigned anonymity
like secret agents
in a room so dank with the scent
of our co-minglings
that if it could rain indoors
we’d be drenched
in a spooge monsoon.
Be my bride on Friday,
my lover on Saturday,
my Slave-girl Sunday morning
my Mistress in the afternoon.
I’ll sit on a footstool
at the end of a giant bed
as you sit there naked
on a great silver tray,
like a glorious helping of wedding cake
in a banquet hall
while I stick my tongue
between the layers
to lick out the icing
‘til my face is covered
in frosting
and you are but a puddle
of satisfaction
reflecting the Moon.
Run away with me for the weekend.
We can visit historic Key West
as seen from the inside
of a forty-dollar room.
We’ll drink rum and tequila
straight from the bottle
like smugglers
and pose for each other,
taking
pornographic pictures,
brandishing guns and knives,
wearing bandoleers
(maybe even take a hostage or two…)
We can howl like coyotes
in love with the Moon,
then blame it all on the peyote,
or maybe the ‘shrooms….
Where we will be going,
there is no room service,
leaving us
to service each other
at will.
Anything is possible at Hotel Dreamland.
I have a suite of rooms
reserved there always
and the doorman
already knows your face,
but not your name.
We can paint on the walls
like primitives
sharing stories and visions
and Satsang
and the smoke shall carry our words
straight to Heaven,
so that there shall be no lies between us.
Cum with me to Dreamland
for our honeymoon weekend.
Marry me for one weekend,
Three days of one body
one mind,
no guilt, no shame, no sin,
and no fear.
No expectations,
no disappointments.
We’ll divorce on Monday
(‘til next time.)
The Villa at Dreamland
is always right here.
It shall be my honor
to serve at your pleasure.
I’ll leave the light on
to await your return.

Once in a Blue Agave Moon Chapter three: Diversity

Diversity is a critical component in the evolution of anything.
So is adversity.
Without adversity from within or without the species or subset, there would be no provocation for evolutionary processes to be instigated.
External threats or hardships winnow and cull the weak from the herd.
The strong survive and thrive. The weak become one with the food chain.
Natural selection promotes incrimental improvements in the species in order to better adapt to its microcosm.
The strength of adversity is much like an alloy of a metal for improved tensile strength, shear strength, hardness, density or weight.
In a society, common purspose and mutual support provides flexibility, adaptive abilty, and resilience to external threats when there is cooperation amongst those diverse members.
On the other hand, from a purely Machiavenian standpoint, when one group opresses another group, there is potential for strengthening the opressed group, although it produces a degree of factionalism and tension or stressors to the group as a whole.
There is nothing inherently Humanitarian about evolution.
As the civilization of a society develops, It is more capable of sustaining and caring for the mentally and physically infirm.
As long as a society is wealthy enough and affluent enough it can easily support and nurture and portion of its population that is not capable of caring for themselves for any variety of reasons.
As long as someone is willing to pay someone else to care for these unfortunates, others who provide the care will make a living out of it, and the prosperity of the entire group is enhanced.
It takes a very enlightened, tolerant affluent and altruistic society to develop a culture that is inclined to care for all of its citizens humanely.
It would be easy to make the incorrect assumption that the members at the colony were a homogeneous group.
The stereotypical generalization of the ultra right-wing, violent, Christian, alcoholic, heavily-armed, home-schooled, racist Florida redneck comes to mind when most people think about hunting in the Everglades. Fifty years ago, that notion might have had a little more validity, but Florida is more of a melting pot than most other areas of the United States, (unless of course, you are a Seminole or Miccosukee Indian).
Most of Florida is a mixture of a space-age frontier town, Disney World, a smuggler’s paradise and tourist trap where every imaginable ethnicity and social strata rub elbows on a daily basis.
In less than an hour you can drive from the center of almost any city to west bum-fuck Egypt or Timbukthree. Similarly, in the same amount of time you can go from Miami Beach (aka little Tel Aviv) to Little Havana, or Little Haiti, although the distinct boundaries of one ethnicity or another is rapidly blurring.
Similarly, Kosher, Hispanic, Asian, Continental, or Caribbean cuisines are everywhere you look from South Florida to the Keys, Orlando, Tampa, Daytona or Jacksonville.
This has a tendency to produce a more eclectic atmosphere than one might suspect in Florida, and it is reflected in the residents’ tastes and comfort zones.
Religion (or the lack of it) remains the singularly most divisive influence no matter where you go, and of course, most sexual mores and customs are dictated by religion.
Elliott’s older son was introduced to what became known as The Colony several years before by one of his high-school classmates. His father was a welder from upstate New York who had lived in Florida for more than twenty years. His son had a blue mohawk and listened to Heavy Metal.
Although the expression “safety in numbers” has a distinct ring of validity to it, because no one lifestyle or religion was of any preponderance within the group, most of the residents minded their own business as long as no one was forced to confront any specific behaviors, beliefs,or customs and as long as they did not impinge on the privacy or comfort of any of the others.
The cowardice of numbers lies at the heart of bullying; there was no real preponderance of any lifestyle or belief system at the colony. Because of this, there developed an enforced tolerance of all opinions and beliefs that was not seen in previous societies.
Drug store cowboys and self-proclaimed rednecks are no more prone to prejudice or narrow-mindedness than Northeastern members of the “Intelligencia” or passive-aggresive Southern Californians.
Group-think mentalities need to have their prejudices reinforced by other fearful sheep of the same mind-set before they can be too much of a pain in the ass to anyone else.
The term “rugged individualist” best described most of the members of the Colony. There was plenty of insular space for all of them, and as long as everybody minded their own business, they neither took nor gave any grief to anyone else.
Peaceful co-existence had been the prevailing mood within the group long before they had decided to eschew urban un-civilization.
Their most common interest was in each other’s safety and well-being. The collapse of western civilization had leveled the field for everyone.
It was no longer a zero-sum game.

