southern TRAILER

by brian m. viveros and eriijk ressler

Bugging Out Over The International Date Line

There are times when this shared dream shows its true binary nature.  It's so sophisticated in its simplicity that someone as locquaciuos as I has great difficulty translating its calculated beauty.  The closest I can come is through anectode and having faith that the energy transmits through shared experience.

This is how the night sky looked as I passed by Japan in MH 094 seat 48A:

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           JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAAAPAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNN


The in-flight media entertainment system was acting buggy all flight.  I guess it isnt Y2K7 friendly.  It started to shut down intermittently as we approached the International Date Line.

I started my evening watching The Sting -- great friggin movie, starting with the opening sequence and scene which are the only things I caught of the classic before my videos retired for the flight.  So I searched the music channels and landed on a song with mad lyrics to Rage Against The Machine angst anthem:

I sued Niemen Marcus for putting Christmas decorations up way out of season;
I sued Ben Affleck -- c'mon do I really need a reason...

I lmao and when the next song which came on was a hip-hopped polka, I realized I landed in trip soundtrack heaven -- A Weird Al Yankovic Channel!!!

Then my nervous system lit up amber and I realized the proximity of my physical machine to my birthplace and the first sights I saw as I made my very first overseas trip in 1976, going backwards in time by going east over the IDL, then the numbers started lining up in my mental machine.  The date 1022 in binary is 1111111110, which if you are counting on your fingers looks like every finger raised but the right pinky.  Of course, this means the date 1023 in binary is 1111111111, or two open palms up -- Dual Buddha's Palms.  Oh, that is a great inflight movie, I forget the title though -- Kung Fu Hustle maybe?  Also, the first time my nervous system was affected by crossing the IDL eastwardly, was February 24, 1976, or LL's birthday.  The starry sky was cosmic and stunning.  When we flew by the Aleutian Islands, I thought about Zia living alone and independent on the Island of The Blue Dolphins -- how I wished forever that I could be her, know her bravery, share her adventure.

When my family went on our summer vacations by bus, I always had my Walk-Man and cassettes to accompany me on the road trips.  My sister usually slept, my brother sat with my dad and my little sister sat with my mom.  My cassettes for 1985 California trip was Police's Synchronicity, The Beastie Boys' Licensed To Ill and Weird Al's In 3-D.  I loved those cds -- nostalgic love, yknow?  Everything I know about obsession, partying and adaptation is influenced by The Police, The Beasties and Weird Al... circa 1984.

Anyway, back to the now.  Flipping around the music channel, I came across a song I recognized but never heard before.  I soon realized it was a Barbra Streisand song my godmother had taught me to sing.  She accompanied on piano as I struggled with the range, but she believed I could do it.  Now, hearing Barbra kill it, I was like, Oh, she thought I could sing like that?? Wow.

The Sting movie references my piano playing potential as a toddler when I was playing The Entertainer by four years old.  Considering I started piano lessons when I was 3, it's something that puts a smile on when my godmother talks about it.  Later I landed on Guns-n-Roses Welcome To The Jungle and felt sad about how I let my gangrape interfere with my friendship with Donna.  I quickly jumped back to Channel 32 (100000, or left thumb up, right closed fist) for another hour of Weird Al.

The song he does to R.Kelly's Stuck in The Closet, I think it's Stuck In The Drive-Thru is priceless -- pure comedy on so many levels, he perfected the asinine hip-hopera genre.

Birds In Bad Weather Care More About Feathers

I have been commenting back and forth with another YouTuber (HighestRank, Comedian) and the Subject of my blog is contained in the last paragraph, just takes a lil to get there so feel free to jump ahead.

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Hi, this is Chyna Pi and I can see why some might mistake us for being what the editors spun us into. Willing to expand? Google JUBCI and check me out without the spin of producers Harry and Joe Gantz

HighestRank (6 months ago)
SPIN? These are not actors reading scripts. What's wrong, did your interview end up on the cutting room floor? Go expand yourself.

ChynaPi (1 week ago)
My year-long interview was edited like a hs scrap book. They take a comment I said in January, stick it after a question I answered in May and finish with an opinion I refer to in February. They followed me for a year and most of my scenes -- even my final scene -- were culled from my very first interview BEFORE I had the experience of the rest of it. NO SPIN = no interviewer, no scene editor, no paid actors (there were some), no bullying of the subjects (there were plenty) -- expand your ass.

HighestRank (2 days ago)
Knowing the nature of your business, you signed a release form before seeing the final montage? No agent I guess, just wanted to be famous. What do you think happens when an editor has a YEAR of semi-fictional footage flopped in front of them? Were you by then kicked out of the loop? Even newspapers put a spin on interviews, they ask way more questions than they publish and condense and REWRITE the responses. Too bad, you did not get an early hint from the gratuitous bullying, sugar. I left less

ChynaPi (1 day ago)
Too bad ur a consummate idiot.OF COURSE I accepted all the details of being filmed by independent producers dependent on studio funding. OF COURSE I knew there would be spin. OF COURSE I had no agent -- i RUN with my LIFE. You sir, are ridiculous in your assumptions that you bring up anything new. I on the other hand, only wish to reveal something most people hide yet when we share our hurts, we learn more of ourselves as a human collective, not to mention as human souls. You are of the minority

HighestRank (1 day ago)
YES I am a consummate idiot: I didn't learn the HARD way. Nothing's new. I read how man's collective nature was for thousands of years, and things haven't changed. I don't dare run my life, my agent does. I still complain so you might as well too. I don't know why, but it seems you wanted MANY people to watch you suffer, and now that you've had enough you're trying to seek comfort from the same crowd that flocked to see your castigation. You really are seeking a minority. Only my agent does that

ChynaPi (1 day ago)
Suffering is somethg humans do in private. The reality of my expressions were intended for sharing so that those suffering in silence are invited to emote with me, and they did. I receive many anonymous and public regards to how my scenes have affected viewer comprehension of whores in general and of viewer's pain specifically. Just as I have personally responded to messages of THANKS and awe for my scenes, i respond with passion to those who criticize my efforts to be visible for those invisible

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When we face a crisis as a flock, we are taught that we all must unite and put aside perceived differences to move forward stronger than ever. Large charities and government agencies rely on this subliminal message of cooperation.

But is this really what happens in crisis especially. Louisianna's rebuild programs would have bridged government with the state's disenfranchized population but the results is that crisis has further divided the state. Neighborhoods are being rebuilt not through government aid and resources but largely by volunteers, including Michael Moore and Brad Pitt working with Habitat For Humanity. (yeah, who else caught 20/20 this week?)

The cliche, "Birds of a feather stick together," holds up whether roost or roast. All the more inclination for us to fit in with the flock. Why is it that we are propaganding a message that is counter-intuitive? Birds in bad weather ought care less about feathers, sure -- that's a Biblical parable, The Good Samaritan. It's like the Good Arab.

If the world is made up of crazy people and sane people, this morning I woke up feeling on the sane hemisphere. Now to measure the barometer.

My Favorite Rape Scenes in Movieland

20) The Accused -- based on a true story about a gangrape in a bar with high-fiving onlookers, working title was Reckless Endangerment and I was an extra in the crowd during the opening hockey scene

19) Entrails of A Beautiful Woman -- a very rare Japanese dvd flick, kinda silly but has several gang rape scenes and one particularly colorful one features onscreen true ejaculation from one rapist's cock to another's face

18) The Messenger (Story of Joan of Arc) -- auntie gets raped while impaled by spear to door keeping Joan hidden

17) Bram Stoker's Dracula -- Lucy was raped, right? Or does this selection belong on my favorite bestiality scenes?

16) Kids -- how to get HIV before pubes

15) Immortal Beloved -- small scene but I still think about it when someone mentions Napoleon (Mistress Lusty)

14) WHORE -- never get into a van, low track bitch; and watch for the pimp con

13) American Me -- gangbangs from the Zoot Suit riots to fucked up prison shit, go, Puppet, go

12) Kill Bill Vol.2 -- clean the tube of lube for fuck's sake, sheesh

11) Burning Bed -- Farrah Fawcett at her damn finest

10) Clockwork Orange -- Singing In The Rain -- Singing In The RAYN

9) Natural Born Killers -- subtle themes, like Jack Sgagneti and Pinky -- not really rape, Malory and her dad -- not really graphic, hostage and fucked up prison shit

8) Bad Boys -- NO NOT THE WILL SMITH MOVIE!! 1983 Sean Penn and the lovely Esai Morales

7) Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me -- Bob's You're Unc... I Mean, Father...

6) Apocalypto -- Azteca Pride (Mel Gibson is a god in filmmaking)

5) Clockwork Orange -- attempted gangrape that is still freaking hot, one of my favorites and would have ranked higher if not just attempted rape

4) City of God -- also based on a true story from Brazil, how a good man goes gansta, but one rape too late

3) Evil Dead -- arbor day is a holiday for a good reason ;-)

2) Thriller: A Cruel Picture -- Italian gem featuring Christina Lindberg's debut, nonsimulated sex scenes -- I love this movie more than LE2B but I'm counting down the rape scenes...

1) Last Exit To Brooklyn -- without a doubt. I love you, Tralala.  Really because she was the one that instigated her own gangrape... if uve seen the movie, would u not agree she raped herself through the experience, rather than had a gangbang willingly?  she raped herself repeatedly.... what an amazing role... The Best Tits In The West!

My On-Screen Spanking Party

I recognized how extraordinary a spanking party is at the ranch.  House rules dictate that it is always the woman who is dominant during her parties, not the submissive.  There are many practical reasons for this: we are here to make the House money and can't really be going to line-ups all black and blue.  Worse, if a working girl is tied up and loses control of her client, she can be seriously injured or killed, bringing a lot of heat on the ranch.  So, being a submissive in a party is something us girls ordinarilly never get to do.  Therefore, I could not pass up the opportunity to participate.

The party was brought to my attention by Rose and Joe.  Rose was the very first ranch girl to sit with me on my first night at the ranch and give me pointers on working, House policies and just made me feel so welcome.  Rose is a Dominatrix, among other specialties, and had submitted herself to spanking to gain understanding of the submissive's point of view.  She had taken three bare handed blows to her ass and she showed me a video of her after the session and you can make out distinct handprints on her heart-shaped bottom.  She had other bungalow parties to hostess that week so she could not be spanked again.  I, on the otherhand, didn't have any appointments and figured I would heal very quickly so a little spanking wasn't going to interfere with my game.

Everything was prearranged the night before; all I had to do was be cute.  And boy, I did not hold back.  Sunday morning I slinked into my hottest outfit, a white hooded romper complete with furry leg warmers that made me look like a sexxxy snow bunny and showed off all my curves.  To complete the ensemble, a rhinestone collar choker with leash ring.  Damn, I'm good lol...

When The Dom saw me for the first time, his eyes lit up like birthday cake sparklers.  The Dom was a Rod Stewart impersonator from Las Vegas who frequented BDSM parties.  He was incredibly handsome, like Stewart back in 1984.  The chemistry between us was undeniable and instantaneous.  You could almost hear the electric current buzzing around us.

"If we do this," The Dom explained, "you must be 100% committed.  It's just like taking a turn on a motorcycle -- either you're fully committed or you wipe out.  It's just that simple.  There is no safe word..."

"We need a safe word," Rose interrupted.  "Chyna must have complete control."

We decided our safe word would be "Chocolate."  I had zero intention of ever using the safe word.  I was fully committed to the process.

We retreated to our private bungalow.  I was all smiles as I anticipated what I was getting myself into.

"You're really turned on by this," The Dom remarked, aroused himself.

We were in the Western Room and thank goodness Rose had the foresight to remove the bullwhips and lasso which had hung on the wall as art.  They were the real deal and I can only imagine the carnage that would have resulted had The Dom gotten his hands on those props.  But he was not without tools.  Rose suggested a wooden bath brush, the kind you'd use to scrub the recesses of your back, as a worthy paddle.

After a brief discussion about what we can expect, Rose left the bungalow to book the party with the House.  That left me and The Dom to get aquainted with one another... oh, and seven members of the documentary crew plus two cameras so I was ready to start the party.

The Dom stripped off my skintight outfit and grabbed my nipples with his hands, twisting them 360 degrees.  "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied, getting into character.

He bent me naked over his left knee and hit my right buttcheek hard with an open palm.  Smack.  Then he hit the left one -- smack.  I didn't utter a peep.  So he intensified his motions.  Whack!  That one I let out a groan.  Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!  His blows came fast and heavy, covering a small area of my lower ass and I could feel the heat radiating from every pore of my skin.