 

 

Once In a Blue Agave Moon

chapter One

Elliott Monroe awoke to the sounds of the generators starting.
As he briefly lay there in bed, he thought about how much the world had changed in the last eighteen months.
Over two years ago, he had read about how cyber-terrorists were launching over thirty thousand attacks against the United States and their allies every month…without success…but…
Much like the theories of quantum mechanics and the origin of the earth, eventually anything can happen, and like the monkeys and the typewriters, eventually they discovered the codes that were capable of deciphering the encryption associated with the operating systems of every computer on the planet; banking, defense, security, even the internet itself.
The consequences were catastrophic and swift.
They had not only managed to withdraw all the virtual monies out of all the North and South American, European, African, Swiss, and Japanese banks in the world, they had also placed a “doomsday” virus into the operating systems that caused them to destroy themselves, and their hardware, as well as all the records of all the accounts.
And when back-up systems and replacement programs were installed, the rest of the internet was so polluted with the Doomsday Virus that they were quickly rendered useless as well.
It took several days for even the best run operations to re-start, only to discover there were no funds in the accounts shortly before they too self-destructed.
Even if you had a printed statement from your bank, they were not being honored because there were no available funds to pay anybody anything.
It was believed that Doomsday was not even a single virus, but rather a series of interlocking programs that spread rapidly through any device that used the internet at all…even if only to use the National Observatory’s atomic clock for time reference standards.
Cars that used Onstar or satellite radio would not even start, or stopped within minutes; some crashed. Planes fell out of the skies all over the world.
Several nuclear power plants melted down. Nuclear missiles went haywire.
Some of the programs had been perfected for years before the comprehensive attack was orchestrated.
It affected the News services so badly that the parties involved had to resort to circulating printed material to even take credit for the attack.
More than ten years earlier, the terrorists had begun a plan that was only waiting for the success of the computer viruses for their initiation. They were in no hurry.
The terrain of the area surrounding the Fort Knox Army base is riddled with underground caverns and streams that permitted tunneling through an area over five miles long from nearby Bardstown to the United States Bullion Depository at Fort Knox with a minimum of true excavation.
By a similarly ingenious plot, the mazes of sewers, communications tunnels and underground passageways in Manhattan (some dating prior to the revolutionary war) allowed near enough access to the Federal Reserve Bank, the only bullion depository larger than the one at Fort Knox.
Both tunnels ran the last five hundred feet deep below the vaults, working slowly and sporadically to better avoid detection.
The morning of the discovery of the cyber-attacks, at least twenty “dirty” or “salted” nuclear bombs detonated by two stolen B-61 Mod 11 nuclear “bunker busters” and a pair of ten-megaton hydrogen bombs of the Teller-Ulam design from former Soviet sources and several other devices of either Korean, Iranian, Chinese, Pakistani or Indian design under the United States Bullion Depository at Fort Knox and the Federal Reserve Bank of Manhattan.
Both locations enabled the surrounding bedrock to amplify the effects of the shock waves from the blast and the combined pressure and heat from the thermonuclear blast not only compromised both vaults, but also severely contaminated them with radioactivity.
The heat and pressure was so intense that the other “dirty” or “salted” devices were combined in a chain-reaction not normally anticipated in any previous counter-terrorism models, that assumed conventional detonation of plutonium and uranium, with no concomitant fission or fusion.
The terrorists had no desire to survive the attacks, so no shielding or protective casings were used to contain the radioactivity of the “dirty” or “salted” bombs. It was a suicide mission, which made it that much easier to accomplish.
“All the gold in Fort Knox” (and the Federal Reserve Bank of Manhattan) was now radioactive. The fact that they had been entirely symbolic ever since they had been stored there really had little bearing on the perception of the people of the world.
(Apparently, the terrorists had seen the Movie “Goldfinger,” although they were not interested in any financial gain; after all, within two days they possessed all the net worth of the all major powers of the world.)
They already had plenty of money, but the real point was to take it away from their enemies.
It is estimated that the gold at the United States Bullion Depository (aka “Ft. Knox’) is worth about 175 billion dollars. This is believed to represent 2.5 percent of all the gold ever refined in all human history. The US GDP is estimated at approximately eighteen trillion dollars, and the United States federal budget is set at approximately 103% of the GDP.
The attack was predominately a way of doing severe damage to the confidence of the American people in the liquidity of their government.
After all, most of the net worth of anyone or any entity is based on a combination of faith in what amounts to “virtual money,” rather than cash and the mutual recognition of what constitutes value.
Between credit margins, and speculation, in a cashless society most people rarely ever touch any “real” money. Paper money is based on faith and a promise, but keep in mind that when the economy went from gold to silver certificates to federal reserve notes they no longer bore the promise “payable on demand”.
And let’s face it, you can’t eat gold or silver if you are hungry. The value of gold or precious metals or gems are based on their scarcity, and almost since the beginning of time we have been hypnotized by our desire for them, rather than in any true intrinsic value per se.
And to the radical Islamics, the result of the end of Western civilization was their precise goal. No more Hollywood (or Bollywood), no more televangelism, no more beer or whiskey commercials, no more live lingerie models, no more TV, no more Western aggression; Zionism as a world power would be crushed; no more internet porn and no more Christmas specials on television. No publicly available electricity in the West.
In just two explosions they had bombed the Western Hemisphere into the stone age.
At least, that was the mythology that had become the accepted explanation. Most of the stories that were passed from one person to another verbally were based on speculation, rumors and whatever prejudice, preoccupation, or agenda of the teller.
A few amateur radio operators kept up their own news nets, but no one knew what to believe and if you were smart, you took it all with a grain of salt; after all, no matter what gossip you heard, most of it had no real bearing on your own current state of affairs.
They were all too often just the idle talk of the frightened and the doomed, who would have nothing else to say once the lives they had known evaporated.
North Korea had very little to lose; their governmental leaders lived lavishly, but the mass of people lived in squalor, in silence, and in the dark. Previous satellite photographs of the island of Korea showed a brightly lit south at night, but above the thirty-eighth parallel only a few scattered lights showed anywhere in North Korea.
India and China were similarly affected, but to a lesser degree. For the desperately impoverished masses who had so little to loose, it was a zero sum game.
And perhaps most importantly, No country seemed to have much need to muck about with the rest of the world, which for the most part had lapsed into complete isolationism.
Or so it seemed, until each of the countries participating in the attack on America and its allies tried to double-cross the other. They quickly rendered each other helpless and crippled with a combination of nuclear and conventional weapons.
First it was Russia and China, then India vs Pakistan, and everybody versus Korea.
The Moslems were not bound by national boundary lines, but religion and culture, and initially they stood together. In fact, it was later estimated that the Moslems had actually instigated the conflicts between the other countries with feigned mutual acts of sabotage.
But eventually even the Moslem-ruled countries turned on each other. The same mind-set that had sabotaged Thomas E. Lawrence (of Arabia)’s effort to unify the mid-east was still in effect.
Malaysia was the first to fall; they were the weakest, and the least unified as far as Islam. Once that chain-reaction started, it would have been very difficult to tell who “won”.
Gandhi had stated that “an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind” but obviously, he was wrong…because…
“…In the land of the blind, the one-eyed is king”…and that last guy with only one eye could easily escape the last blind guy…(but if you are surrounded by radioactive glass everywhere you look with that one good eye, it’s not much consolation).
Perhaps even more fortunately each had sufficient intel about each other as to quickly and almost surgically attack each other so as to limit any counter-attacks by anyone, so other than some very localized fall-out, it had almost no effect on North America.
Perhaps ignorance is bliss…border disputes in Eastern or Western Europe or Asia had no real affect on someone living in Idaho…or the Florida Everglades.
Elliott had heard stories of people who still chose to live in the cities, bloodthirsty cannibals, burglars, rapists and bandits feeding like vultures on a rotting carcass that was already nearly stripped to the bones.
The trick was to find a place where only certain individuals could survive, and even thrive in the midst of world chaos. The desert, the mountains, the deepest woods, the most isolated coastal regions and their islands as well as the few swamps in North America…and the Florida Everglades, which were really more like a flooded savanna, hence the Seminole expression “River of Grass”.
Virtually all of what constituted an economy was now based upon barter, trade…and theft.
One thing that had not changed was that all too often keeping what you already have can be more difficult than getting it in the first place… “the same as it ever was….”
Those who had something of useful purpose as well as those who could do or make because of what they knew faired much better than those highly trained aristocrats whose careers and knowledge or training were so specialized that they had no survival skills at all.
It was a very bad time for lawyers, public officers, (like judges or government officials), CEO’s, any level of vice-president of much of anything, travel agents, airline stewardesses, motivational speakers, fitness trainers, life coaches, investment bankers, stock brokers, event planners, and pretty much anyone dependent upon performing services for someone else.
State governments were fucked, but the rich and privileged swine who had manipulated them all along just by virtue of what they still possessed; as long as they could continue to barter their influence over goods and commodities, at least had a chance.
The police almost immediately took over most of organized crime, and split what they couldn’t steal outright with those whose mutual interests might similarly prosper in deference to outright gang warfare, which nonetheless still flourished on a regular basis.
Our military forces faced mass desertions, but those who remained managed to maintain a small elite group of forces who operated much like Mosby’s Rangers during the Civil War, ‘’requisitioning” food and supplies as they deemed necessary. All the armed services bases that remained open had to become self-sufficient by hunting, plowing, planting and farming almost every inch of their surrounding land near their bases, including the livestock they now tended.
Elliot was fortunate enough to have worked out a deal with a group of similarly minded individuals who owned a large tract of land that bordered on the Florida Everglades; mostly dry and wet savannas with patches of scrubby timber and wooded areas.
They all had hunted wild hog and deer on those lands together at various times throughout the years. They all possessed and represented a wide range of useful skills. Most of them were what had been called “trades people”.
Most people would have derisively referred to them as survivalists.
Although they themselves had no idea what would precipitate what some would come to call The End of Days, they knew that eventually, something would happen.
They were essentially autonomous, and lived relatively well in an otherwise dystopian and dangerous world.
It was as if the tables had been turned.
Most city-dwellers as well as most suburban commuters not only could not survive outside their protected communities, but they would have little desire to live without the conveniences and trappings that had already enslaved them.
If you can’t seem to get what you think you want, learn to love what you have.

Chazz Vincent

March 19th. 2016

 

On Letting Go, Pt. IX: The Big Lie

(This post was a long time coming…it was almost painful to write by the time I finally got it sorted out…at least so far…it marks another leg of my journey of self-discovery that was triggered by…well let’s just say “…an interesting series of unfortunate co-incidences.” Only you can decide for yourself if it has any bearing on your own life.)

It should be no surprise to anyone who knows me at all that I should proclaim myself as a quintessential iconoclast.

I am no True Believer in much of anything. Faith has almost no place in my world despite the fact that as an incurable Romantic, I still desperately cling to Hope.

I am not afraid of apparent contradictions.

“We all need Love, but if you can’t find it, at least sustain Hope, but even when there is no Hope, at least try to find something interesting to do.”

I sometimes feel that I may be the Master of the Obvious by virtue of many of the things that I post, but there is at least some measure of originality within them by virtue of the often bizarre interconnections that I may make between the elements that I attempt to bring together within a story or post.

I am not delusional about presenting anything entirely original, but I have been told that I possess a colorful perspective, and there are some who find it amusing, or if not enlightening in and of itself, at least entertaining.

This is also in fact another of my notes-in-a bottle thrown from the shore of my desert island I call the Villa Chez Dreamland, still waiting for the arrival of the third lifeboat, not so much a cry for help as a shout-out awaiting a nod, a wink or a glimmer of recognition from those of like mind.

I also believe that everyone has to figure their own shit out for themselves, so it is hard to rail against much of anything without sounding like I am l telling people what to think.

So let’s be very clear on one thing…my advice is not what to think, or how to think…just please THINK.

This is one reason why I am very quick to criticize or even ridicule Politics, Organized Religion, or Organized Crime….

Most of us think that Organized Crime, for instance refers to non-Anglo organizations like the Mafia (or Costa Nostra), the Yakuza, African-American, Mexican or Vietnamese gangs or the like.

I have even heard it argued that unless you visit prostitutes, gamble and run up markers, purchase or use illegal drugs, borrow money from loan sharks or engage in other similar pursuits that involve criminal activities, that you are more in danger from disorganized crime (like the asshole that broke into your car or robbed you at the ATM, etc.).

The truth is that I am opposed to just about anything that is too fucking organized at all….

I am also something of an anarchist. I love the chaos that occurs when God rolls the dice that control the universe.

As much as we are taught to embrace Stability, both Motion and Change are the two universal aspects of not only animate, but all seemingly inanimate entities as well. (We just have different perceptions of Time.)

Whether it is a matter of Religion, or Politics, my issue is that they purport to tell you how or what to think, and inevitably they manipulate people to do something that is more likely to benefit them than you.