"How 'bout the paddle now," he advised, rather than suggested, and before I could take another breath in, slap!  Slap-slap-slap... well, you get the idea... I was face down on the bed, still bent over The Dom's lap and I received about 20 hits from the bath brush when I heard the bungalow door open and shut.  The spanking continued and I turned my head to the side and saw Rose.  She had such sadness in her eyes.  She leaned down to me, very close and intimate, almost nose-to-nose and I could see her lips were moving but I couldn't hear what she was saying because the sound of the wooden bath brush connecting with the taut skin of my muscular ass resembled a lightning clap.  I began to feel disoriented.  Hello, adrenalin!  Ahhh, wzup endorphins... thanks for joining the party!  My moans took on a jazz quality as I took blow after blow after blow.

The Dom stood up and rolled me over onto my back with my Jell-O legs over the edge of the bed.  He lifted my legs by my ankles and pushed so my feet were over my head.  He paddled the lower curves of my buttocks and the backs of my upper thighs repeatedly.  I felt direct hits on my anus. Ooooh, dopamine and opioids surged up my spinal cord. Ecstacy. I must have received over a hundred licks of that wooden bath brush in the first twenty minutes.

The Dom dropped my legs and sat on the edge of the bed.  "Get on your knees," he said, pointing to the floor.

I stood up wobbly like a just-birthed fawn and Rose reached out her hand to steady me.  I dropped on all fours in front of The Dom.

"No, on your knees in front of me," he instructed.

"Yes, Sir," I said as I picked my hands off the floor and faced him between his legs.

"Take off my shoes."

Rose began to remove his right sneaker while I struggled with the laces of his left shoe.  My hands trembled as if I had Palsy.  I was hot -- so hot from every pore -- dewy skinned and wet in all the right places.

The Dom unbuckled his belt.  I breathed heavy and exhaled a sigh of relief when he said, "Take off my pants." His belt stayed between the belt loops of his denims and he removed his underwear.  He was so hard.

I put my hands on his lap to steady myself and he slapped me across my tits.

"Did I say you could touch me?"

"No, Sir," I conceded as he slapped me across my breasts repeatedly.  Rose later told me he had slapped me across my face but I do not remember that.

The Dom stretched his legs out on the bed and propped himself up on his elbows.  "Suck my cock."

I'll skip the sex part -- hehehe gotta save something for cable lol... [actually they didn't show any of the sex LOL] -- except to say that the spankings continued with Rose attending to me with ice cubes on my back, neck and ass.  The ice melted quickly and I was stimulated by the way the cold water streaked down my arms and hips.  I felt ice cubes by my anus and it was divine.  After awhile, my spankings ceased and Rose became the center of affection.

We went from spanking to love-making and as Rose surrendered to her orgasm, I finally released the energy invested in me by crying.  The Dom was insistant on it.  "I'm going to beat you until you cry," he assured.

After The Dom came on Rose's spectacular breasts, the party was over.

He beamed at me with a pureness I rarely see in men.  "You were amazing," he said, dropping the dom routine and helping me to my feet.

I felt phenomenal.  I ran to the bathroom to take a peek at my ass and was shocked by all the different colors represented on my batty.  And the symmetry of his art was stunning.  My buttcheeks looked like an inkblot print and Gnarls Barkley's Crazy replaced Stewart's If You Think I'm Sexy playing in my head.

I had welts the size of tube socks and black- and raspberries all over the backs of my upper thighs and the fleshy part of my derriere.  After The Dom left the bungalow, I sat my sore ass on a towelful of icecubes that seems to melt and glacier on contact with my radiating batty.  An ice cube entered my anus and felt delightful.

I needed a cigarette.  Shit, I needed a joint but no weed on the ranch. I lit up and Rose, a non-smoker, said, "I need to smoke, too." She turned green after a few puffs of my Newports and sat down by the sink holding her pretty head in her hands.

As my body chemistry returned to normal, I crashed, exhausted, like a cokehead coming down from a high.  It was difficult to participate in the after-party interview... I was simply wasted.  I needed to process my experience and the documentary crew wanted to discuss my husband for some reason.  Dunno.

I retreated to the sanctuary of my room where a miracle was waiting for me.  The room was filled with this amazing nurturing energy -- a familiar but long-missed energy... that of my unborn daughter. Her essence was further validated by the song that was serendipitously playing on my laptop -- David Baerwald's Born For Love.  It was a song I knew well, the soundtrack to Kalifornia being my favorite soundtrack of all time.  I sang along to David's haunting creation while I clutched Dumbo, my 29-year-old stuffed elephant who's been with me on every trip across 3 continents since I was 7 years old, and wept unabashedly in a fetal position as I felt the kiss and tender love of an essence I knew to once have been inside my body.  Now, it enveloped me with acceptance and salvation.

The miracle of that afternoon was further validated when Joe returned to my room after a few hours when I had calmed down.  He asked me about the song that I sang along to because it was such a perfect moment.  Background music adds a lot of red tape to the production, copyrights and releases and whatnot, so if they were to include the footage of me returning to my room, they would need to get in touch with the artists.  I showed Joe the CD and pointed to Track 9.  His face turned white as light.

"I know David," Joe said, with a strange smile one might see on a happily married man who just found out his wife was expecting.  "He collaborated with me on Sexual Healing." Cha!!! So all that juicy footage of me, Dumbo and my daughter's essence will make the show, saved from the cutting room floor.

I am so grateful to The Dom for his intense commitment to his art.  He provided me with sufficient friction to enable a leap in the octaves and I began to understand why I engage in these pain games.

My body -- no, my neurology was attempting to simulate labor and childbirth.

I had had an abortion in 2000 and ever since, I have tried to enact a form of labor to birth experience.

The suspension was a total Lamaze experience.  Deep, steady breaths. No drugs.  The intense labor of getting my toes off the stool.  And when I dug deeper than I had ever been able to do before, that is when  I birthed my true spirit.  I was rewarded by the glorious feeling of seeing my beauty outside of my body.  Holding my inner child with the span of my outstretched arms as I swung two feet of the ground.

The spanking party, on the other hand, felt more like Alice Walker's Celie's birthing of Olivia.  There was no emotional reward, only the promise of Real Work.

Self-refinement forces us to evolve our perspective.  Self-refinement enables us to be objective.  The question that is before me now is do I continue with my pain games and accumulate more friction? Or are pain games for me obsolete, having reached this miraculous self-discovery?  The question becomes my new quest.

My Mystery Begins In SE Asia

I am grateful to be a two-time immigrant, calling three cultures my home, and returning to South East Asia this month has reignited a deep sense of my power.