When it comes to Organized Crime, however, I would suggest that you are far more likely to be victimized by Healthcare Insurance Administrators, Congress, the IRA, the Treasury Department, most attorneys, the court systems, the Police, the Military (or more accurately, those who profit from them…what Eisenhower himself referred to as the Military-Industrial Complex), the Insurance Industry, or Pharmaceutical Manufacturers (just to name some of the worst), which are fear-based organizations that are primarily run by privileged white-collar white people who claim to be your protector or even friend, who have become the aristocracy of America…all the while amassing record-breaking profits by claiming to protect those who cannot protect themselves?

Who will protect us from our protectors?…or from all the good people?

But in truth, even that is just the tip of the iceberg.

When it comes to The Big Lie, there is no real charlatan worse than yourself.

There are many people or organizations as seemingly benign as the PTA that try to passive-aggressively get you to conform rather than to think, but if you choose not to question virtually every aspect of your so-called civilized life then you have no one to blame but yourself if you wake up one day feeling dissatisfied and disillusioned because you realized that you were robbed of everything which you once thought was important to you.

Of course that takes diligence, thought, and perseverance on your part…it might mean giving up a few hours of reality television each week…or even a few of the friends whom you would be better off without.

Many of them are the most insidious purveyors of The Big Lie because they are everywhere. They are so pervasive that they are in fact The Norm.

Once you begin to assess your life in terms of Authenticity, the paucity of truth governing our lives is as ubiquitous as Coca-
Cola, Mickey Mouse, Christ on the cross or fly-shit on a window sill.

More than one hundred and fifty years ago Henry David Thoreau penned the expression “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation…”. (Keep in mind that, at that point in time women had virtually no power or choice in determining their own destinies at all.)

Kurt Vonnegut used a number of expression like “Foma, Wampeters and Grand Falloons” to describe the interlocking series of lies that support our conventional modern “society in its discontent” (last quote courtesy of Erica Jong).

That was a long time ago…

In the Age of Mad Men, before even Masters and Johnson and only a little while after Kinsey, but no matter how much freer or more self-determined or self-actualized we think we have become, women are still marginalized and objectified, and spouses leave each other to go from one frying pan to another in record numbers while they are all working themselves to death pursuing an increasingly conformist one-size-fits-all lifestyle of mindlessly insecure, envious, covetous consumerism until they are either too old, infirm or senile to even remember how to dream, as their children denounce them “…’til all is dust”.

It may seem difficult now, but the longer you wait to ask yourself “What do I really want?” before you act on your answers, the more likely that it will seem impossible later.

One if the most baffling methods of self-deception is the art of weaving an interlocking series of seemingly unsolvable enigmas and paradoxes whereby one professes to despise or reject some action or series of behaviors, that are somehow justified by their mandatory participation in order to maintain their lifestyle, live up to the self-imposed “code” of ethics or behaviors related to some membership within a group with whom they identify, their religion, or because of obligatory familial expectations.

These people love to talk about their problems, and appear to be asking for your advice. They do not want your advice, or any solutions.

They may ask “what should I do?” but they are quick to counter with a host of reasons why any suggestions offered can’t solve their unsolvable problems.

Who hasn’t at least tried to politely listen to:

“I hate my job, but…”

“There is no love left in our relationship, but…”

“I feel useless and unfulfilled, but…”

“I’d leave this town and never look back, but…”

“I know it’s wrong to tolerate his (or her) abuse, but…”

“My parents treat me like a child, but…”

“I just have so much love to give, but…”

or:

“We need to talk about our problems…” (knowing full-well that if you try to counter, or address any of your issues, then the rational talk will stop and the screaming or ultimatums will begin)?

For many, their unsolvable dilemmas not only focus the attentions of everyone within their sphere of influence on themselves, but it also protects them from having to either seek effective solutions to the problems within their lives or face the Great Existential Void.

These are not in fact modern problems or questions, but the world in which we live has done a masterfully ingenious way of hypnotizing our culture as a way of disguising and marketing The Big Lie.

We keep doing the same things over and over again in the delusional belief that if we just do them differently next time, the outcome will somehow be different.

If your idea of expressing your true individuality is to buy from the “mix and match” collection from J.C. Penny (unless you are a cross-dresser and that is all you can afford) there is not much hope of self-discovery through any originality of thought.

You should never stop asking yourself “What do I really want?” or “Do I really need this?” or “What will this really cost me?” or “Just because everybody else believes it, is this really true?” or even “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You may be the one lone voice of reason in the midst of a lynch mob… (Only you can decide if it is worth the risk of doubling the number of innocent lives lost.)

Why are we so hesitant to say “I love you” (or “I don’t love you”) when we mean it most? Sexual intimacy pales in comparison to exposing your soul to another whom you love.

The other question is how much are you trying to promote a lie about yourself because you fear judgment from your peers if they only knew who you really were, or what you were really like?

It is important to know exactly how candid and frank you can be with whomever you are speaking at any particular time…I get it…no need to expose your vulnerabilities to someone who may take malicious action or judgment against you for reasons deemed necessary for their own protection….

It is tragic to think that we live in a society which is still so superstitious as to believe that the incantations of mere words or phrases can pervert or somehow kidnap our morality just by hearing them.

I am trying to address the question of being able to see yourself exactly as you are…exposing your own deepest secret fears that you have never been able to face even within yourself.

How much difference is there between your public and private life? …between who and how you wish you were and how and what you really are?

Could you summons the wherewithal to write an honest semi-autobiographical novel that used your own special knowledge of yourself candidly and without reservation? Could you portray yourself in all your unselfconsciously flawed imperfection with the same loving-kindness you so desire from others?

What do you most fear that others could learn about you that would expose you to shame, or ridicule?

Have you ever lied to your Doctor? Your Therapist or Social Counselor? Your Spouse? Your Children? Your Parents? Your Family? Your Employer? Your Peers? Your Friends? Your Lovers? Your Neighbors? The Police? Your Priest/Minister/Rabbi/Spiritual Master?

What does it take to get you to realize that you are not lying to them…that you are lying to yourself?

Who doesn’t crave the opportunity to grant amnesty for the confessions you already know you are owed by those closest to your heart, if only they would just admit their actions?

How could that not open your own heart to share the unbridled, unvarnished, unexpurgated truth about anything either of you desperately desired to unburden yourselves of, if only you knew in your heart of hearts that it would be forgiven?

And if it should be deemed unforgivable, why are you still there?