Kuala Lumpur is certainly a lot cleaner than Manila.  It was pure business in KLCC where I spent my first two days back in the Tropic of Cancer at the Mandarin Oriental.  Twenty-nine floors above the Golden Triangle, I found it impossible to sleep with all that productive energy whirling around me.  Construction runs around the clock, with 20-min to hour-long breaks here and there.  Suria Mall at KLCC is 6 floors of designer to mainstream brands.  Pucci greets guests from the Mandarin O. entrance with Salvatore Ferragamo and Channel welcoming you into Center Court where you can spot Bata Shoes, American Outfitters and Kalifornia Pizza Kitchen.  Prices are comparable to prices in US, no real savings but selection is a touch different from American stores, and if you stick to the Asian-based stores, you can put together a fantastic outfit that will be original and fresh back in the States without looking like you're going through vacation withdrawal.  It's incredibly modern in Kuala Lumpur.  More so than in California lol.... Fashion-wise, I mean, but also in the social scene.

Walking around KLCC I attracted a lot of attention.  I guess getting my hair braided by Jae in Aphrodite flowing curls to the arch of my back was a bit much for visiting an Arab nation.  Malaysia has three principle cultures: Christians, Muslims and Arab.  Many women wear scarves, some wear burkas, and it seemed I was the first person some of them have seen with dramatic hair. My natural hair would have been perfectly appropriate -- polished, proportionate and progressive.  Most women wore their hair short or if long, put it in a smooth bun.  Not so much frivolous hair in KLCC, but it got fun at MotoGP.  omg the umbrella girls at Sepang were incredible!

The multi-culturalism was organic and effective in Kuala Lumpur, more so than what I remember happening in Vancouver, even.  Wherever I looked, I saw people who resembled my family, but they spoke Malay which kinda-sorta sounds like Tagalog, but more indiginous.  Tagalog has a lot of words and structure from Spanish which is absent in Malay.  For example, open in tagalog is bukas, which is like the Malay word, whereas close is serado, which is like the Spanish word.  Speaking to a filipino, you can hear Tagalog, Spanish and English words all in the same 5-word sentence.  Spantaglish.

The people of Kuala Lumpur were an international mosiac.  Indians, Chinese, Japanese, Australians, Malaysians, Brits, Pakistanis, North Africans, West Indians, Thai... and that's just in KLCC.  Even with all the diversity, I stuck out.  Yes, my hair, but also my features. I am thicker than Malaysian women, but it was also obvious in my facial features and proportions that I was different.  This time when I was asked what nationality I was, my response was that I was mixed, filipina and white, and they would nod in agreement.  One of the girls who asked was so sweet, she said, "Ah, yes, you are special."  So much groovier than, "You sure you're full filipino?"

It was really important that I took this trip.  It wasn't perfect and at times was absolutely miserable -- but it was necessary and my personal core seems very much affected by my proximity to my birthplace.  So much to process, including what my next career moves will be, how I refine my artistic expression and what I define as my values.  My marriage is over.  My home business moves on without me.  Half of my DNA requires validating... or is/has/does it?  I am in the position of questioning everything.

I even considered moving to Kuala Lumpur permanently.  It is that amazing.  Three things which make a move to Malaysia impossible: Asian drivers in Asia (it's worst than you can imagine) -- no pork for my fork (you need a special license to sell pork in Malaysia... Chinatown is your only bet) -- and capital offense for pot (yes, I mean the god-created weed referenced in the bible to sow the seed... wtf!)

Travelling to Kuala Lumpur

1) Do not hail for a taxi (teksi) -- go to taxi porters or official taxi stands.  Best bet are the taxi counters at hotels and official buildings.  State your destination at the counter, pay in advance, receive a paper receipt and a car will be called for you at the curb.  If you get into an unofficial taxi or one that hails you from the street (they will try to hail you into their cab) they will offer you a very low price for where you want to go, off-meter, and then suggest he take you to a few great places along the way.  These detours are not only time-consuming, as you are zigzagged through sidestreets and back alleys from one manufacturing shop to another -- this one produces freehand-drawn batik, this plant is the largest leather store, this refinery bottles palm oil... -- but also expensive as the prices are three times what they are for similar items at the mall, or in America, because the unofficial cab drivers will make a commission for everything you buy on this magical mystery tour.  At least, they didn't try to sell me timeshare.

2) Go hungry.  I mean, prepare to eat in Kuala Lumpur.  The cuisine is world-class and relatively inexpensive.  Freshest seafood I have ever experienced except for maybe the last time I was in SE Asia.  Italian and Japanese cuisine predominate and are very good -- better than in SoCal.  I can say that with utmost confidence -- the food in Kuala Lumpur is better than any in Southern California with the exception of the $100/sitting dining rooms, to which KLCC is comparable.  But stay away from the American dishes.  They don't do pork, so bacon and eggs is served with either beef or turkey bacon.  Hotdogs are just odd.  My favorite dish now is Lasi Lemak -- yummmyyy, I am drooling just thinking about it. The flavors of anchovies, hardboiled egg, pine nuts and cucumber mixed with sauced chicken and fragrant rice remind me of Pancit Palabok but with a complexity that achieves tastebud heaven.

3) Shoes go to small Size 9 for women and Asian sizes for women apparel go 0-4.  0=XSmall.  1=Small.  2=Medium.  3=Large.  4=Xlarge.  I was a 4.

4) It is the custom NOT to tip.  Service Tax of 10% and a 5% sales tax will be added to every bill, and many restaurant checks will state, "Please No Tipping."

5) Lots of beggars.  The buddhists are the most aggressive and got me and LL for 300MR or about $100US.

6) Kuala International Airport is the Number One International Airport in the world, 2-years running.  Deservingly so.

7) Prostitution is legal.  Cheap too.  Shit, I gotta tell you this one story in my next blog....

8) If you wanted to get away from authorities in Northern Africa or the West Indies, you will find a lot of company in Kuala Lumpur.  Just keep it on the DL and everything will work out.  Plenty of business to go around.

9) Motorcycles are uncommon in Malaysia.  Scooters are the norm.  "Big bikes" have a disadvantage because the car drivers are particularly unsympathetic towards motorcyclists, with an attitude of hit them before they hit us.  Most of the motorcycle street racing and canyon riding is done by neighboring Singaporians where the streets are even shorter than they are in Malaysia.  On the Friday we were in KL, the headline in the press stated proudly, "Only 15 fatalities from auto accidents yesterday."

10) Only 3Channel cellphones and above work in KL.  They have the bombest phones there, more advanced than the pieces of shit we are forced to deal with in the States.  Best bet, plan on spending about $400-$1000US for an incredible phone which won't be in American markets for another 16 months, and for not less than $600.  The phones work with a SIM card so when you get back to N. America, you can switch the SIM from your old phone into your new pimp phone and be the envy of your entourage.