Is there a deep dark secret corner of your soul where lurks some aspect of your character, a hidden desire, a fantasy, a fear, a fetish, a phobia, an action, an addiction, an obsession, an ideation, a dream, a need, a neurosis, something you wish you could recall, or recant, or pay recompense or self-rebuke, for which you still hold guilt by virtue of its secrecy, but that nonetheless was or is regardlessly a legitimate part of your being that holds within its secrecy what constitutes your ultimate shame and humiliation?

Can you even acknowledge them to yourself?

How many people have you known in your life who thought that they were covering up some deep, dark secret which just about everyone around them already knew because it was so obvious?

It may be something as seemingly innocuous as that ridiculous comb-over, a toupée, shoe lifts, or dyed hair (in men), latent or blatant homosexuality, alcoholism, drug abuse or that poor soul who tries so hard in vain to stuff her size fourteen body into a size seven dress, or feels she needs to pad her brassiere…

The submissive, the cuckold, or the fantasizing Dominatrix who is afraid to ask for a date and has no boyfriend? Daddy/Mommy issues? Sex Addict? Gambler? Chronic Masturbator? Over-compensating tiny penis victim, or premature ejaculator? …as long as no one openly challenges their charade, they live in denial, if only to themselves.

Of course, you may think I am completely full of shit.

And you are entitled to that…at least you are thinking. The real question is if you are being honest with yourself. Only you can know that.

The Young are not afraid to lie to themselves because they have no acute awareness of the End of Days, but the closer we come to acknowledging our finite mortality the more precious each moment becomes…too precious to waste upon falsehoods, chimerae, or mirages.

Every lie that you eliminate from your world just makes room for that much more Life, Love, and Freedom.

Just keep asking for yourself. Dare to trust the truth within you.

You already know.

Stop lying to yourself.

…And trust your heart.

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

09/05/2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Letting Go, Part VIII: Denial

With such a plethora of psycho-babble invading even common speech it is not surprising that the term Denial is most likely to evoke images of people who cannot face some form of dysfunctionality within their lives.

It is not my intention to dismissively disregard this blind spot that has such great potential for preventing us from being fully self-actualized human beings…far from it, but there is another aspect to Denial that is the primary focus of this post today.

My concern regards the denial of Pleasure in the name of higher consciousness and spiritual development.

The Precepts of Buddhism warn of the deleterious effects of Sex, or Drugs, or strong Drink as regards achieving Enlightenment, as well as the usual admonishments against Stealing, Lying, and Killing.

I have spent quite a few years studying Buddhism in its many forms, and the longer I pursue it, the more convinced I become that I am really not a very good Buddhist at all, despite the fact that I still regard myself as a spiritual person in many ways, although I am not the least inclined toward Religion.

There seems to be almost no end in the conflicting views I have regarding spiritual matters.

For one thing, although I am an Atheist I believe in the persistence of the soul, by which I mean that mysterious twenty-one gram quantity that would appear to constitute what we refer to as the vital life force that leaves us when we die.

There seems to be some emperical data to suggest that it may persist in a somewhat cohesive and coherent form after it leaves the body.

I am inclined to believe that this essence may be passed on and recycled, but I hold no hopes for any conscious memory of past lives beyond the occasional déjà vu, intuition, “instinct”, pre-cognition or the seemingly inexplicable recognition of people, places, or events.

There is also the matter of Universal or Cosmic Conciousness, One Mind or Common Mind. Sometimes it seems as if thoughts have wings that carry them like bees from flower to flower.

But the emotional crutch of believing in Re-incarnation has no appeal to me. From my perspective, it is just another way of diverting our attention away from the reality of our inevitable mortality.

I don’t know why people keep saying things like “I want to come back as a cat…” (or anyone other than themselves for that matter). What difference does it make? I see little evidence that most people learn from their mistakes in this lifetime, let alone from some previous lifetime.

I am disinclined to feel any comfort in the belief one way or the other, and gave up all hopes of Heaven a very long time ago.

So you could say that I believe in ghosts, but not in angels…at least not the kind in which we were taught to believe in Sunday school…(the notable exception being that several times in my life, I have met women who inclined me to challenge my disbelief…sometimes even with all our clothes on).

For the time being, this is my Kharma. I accept that, and realize that it is subject to change accordingly.

My initial introduction to Buddhism, the Hindu faith, and Vedic traditions, as well as Hatha Yoga came at about fourteen years of age, and was principally centered around both Mahayana and Hīnayāna Buddhism as practiced in India.

My childlike acceptance of Christianity had become untenable and I felt compelled to search for deeper meanings and a better understanding of the nature of my existence within the universe.

Later, I was introduced to the Tao, as well as Chinese and Japanese Buddhism, although the primary focus of my studies has centered around both Korean and Tibetan Zen Buddhism.

One of my issues with religion has been the requirement to believe in some sort of Supreme Being…a God who requires worshipful devotion. It may sound ironic, but for years I prayed for my faith to return without success.

Soon enough, I will be addressing that issue, but not today…at least I hope not today. Not because of some distinct or nebulous fear of a judgmental and wrathful God…it’s just that I still have a lot of things I want to do before it’s time to pick up the check.

Even in the absence of a God, the pursuit of Enlightenment, Deeper Meanings, or possibly even a sense of Purpose and Higher Consciousness remain, shimmering like the vision of a distant oasis in a desert of existential banality.

If they too should prove to be a mirage, the realization of just what it is…what it means to be alive will be my reward.

As marginal as that may sound, it is still better than tacitly accepting second-hand fairy tales from those who would pretend to know things that they admit they cannot comprehend in order to justify throwing your life away now for a promise of Heaven tomorrow.

A central premise of Buddhism is that all Desire is followed by Suffering…OK; I get it. If you are so consumed with desires that require reciprocation to the point that your self-awareness is no different than a dog chasing his own tail, it is the same as it is with any and all attachments.

After all, in chasing your own tail, you are following an asshole.

This series of posts entitled “On Letting Go” is concerned with exactly that…our Attachments, Addictions, Illusions, Falsehoods, and other Paucities of the Truth.

The eventual goal in Buddhism is to evolve to the point where one is “like a mirror…red comes, there is red; a man comes there is a man, a woman comes, there is a woman; Life comes, there is Life; Death comes, there is Death.”

“Everything is just this…only this…just like this.”

Most forms of Buddhism have a hierarchy of beliefs, characters, patriarchs, names, mantras, and sutras with various degrees of emphasis on one feature or another.

That was what led me to Zen Buddhism. I neither seek a Buddha to worship, nor to whom I would be inclined to pray, or beg forgiveness.

It is likewise unacceptable to entertain the thought of a god that would command me to either kill or die in his name.

Also, the Tibetan Zen Buddhists are less likely to condemn  sexuality, especially the followers of the Shambhala order popularized by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

Of course Tantric, or Sacred Sex is a practice that is blessed in its own right, even amongst infidels.

But nonetheless, there is always controversy whenever any Buddhist cleric is discovered to have indulged in sexual relations, drugs, or alcohol.

Indeed, all religions seem to be infused with this preoccupation with the denial of sexuality and the suppression of Pleasure.

I don’t care why right at this moment. There has been plenty enough written on why it is believed it has to be this way.

I disagree.

My concern is for Higher Consciousness…some call it Enlightenment. How can anyone expect to comprehend or understand what it means to be alive without joyously and consciously participating in it?

As for Enlightenment, the more I seek it for myself, the more elusive it will become and evade me forever. OK…I get it. You can’t hurry the process, and you won’t find it sitting at the feet of any teacher. No matter how much you learn, you must experience life to know it.

I have learned to just be, and as enlightenment comes, accept it with loving-kindness, knowing that it is not everything…there is always more.

If a time should come when my desires for sensual and sexual pleasures should disappear, it will undoubtedly make sense if that is the right thing for me.

Although Sex and Love are separate entities…they sure do seem to make such a nice couple.

Love (or Sex) and Jealousy arise from our expectations of others. Most people love selfishly…they expect obligatory reciprocation from those whom they love, and may even come to hate those who do not return the favor in like kind, as if Love implies Ownership, as well as a form of control by virtue of obligation.

Buddhists aspire to gain enlightenment, in order to save all beings, bringing world peace through selfless love.

There is a Zen Koan: “How many people does it take to achieve World Peace?”

The short answer is one.

All existence is created within the mind. If you just learn to accept all beings with loving-kindness, in the place before thoughts or words, we are all of one mind, and there is no disagreement, like two mirrors facing each other.

Sorrow comes, we feel sorrow. Joy comes we feel joy, not just for ourselves, but for everyone. Through Dharma Action we learn as we teach. When we encounter deluded individuals who are suffering, we suffer for them; and we aspire to act in ways that will show them the way out of their suffering.

It is even said that a true Buddhist would venture into hell to save a fellow human being.

It may not be eternal and everlasting happiness, but at least there is Peace. I get it.

I have no doubt that the institution of Jealousy could have a great deal more potential for impeding Enlightenment than Pleasure could.

Jealousy is indeed an institution within our culture whose major economic concern is for generating mindless consumerism that plays upon our insecurities as well as our seemingly inbred potential for jealousy, envy, fear (especially of aging), greed, and covetousness.

And of course, the attorneys make no end of profit from it.

Ironically, Lust is the very first on the list of the Seven Deadly Sins, but Jealousy is not even a runner-up.

This is another of the points that need to be acknowleged. Jealousy is not a simple emotion, but rather a complex inter-dependent series of neurotic manifestations of fear, envy, covetousness, and insecurity.

It is a learned response that is programmed into us as a part of our culture that is in fact, not endemic to all cultures.

Anything that can be learned can be unlearned. Even the most conflicted Humanist can be taught through the right sequence of stimulus-response mediated experiences to abandon learned neurotic beliefs and behaviors.

The point being that sexual pleasure does not necessarily pre-dispose one to suffering. On the other hand, no good can come from the denial of healthy desires.

Desire may lead to suffering, but Denial is suffering. The satiation of desires is more likely to lead us to develop sufficient objectivity about our desires so that we can respond to them like any other basic need.

The Buddhists say “If you are tired, sleep; if you are thirsty, drink; if you are hungry, eat.”

To that I would humbly suggest adding “If you are lonely or depressed…love selflessly…and if you are horny…fuck like there is no tomorrow….”

(Tomorrow never comes, no matter how many times you do.)

The Past is a memory…a dream of what was, as full of regrets as it is of complacent reveries of past achievements and Glory Days long gone…or the smell of grandma’s cookies…not bad, not good, but gone; full of “the pain of remembering”.

The Future is a dream of what has not yet happened…whether a portent of joyful anticipation or fear, it is a dream of a dream.

The ever-present-never-present present moment is an illusion that is gone as soon as it appears. It is created within our minds.

I say “Govern yourself accordingly….”

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

08/08/2015

He Calls me Goddess, I call him My Pet, Pt. IV: Sometimes things are Not What They Appear to Be

(Well, for what it is worth, this is the final chapter…I kind of hate to see it end, but it’s been fun.)

Sometimes Things are not Always What they Seem to be.

My name is Randy and well, so far you’ve heard Sonia’s side of the story, so now it’s my turn to give you a bit of perspective.

Everything Sonja has told you so far is the absolute unvarnished truth, but I’ve got just a few things to add that may lend a more accurate portrayal of what it is like from my point of view.

Yes, it’s true that I am a bisexual and that I love to wear women’s clothes…especially silky or frilly lingerie and leather corsets who also tends to be more than a little aggressive in my transactions with most other men and women I know in my place of business and almost all other aspects of my social life. In fact, if anything, I am a bit of a control freak.

So just stop and ponder this for a second…all day long, I direct those whom I manage at work. I pay the bills, although I leave the accounting and management of our household to my beautiful and talented trophy wife who came into my life well after I had already made my career and a name for myself in my field.

I was also wise enough to know when I was past my sexual prime, which was about the time that my wife was beginning to reach the peak of her already considerable appetite.

I am at least ten years away from my financial retirement, but I came to recognize that it was time to begin to direct, rather than be the prime mover or actor in the bedroom.

I find it very satisfying to know that my wife’s sexual needs are met far beyond her wildest dreams although without my encouragement and direction it would never have been realized, and probably would have resulted in unconscious resentments on her part and insecurities and paranoia on mine.

I also am secure enough in my own identity, or more accurately, my sense of Self that I decided to undertake a journey of discovery about the farthest reaches of my own sexual nature fearlessly, albeit discretely.

My wife Sonja had to be lovingly encouraged to act out those fantasies of hers, as well as mine, but I had finally learned to exercise better judgement than in the past and recognized her potential to enable us both to exploit our sexual psyches the way an explorer might discover a new frontier.