My First Shamanic Experiment

I was in grade 5.  Everybody was reading Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. I read it five times before it was due back in the library.

I was in a mixed grade 5/6 class, which is pretty much the cusp of pubescence.  The most popular girl in class -- heck in the school -- was Gail, a big-boned blonde in the 6th grade with ginormous boobs.  Teachers stared.  Everywhere Gail went, she was always getting comments, some not so nice, but most of the time, very nice.  It was like she was famous.  No matter what Gail was doing or whom Gail was with, everyone wanted to talk to her.

One day, a bunch of us grade 5 girls were hanging out where the grade 7s hang out. Twins in my grade had an older brother who was telling us how he got drunk off his father's home-made wine.  All the Portugese families used their bathtubs to make the stuff every autumn.  For some reason, something caught my eye.

It was something written on the wall in pencil.  "Don't Stare. GROW YOUR OWN!"

I was in awe.  Was it really that simple?  All I had to do was never stare at Gail's wonderful boobs again and I'll grow my own pair?  What would it hurt to try?  The writing was on the wall, for goodness sake.  For a Catholic girl, that was heavy shit.

So, for the rest of the year, everyday I saw Gail, I would look her square in the eyes and say, "Hi!" and keep on walking.  My girlfriends would always have a comment or two to say ("Nice sweater, chubby;" "Still a virgin?")  I stuck to my program.  And Gail started talking to me about stuff.  I don't remember what anymore, but I do remember she had a very pretty smile and she smelled of chicklets gum.

And everynight, I would do my exercises with my mantra: I Must. I Must. I Must Increase My Bust.

I did this for the rest of the year.  That Christmas, I got sweater after sweater after sweater.  And not just any kind of sweater; the same cable knit, baggy, wrap-around sweater in a dozen different colors.  It was winter in V.C. -- I was happy to get sweaters.  Besides, Jacqueline Smith wore them.  She was a Charlie's Angel.

So I wore sweaters for 3 months. Until one warm afternoon, as I was unwrapping the cable knit layers off me, I felt 20 pairs of eyes on my teeshirt. I had never noticed it until Ricky Degano pointed it out, "Holy Big Momma!"  The whole class laughed.  I looked down and saw, not just boobs, amazing boobs.

It really worked.  To this day, I thank Gail for knowing and sharing the secret to manifesting your best life.  Don't stare = grow your own.

It still works.

My Archetype Walk

I am walking a moonlit path through a forest.  It is the same forest from the movie, Evil Dead, and I was comfortable and excited as I walked through knowing at any time danger may strike.  The path I walked was unpaved and unused, at times disappearing altogether, but forward I walked.

As the path widened, I came across a cup.  It was wooden on the outside and inlined with the purest gold.  It shone even though there was no sun in the sky.  I had to decide whether I would take the cup with me or leave it where I found it.  I searched for my intention with the cup.  I said, "It is very beautiful, anyone can see that.  I, however, can accomplish the same thing with my hands and mouth." I left the cup be and continued along my path.

The path curved slightly to the right with a slight downward slope, just enough to make the walk very comfortable.  The path was rockier here and cut with deep groves from erosion, exposing roots and collecting decay.  Carefully, I continue until I notice something in the ground a ways ahead.

As I neared, I realized it was a key.  I picked it up and brushed off dead leaves.  It was heavy, silver and about a foot long. A skeleton key that felt so smooth and cool in my hand.  I took this key with me as I continued my path walk.

The path begins to narrow here.  After some time, I come to a small clearing.  Between me and the path that continues is a bear.  The bear is small and seems nonthreatening.  I clap my hands and grunt out loud. With the base of the key squarely in my right palm and the shaft between my middle and ring fingers, I waved that key around like a 12" bear claw.  "Don't even think about it, bear. I will use this with all my ability." I said as I crossed the clearing and continued on my path.

The trees were cold and there was a dampness in the air.  I felt I was being watched.  The path opened up some more and I came to another clearing, much much larger with a big, crisp lake.  I walked along its shoreline, my bare feet pressing gently against the soft sand.  I walked further into the water, waste deep and felt so calm.  The water was body temperature, clear, unpolluted and felt so good on my skin after walking for so long.  I went back to the shore and took off my clothes and went back into the lake, this time swimming under water and doing breaststrokes and dog paddling.  I floated on my back and felt the water lap over my exposed breasts.  The sun began to warm my skin and I headed back towards the shore.

I walked over my clothes, drying my feet some and continued along the shore, watching my reflection in the lake as I walked to the path entrance.  This time, the path was very narrow.  I had to walk sideways at times and step over branches which scratched at my ankles.  When I reached the end of the very end of the path, I was at a wall.  It was a red brick wall.  I looked behind me and thought about from where I had come.  I looked at the key in my hand and tossed it with all my energy straight up.  When it did not come back down, I began to scale the wall.



This guided meditation provides insight into one's personal archetype.  Here are my messages:

The Path = My Spiritual Path and how I feel about it
Mine was not just least travelled, but at times virgin soil.  Uneven and twisty, it required that I maintain my highest awareness.

The Forest = My Relationships
The Evil Dead forest rapes.  I feel familiar and calm in that environment.  I still appreciate my experience in the energy.

The Cup = My Divine Heart
Wood is an unrefined material whereas gold is highly refined.  The fact that the outside of my cup was made of the same stuff as my forest made it necessary for me to inline the cup with precious gold, thereby making the cup useful forever.  The outside wood may chip away, but as I refine my inner capsule, the gold inside the cup keeps it functional.

The Key = My Intellect Center
It is the path to knowledge and my key opens all doors.  It feels good in my hands.

The Bear = Problems and Issues I Face
As I approached the bear even though I saw it was not immediately threatenning, I still made a lot of noise to get across.  Had I taken the cup earlier, I would have tossed the cup away from the bear hoping to catch his attention and move pass while he was distracted.  Instead of using my Emotional Center to deal with my issue, I used my Moving Center (hands and mouth) to resolve my issues.  To justify my position, I wave my connection with my Intellectual Center with arrogance, "I know what I am doing.  I have access to much knowledge."

The Lake = Sexuality / Spirituality
I got my feet wet very early, pre-dawn.  Once acclimated, I went deeper, fully clothed, still innocent.  I felt my body temperature outside of me.  I leave for a moment and return naked, stripped of all humility, and take my swim headfirst, immersed, in my spiritual sexuality.  As the sun heated, I was ready to continue my path.  As the sun set, I kept my feet close to the water and watched my reflection.  It is loaded but kinda self explanatory, yes?