Because she is such a loving and devoted wife she was afraid that her actions would either hurt or disrespect me, although I have come to know that is something she is incapable of doing.

It was not until she came to realize that in respecting my desires, she was celebrating my entire range of sexuality while at the same time empowering her in ways she had never before dreamed.

Within this story, I am cast as a submissive cuckold, despite the fact that everything that happened was orchestrated by me, although it could never have been realized without her love and support.

My spouse played the part of a Dominatrix at my direction, although I have to give her credit where it is due, as she took to the role so well that she surpassed all my expectations, hopes or fantasies.

That is however, because I cast her in the right role, and developed the directions that enabled her to take to that role and make it her own.

She was the only one to be able to effect the circumstances that lead to her discovery of Jake, who was determined to make her his submissive sex-slave, only to eventually be turned by her to do what amounted to both our bidding, even though he imagined that he was dominating both of us at his own will.

Perhaps most importantly, eventually everyone got exactly what they wanted, even if they had to learn what that really was.

I love our life together.

 

 

 

 

 

He calls me Goddess, I call him My Pet, Pt. III

(This is new ground, even for me…as part III of IV unfolds…this is not for the squeamish, but I find myself fascinated by the opportunity to explore something that for once, is not autobiographical. As a writer, the challenge is exhilarating. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.)

He calls me Goddess, I call him My Pet, Pt. III

The next time Jake and I got together, I insisted that he allow Randy to watch in person. I told him that Randy would be dressed in his favorite outfit, a very frilly French Maid’s costume with fishnet stockings, a garter belt and panties. He also would be wearing make-up and a wig.

Jake was not especially thrilled about the prospect, but I insisted. I was starting to sense a battle of wills between Jake and me, and we both were still testing each other’ boundaries.

When we got to the motel, I produced a portable vaporizer and some of our best Kush (Fruity Pebbles and AK-47 mixed with the last of our Blueberry) that Randy and I had been saving for a long time. Jake was not a regular marijuana user, but he was willing to give it a try again. He said it really didn’t do much for him, but admitted he rarely had smoked it since his college days.

High-potency grass has evolved a great deal since then, as he was soon to learn, and vaporizing seems to really intensify its effects to the point where most people are about thirty seconds away from being wrecked out of their minds before they even realize it, and then it continues to get even more intense for about the next twenty minutes…maybe I should have warned him, but I knew I would have the upper hand once he was baked, and we were still caught up in a battle of wills.

I am not a woman to be taken dismissively.

Randy was then banished to a chair in the corner of the room. Jake insisted that there would be no contact between them and re-affirmed his straight (but hardly plain-vanilla) lifestyle.

Randy was also admonished not to masturbate or touch himself as he watched Jake and me perform like circus animals right in front of him only a few feet away.

When I noticed that my little subby-hubby sissy-gurl was sporting a very noticeable erection that was straining against his lacey silk panties, I instructed him to go to the ice bucket and “cool down”.

I knew that would not only stifle his erection, but would also cause it to shrink up until it looked more like a very large, oversized clit, only a little larger than my own.

He already knew the drill, and in fact got that much more excited to witness such a monumental difference in size between himself and my lover Jake.

As for the size of my clitoris, several years of low-level testosterone therapy and almost daily “pumping” by way of a suction device Randy had bought me yielded an over three-inch clit that would stand up and refuse to be ignored when I got aroused.

Although I was quite proud of it, and thoroughly enjoyed the increased sensitivity, Jake did not appreciate it as much as my other lovers had, and after our first “interview” preferred to finger me while I sucked his cock.

Not that I needed a great deal of foreplay when I was with him, as I get hotter than five miles of Georgia asphalt in July whenever I even think about sex with Jake, and I didn’t want to spoil his unbridled passions by making him uncomfortable…at least for now.

Jake was a very patient and sensitive lover, and thoroughly enjoyed teasing me with his cock. He would lightly press the head into the vestibule of my waiting blossom as he began to part the lips as I felt the foreskin (which he always made a point to pull forward before he entered me) would start to slide backwards as it piled up around the rim of his prodigious corona, which was a bit larger than even Randy’s, although Randy’s shaft was slightly thicker.

Then he would withdraw it just enough to tease me even more, before he slowly stuffed the head into me as I felt the foreskin suddenly pop backwards and pile up again, about a half-inch past the head, producing two distinct ridges as he slowly slid back and forth into my greedy snatch.

This produced a great deal of stimulation on my g-spot as he would stand at the edge of the bed with his hands cupping my buttocks as he lifted me up well over a foot higher than Randy could, owing to his lanky height. That really did it for me, and I frequently would cum long before he had gotten the entire length of his shaft inside me, which usually took one or two orgasms before I could accommodate what I had come to visualize as the never-ending cock.

Jake was thoroughly enjoying putting on a show for Randy, despite the fact that he scrupulously avoided looking anywhere in his direction or acknowledging his presence in the room.

Jake played me like a violin as an occasional high note would escape my lips as he made me cum so hard and repeatedly that I lost count and may have even lost consciousness several times.

I eventually felt like I had left my body and was in a corner of the room near the ceiling watching myself being fucked into submission, a prisoner of lust and passion in our battle for dominance while my spouse sat in a chair in the corner.

I would be a liar if I tried to deny it, despite the fact that I was unfamiliar with this kind of submission to any man ever. Jake had become the physical manifestation of every erotic fantasy I had ever entertained.

I was only slightly uncomfortable with my infatuation with him, even as much as Randy encouraged me to wallow in my crush, but fortunately Jake was just slightly arrogant enough to prevent me from feeling like I was falling in love with him, although Randy’s espousal of Polyamory was beginning to make more and more sense as time passed, all things taken on balance.

Especially this evening.

Jake’s thrusting increased in frequency and depth as he pummeled my now totally flaccid and swollen cunt until he suddenly turned his attention to Randy and made a point to make eye contact as he said:

“Is this what you both really want?…to watch me fuck and violate your wife in ways you both have only been able to fantasize about until now?”

“She will never be the same after this, you know…I own this cunt now…before I am done you may never be able to feel the sides of her formerly deliciously tight pussy…especially with that tiny little short clit of a cock you have.”

“She was right though,” he added…”you do really belong in panties dressed up like a little sissy-gurl cocksucker…too bad for you you’ll never get a chance to even get a taste of it, except second-hand after I get down filling her with more jizz than a sperm-bank.”

“I think I will enjoy watching her straddle you face as it gushes out of her while you lick her sloppy pussy clean.”

Most men would have felt humiliated to experience anything like this, but my Randy is nothing like most men. It did not threaten him, because he knew in his heart of hearts that I will adore and worship him for as long as I live.

I wake up in the morning, and I say to myself that I must be the luckiest woman in the world, and every day, he does everything he can to prove me right…and I do exactly the same for him.

This is what we have learned to live for…this is how we roll.

With that, he increased the tempo and force of his thrusts even more as we both reached a frenzied crescendo of lust and passion. My eyes rolled back in my head as we both began to make guttural animal noises I had never heard before as he grunted like a bull elk in rut while his throbbing cock grew even larger and he spewed what seemed like an endless flood of hot, thick jizz deep inside me.

Until that moment, Randy was still inside my head, or perhaps more like he was sitting beside my shoulder, and as I continued to watch Jake watching me I was aware of the fact that Randy was aware that I could feel myself slipping away…swept away, more accurately as I became completely lost in the moment, where nothing existed except myself, my body, and Jake, and I was at the mercy of his unrelenting cock.

As he continued to piston his still-throbbing penis unmercifully, I could feel and hear our juices squish past him, flooding my ass and the sheets as his balls continued to slap against me.

As he rolled off of me I was still shuddering and trembling as he rolled onto his back as he told me to lick him clean while Randy cleaned the sheets with his tongue.

He never really got soft and was soon back at full attention, which was quite remarkable because when he did, unlike most well-hung men, it did not hang, but stood out until it reached up to about two o’clock position, only a few inches from grazing his belly.

Jake was in rare form and was obviously enjoying his domination of both of us as much as we were.

With that, he picked me up and told Randy to lay on his back as the cum poured out of me as I straddled his face and Jake kneeled in front of me and I continued to suck his magnificent pleasure-pole.

Suddenly, he went around behind me and shoved himself deeply into me again, forcing even more of his semen out of my pussy as it gushed out into Randy’s grateful face.

I couldn’t help noticing that he was making a point of dragging the shaft across Randy’s mouth as his wet, dripping balls slapped Randy’s forehead. I knew that Randy must be enjoying the hell out of it, but couldn’t help wondering what had provoked Jake to cross several lines I was thoroughly convinced he would never breach.

Maybe it was the grass, but the three of us embraced our good spirits with renewed vigor, and I began to suck Randy’s cock just enough to keep him on the edge without allowing him to cum.

I can keep Randy ten seconds from orgasm for hours whenever I want. I can feel it when he is right on the brink, and he loves me to torture him like that.

Suddenly, Jake took his wet, dripping tool completely out of my ruined cunt and began to prod my asshole in much the same fashion that he had entered my pussy earlier that night. Not at all roughly, at least at first, and I could feel myself trying to push myself back against him to encourage him to force it into my increasingly dilated anus, but he was back to his technique of teasing me.

He then began to ask me how much I wanted him to fuck me up the ass, saying:

“Really?…I thought you didn’t even like anal…at least not with anyone else…are you saying I’ve turned you?…my, my, my…what a nasty, dirty little slut you’ve become!”

As he continued to open my rectum a little further with each push, he said:

“I don’t know…are you really sure you want your husband to be forced to watch me cornhole you with his face only a few inches away? I would think that would be too degrading for even a sissy cuckold to endure…I don’t know if I could be that cruel.”

“Please…PLEASE!” we both cried out almost simultaneously as Jake laughed wickedly.

Although I didn’t really mean it, I begged him even more, saying:

“Right this second, I don’t really care what he wants! This is for me! He knows his place and he will do what I tell him and love every minute of it! Pleeeeeaaaase! Fuck me hard and deep!!! I’m your slut…your whore…take my ass now.!!!” as I reached behind myself to spread my buttocks even farther apart.

I really was ready for it, on all fours like a bitch in heat as he pushed my shoulders down onto Randy’s thighs as I felt him spit on my ass before he began to shove it in further and further until it felt like he was right behind my belly button, only to pull it completely out to watch my gaping asshole wink at him just long enough to spit again before he shoved it back in again and again.

The pistoning of his cock began to force air in and out of me, making the most embarrassing farting noises which made him laugh sadistically at my embarrassment, taunting me:

“I hope your face turns as red as your ass” as he repeatedly slapped by buttocks. “…I do not give a fuck about your shame…besides it feels really good to have your tight asshole vibrate around my cock as I stretch it out even further.”

I was really grateful that I had decided to give myself a very thorough enema before we went out that night. It was probably clean enough to eat your lunch out of it, but I felt humiliated enough as it was.

I lost track of all time as he seemed to take forever to cum. Now I knew what Randy meant about his deep, bowel-wrenching orgasms from anal sex. This was new ground for me and I was cumming uncontrollably as I felt Jake start to swell even more…I knew he was about to cum again…I could feel the electricity pass between us and I began to squirt as if I was ejaculating.

Randy loved it when I did it in his face, and with Jake’s enormous member pounding my ass and my poor ruined cunt gaping in front of his open mouth as he slathered my pussy and Jake’s shaft and balls with his tongue while Jake’s cum poured out of me I was afraid for a moment that I might drown Randy, but I had no control of myself or Jake as I soaked his face.

As I felt Jake cum once more, I finished Randy with my mouth, sucking him until he whimpered like a puppy while the flood of cum poured out of me onto Randy’s chest as Jake, quite surprisingly pulled out and stuffed his still-throbbing prick into Randy’s mouth and told him to lick it clean, slowly pushing it further down his throat as it continued to gradually get a little smaller and softer as Randy gagged with each thrust.

“Wow! That feels really good when you choke on my cock like that! I may have to re-think my attitudes about sissy cocksuckers after all…but for now I just thought I’d throw you a bone just for being so pathetic…as long as I close my eyes and don’t have to look at you, I’ll just pretend that it’s my little fuck-toy Sonja, now that I’ve completely ruined her for you.”

We all collapsed into a pile for several minutes before Jake spoke first. “…Now how about if we all get into the shower together before we come back out for another smoke and maybe a drink while I get my second wind…maybe I’ll even fuck the both of you into submission just to put you in your proper places.”

True to form, he lived up to his promises…several times, well past dawn before we slept until almost three o’clock in the afternoon with me in the middle.

I love my new life.