The Wall = How I Feel About Death
I will test how high my knowledge will go and follow it knowing it will not fall back on me.


My immediate revelation is in regards to how I approach problems in my life.  When I should be resolving issues from my Emotional Center, I instead rationalize it and use my body or Moving Center to rememdy the situation.  I then act like a know-it-all if things go well, or even if things don't lol... This is one area in my life I am immediately adjusting my coping mechanisms and paying closer attention to my being.

Sacred Whores and Trick Hos - Part 2

When the client enters the upscale massage parlor for which i worked, he's greeted by a roomful of gorgeous ladies in very sexy attire. The hostesses are seated along couches and furniture, legs outstretched, backs arched. Straggling hos have to stand like dumb mannequins. We're introduced by our working names one at a time during which we have to convince the client that we each were the best bang for his bucks. It's a very daunting experience for most men. And it is even more so for the newbie ho. 

The women seated around her had muscle tone and high-maintenance tan lines. Their nails were impeccably filled and airbrushed. Their outfits each cost more than three bills and weighed less than three ounces. 

The newbie's nails were chewed up, her skin was blanched from stress and sleep deprivation, and she's sucking in her tummy in a "house dress". 

"House dress" refers to dresses that the owner kept on premises for newbies who needed to make some money before they can afford their own working clothes, or if a girl forgot her gear. There were also house robes, house lingerie and house shoes. 

"Break" means to make money. Some days, some girls didn't make any money. Some girls would spend the entire day on the couch never getting picked once for a session. It was highly competitive. And every girl goes through a slump. No matter what she'd do to her hair or her outfits, either she wouldn't get picked or she'd get all straights. Compound the stress with all the girls asking after she gets straighted, "Did you break yet?" 

It's not that we were nosey. We were peers. One time or another, we shared our clients. That was completely normal. But that kind of close intimacy leads to a great deal of honest talk. Prostitutes have very little patience for bullshit.

My sense of self-worth was nurtured to health in such an environment. It was true irony that it took me hooking to value my body. I wasn't the coveted buxom blonde with legs for miles, but a john will pay me just as much for my sweet-young-Asian-me-so-horny schtick. 

So my self esteem improved. And I was working on my nymphomania, too. The other girls that I worked with live by a professional code and they didn't appreciate bitches who kinked up their game. They'd talk amongst themselves, "I can't understand when girls say they like hooking? Those hos are really fucked up." Then they would vote on which newbie was the skankiest, discussing the noises they heard coming from her private room sessions or the gross things she performed during multiples. They would steal my gear, my money from my locker... er, her gear and shit. 

One of the things I didn't count on was how much my appeal changed after I lost thirty pounds. I was getting sessions as if I were ten years younger, but the quality of those sessions left much to be desired, namely, MONEY! Talk about Straight Central!

The thing with being a "big girl" is that I catered to a very niche group - johns who loved bigguns. When I was the biggest girl in the reception room, I stood out. But as soon as I started losing the weight, I was competing with the skinny girls and the johns who liked us big didn't look my way anymore.

When johns come to the parlor specifically for a big girl, he ain't coming to look. That chunky ho is gonna break. I lost my game and suffered a lot of straights.

But the parlor owner had big plans for her business and the parlor underwent dramatic aesthetic upgrades. When I first started, the parlor was very discreet with a plain black door and the benign neon sign. It was a corner building on a street internationally renown for nightclubs and bars, poolhalls and after-hours eateries, as well as the City's high-track.

We occupied the top floor of a plain brick building which we shared with a rubber stamp company on the first floor. That summer, our downstairs neighbor's lease was up and they could not renew at the price the parlor owner offered for the space. Construction began for two new private studios upstairs and a much grander reception lobby in our newly acquired street-level space.

The parlor was beautiful after all the renovations. The parlor owner really added her personal touch to areas like the clients' waiting lounge. We greeted only one client or one set of clients at a time. To whet the appetites of awaiting clients, the owner hung gorgeous 8x10s in the waiting lounge and in common hallways around the spa area, by the private studios - pictures of consenting ladies in various stages of undress.

The owner also invested over $30,000 to revamp her website. She wanted a picture gallery of working girls accessible by paying club members. I participated in the website project and the owner liked the bio I wrote for my character, Chyna, so much that she requested I help the other girls with their bios. She also asked me to proof the copy she had written for her website. Yes, I was writing advertising for prostitutes, and typical of any dumb writer, making absolutely no money from it.

Yet, I felt proud that my years of memoranda writing and minutes-taking did not go to waste. (Hmmm, did I metion I worked in banks between graduation and hooking? It was really boring and you can't fault me for not mentioning it 'til now.) The girls really liked how I rewrote their biographies. Some of them even started talking to me for the first time since I started working there.

But the parlor owner had one more improvement to add - a 14x30 foot mural professionally airbrushed in the front display window. To emphasize her point, she commissioned the artist to put on a pseudo street performance at 8PM on a Friday night using high-volume projectors to create the scene of a boudoir setting with a dozen scantilly clad, busty, athletic-framed women. It was nothing like the City had ever seen. Most of us girls thought it was ugly. The parlor owner boasted that it was, "The best seven hundred bucks I ever spent!"

Yes, our daily sessions increased 100, sometimes 150 per cent. Before the mural, a 50 session day came a few times a year: during Indy weekend, Hallowe'en, and the first week of July when both Canada and the US celebrate their national holidays.

Post-mural, we averaged 80 sessions each and every day. Do the math. Each session costs the client $60-$85 an hour, all of which goes to the House. Just looking at the bottom line alone, then I would have to agree with the owner that the mural was the best seven bills she ever spent.

However, if I take into account the fact that the mural totally revealed our establishment for what it was, compromising the discretion it had enjoyed for over a decade, I think the mural was a downer for most of the girls. For example, a lot of the older regulars who were more particular about matters of discretion did not return to the parlor after the mural was up. I am certain they did not curtail their tricking; instead, they found other parlors (certainly on the seedier side, as ours was one of only two classy joints in town owned and operated by women) which didn't front the fact to the rest of the community that hos worked there.

These old-timers made the best benefactors. They were kind, rarely tried anything funny or gross, and they eloquently filled my sessions with lively conversation. Plus, they were generous.

Bye-bye, Sugar Grampies. Hello, collegiate straights. I slightly exaggerate; truth is, I made twice as much money after the mural went up. I just had to work five times as hard. Not all squares stay squares. It's very easy for men to get addicted to parlors and the club life. They're surrounded by gorgeous girls who wouldn't otherwise look in their direction and the expectations of one another are quite clear. Money talks. But I was interested in the male perspective.

When I was socially rejected by the girls, I turned my focus towards the johns. I wanted to know what made a normal looking guy on all other fronts want to spend his hard earned money frequenting parlors, going from square to live in no time. I started a new project to see how many first timers I can get to pick me from the couch just so I can study them and pick their brains. Yes, it was manipulative of me, but seriously, would the alternative have been any better?

My mission didn't end at observation and questioning. I made an effort to persuade the first-time johns not to come back, that they didn't need to be spending their money that way. I was ignored most of the time. 

My favorite client was Will. He was a Systems Administrator who did a lot of traveling. He was the most gentle, kindhearted man I'd met in years. He weighed over three hundred pounds when I met him, which totally didn't bother me. I was his first experience with a hooker. He had heard about my employer's parlor from a coworker who had passed along the business card saying he would not be disappointed. 

I was the fifth girl of seven on the couch introduced to Will when he walked in that ordinary rainy day. I flashed him my perfect smile and shimmied my shoulders back. Now, if he'd picked any of the other girls, I'd hate to imagine what would have happened to my dear Will. Don't get me wrong, I loved all the girls I worked alongside with yet their focus on the job was money - period. They did not join me on my crusade of God's Happy Hookers. (More on that in Part 3.) But Will picked me, we dated and we had a very nice time. I was not sure if he would come back. He was very easy with the money, not arguing or trying to haggle the exchange rate. I emptied his wallet of cash with his appetite for extra servings. Like I said, it was a nice date. 

The second time Will came to visit, he told me he'd fallen in love with me. I told him I loved him also... as a person, just as I love all living creatures, but I get paid to leave this part out of the conversation. This is the service johns pay for. The rest of it is up to the girl's discretion. 

I knew it would be a very delicate operation should I continue to investigate his feelings for me - a whore he met in another country. I recognized Will's low self esteem. I committed to doing what I had to do so that Will could see his true worth. 

A week later, a package arrived to the parlor addressed to my club name, ATTENTION: CHYNA. PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. Inside, a gold chain with two gold charms and a stack of prepaid calling cards. It was the first time I had received gifts from a trick. 

Did I see Will as a trick? Of course, I did. That's how we met and no matter how hard Will tried to deny it, fact was fact. He'd get so frustrated when I refused to commit to more than just a professional relationship. Will no longer saw me as a hooker. He only saw what he needed to see to validate his feelings. I had to get him to a point where he would let me in his life and I did not intend to misuse my influence. 

Will was an ill man when we met. No one knew how critical his condition was. At first, a dry cough would come in spells causing him to carry a few handkerchiefs on his twenty-eight year old person. Then, he started coughing up blood. Will had never smoked a cigarette in his life. He never drank to excess and the only time he ever "experimented" was when we took some herbal ecstasy during an IMAX film he took me to. Will's disease: overwork. 

The next weeks would mean tests and more tests and further tests. Will kept in touch by phone as he no longer was healthy enough to travel. The news from all the tests just got worse and worse. Then, as suddenly as his cough-ups turned from bloody phlegm to bloody chunks, Will underwent surgery to remove a tumor in his lung the size of a tennis ball. With his weight surpassing 300 pounds, Will was not an ideal candidate for major surgery. 

It was the most demanding thing Will had every gone through. He kept a journal where he wrote poems he'd dedicate to Chyna. He sketched scenery he imagined we would one day visit when he recovered. He cried a lot. He told me months later that he had waited for me to come to his bedside every day. No matter how much he suffered, he told himself that tomorrow, Chyna would come. He told me if he didn't think he would ever see me again, he would have just given up. But he hoped everyday, through all his pain, he hoped. 

I knew in my heart that the worst thing I could have done to this man was to visit him at the hospital. One of our phone calls I had mentioned the book, A Course In Miracles. Will asked his sister to find a copy for him and he devoured the entire book in a little less than the eleven weeks he spent in the hospital. It is recommended that the book be read over the course of a year. 

When Will went home (the same home he grew up in, with his Chinese immigrant parents and twenty-two year old brother) I decided it was time to visit him. 

He looked amazing. He'd lost at least one hundred fifty pounds. His face lit up like a smiling young buddha at the sight of me at his front door. 

We spent the day together, holding hands. He told me all about the hospital, operation, how great the doctors were, how understanding his employer was to give him as much time off with full pay as his doctor advised. He shared his journal, his sketches, his hopes with me. I knew our relationship would soon come to an end. It was not time yet for Will to know. He was just getting back to health and making a new start for himself. It was not the time to, um, dump him. 

I saw Will one more time. As fate would have it, I got fired from the parlor the same day that Will was well enough to travel to the City again. He'd called that afternoon before my employer came into work and booked an appointment with me. Unfortunately, I didn't call him to cancel our session. 

When Will showed up that evening asking for me and my ex-employer told him that I no longer worked there, at first, he thought they were lying to him. When she further apologized for my unprofessionalism, not calling him to let him know I was fired, and she suggested he have a session with one of the twenty other hostesses there that time, Will lost it. 

"I don't want to see anybody else but Chyna!" he shouted. "Chyna is nothing like you! She's sweet and never belonged here. I'm glad she got fired. I hope she gets as far away from this place as possible!" he'd cried, running past a rowdy quartet of U-Dub seniors as he exited through the Enter door, gripping the leather-bound copy of Alice In Wonderland he had wrapped in fancy paper for his girlfriend. 

In the rainy night, Will walked the streets hoping to run into me. 

I learned all of this the next morning when I met him at his hotel lobby. He'd left a message on my calling card voice mail. 

This time, there was no smile to greet me. He gave me the beautifully wrapped present asking me not to open it until he left. He didn't want to know what I felt. He didn't know what I felt anymore and he didn't care anymore. 

"Why are you treating me like this?" he asked, his eyelids bloated like babies' arms. 

I took his hand in mine. "Will, I am not the person you love. My role was to help you through the last three months so that I can tell you the one you truly love is close. You may even know her already. She already loves you and is waiting for you to see her just as I see you, Will." Tears freely flowed from us both as we sat in the leather furnished atrium. "I didn't come to see you when you needed me most," I reminded him. "The woman you are meant to be with would have." 

Nearby, a Taiwanese couple in Italian business attire shared The Sun (him, Business; her, Front Page). Will and I helped ourselves to tissue on the coffee table. I leaned into him, hugging him tight. 

"Go to her," I whispered. "Do it as fast as you can." 

I know I've hurt people. I also know that I have destroyed no one. I've always suffered alongside those who have been wronged, allowing them to vent their anger and disgust in my direction if only so they could feel better about their situation. And then there were the glimpses to God's Great Plan for me when I helped save a life.


[continued in Part 3./tba]

Certified Triple-A XXX Pussy

One of the things my first-time clients are giddily surprised to discover about me is that I live up to the LBFM stereotype in the sense that my snatch is calibrated to finger tight specifications, ergo my vaginal walls get rrrrridges like Rrrrruffles and has the muscular agility and strength of a tongue. Well, some other girl's tongue; my tongue is pretty spectacular in its own ballpark, if u get my meanin' ;-p

We working girls have our strategies for keeping it tight and ready to perform. Some are widely known by sensual women all over the world; others we professional girls keep to ourselves like Nana's No-Bake Cheesecake recipe. Some of the more referenced tips are:

Yoga -- Many of the moves and postures were developed in Ancient India, u know the culture responsible for The Kama Sutra and the erotic temples of Khajuraho. Oh, and Tantra, but more on that further on the list. Regarding how Yoga helps to strengthen the vaginal walls, look for moves and postures that focus on the core. My favorites are Beetle Squat, Mula Bandha and an ab exercise that looks like ur doing a crunching thighmaster -- the twatmaster ;). Ladies, my tip, pick up a postpartum yoga dvd BEFORE you get pregnant. Your future babydaddy will love you.

Tantra -- Practice it, girls... and you can do this by yourself if all u r attracting are two-minute men. It's bringing urself to the very edge of the brink of orgasm, then, by focusing on ur energy, redirecting it into another area with more space for ur energy to expand and intensify. It's not at all about stopping the orgasm as it is moving it into a more expansive state. Do this 12 times... yes, in one masturbation session (Ms. V, I'm looking at U!) On the 13th waffle, go full cream and let the syrup drizzle -- whoohoo. Yes, the headaches are normal at first and apparently less achey for vegans. With practice, tantric masturbation is an exceptional tool for self-discovery and spiritual connectedness. Kinda takes the phrase, Know Thyself, to Biblical relevence.

Breathe Deeply, Consciously, Lovingly -- If you properly practice Yoga and/or Tantra, this is part of the discipline so all the more benefit to do the above. However, if u can only commit to one thing on this list for strengthening ur sexual organs and amping ur overall sexy, proper breathing is the one thing u can do today, without paying anything, that will make u not only a better lover, but u will love sex better. One of the best nuggets of breathing advice I ever got was off the Longevity Breathing DVD by Lineage Master B.K. Frantzis, based on the Taoist principle of Seventy-Per-Cent. If you can find a copy of this DVD, it is critical knowledge in its simplicity and results. I'll blog about optimum sexual breath in another post.

Ginger -- Drink it as an organic herbal tea or eat the pickled kind u get with sushi or best yet, cook meals with the fresh spice that will help keep u pH balanced and sweet like pineapples.

Acidophilus -- Naturally found in organic yogurt sold at Wild Oats (help my investment portfolio please ;-) this bacterium is essential in keeping candida levels down and maintaining feminine health and hygiene. You can get it powder form, in capsules and in supplementary probiotics, but the best way to take acidophilus is by the millions of cultures.

Don't Douche -- Unless it's a one-time emergency thing, I suppose it is okay, but if you are douching regularly, ur upsetting ur natural pH balance, stressing ur vagina and possibly causing ur own irritation/infection. Get medical advice and make sure you inform your ob-gyn about ur douching habit.

Lube! -- Every time. Dildos should always be lubed. Lube condoms, even the lubricated ones -- more lube. Even if u are sooooo horneeee that u've soaked through ur VS panties, premium lube like KY Intrigue (about $20 and worth three times it's cost) will keep the action slick and even saucier. Kinda like wearing a bra even tho u have fake tits. Sure it's cool to not have to, but in the long run....

Now, my personal trade secrets -- right after I tell you why I feel I have a voice in this matter of sensual, tight pussies. Yesterday, as with every check-in Monday before Ranch work, I was at the Clark County Health District getting checked for STDs. It was a busier day than usual, with me coming in right before cut-off time as letter "G". (Shhhhh... they give letters to ranch girls and numbers to squares.) So, I get into the exam room for my PAP and I've been seeing the same gyn at that clinic for over a year. She sees most of us ranch girls. So, when she says to me as I'm stirrupped and speculummed, "Your cervix is very healthy;" I ask her to put it in writing LOL! That's right, gentlemen, 4 out of 5 gynecologists recommend Chyna Pi for your screwing pleasure ;-D Without further adieu, here are my secrets to a tight and happy cunt:

Love It! -- I'm my pussy's biggest fan... well, my sacred partner is making me run for that title, but seriously, girls you gotta know what your pussy looks like, what it feels like from all angles and all the ways you orgasm. I can orgasm without ever having my pussy touched, and my most mental out-of-body orgasms come with anal sex. Know what styles of underwear accentuate what's beautiful and unique to your crotch. If you're not happy with your bush, do something about it. I have coarse hair, so I brazilian the whole nest off. Some of my girlfriends at the CR have very fine and silky pubes and they do the classic bikini wax. There are products for coloring ur patch, too. I'm tempted to go blue just to be able to say Pussy Smurf. But then again, I have no hair...

Aka Dua -- It moves through and throughout my entire body, pulsating in rhythmic vaginal contractions that my clients appreciate jubilantly

Obsidian Egg -- Prescribed to me by Toltec Shaman Koyote as preparation for my role within The Work Community, I hold an obsidian egg (the size of a Small AA-Grade egg) inside my vagina during sacred meditation. Recently, I have also been holding the egg for a few minutes after each performance as a recapitulation exercise. Since no fluid transfers occur in my sex performance theater, the exercise is purely an exercise in practice and of Kegel. When I use the egg with my sacred sex partner, the healing is beyond medicinal. It is soul reaching. Obsidian is a power gemstone known for its purification properties and detox qualities. It features prominently in shamanic lore and ritual. If I ever get my navel pierced, I'd put in an obsidian belly button charm. I dunno if I'd ever get my labes pierced. But if I do, obsidian and gold.

Go G.I. Jane -- Not all the time, unless it's your thing, but what I notice when I go without panties is that I'm mindful of "puckering up" kinda like when I'm wearing a bikini, I'm mindful of sucking in. Side note, I landed my first fiance when he picked up a bundle of checks off the bank floor and noticed that I had no panties on under my business suit. He told me months later that he had to take an early lunch and jerk off in the restroom. Side bar, relationships based on the sight of naked pussy will not last.

Recapitulation -- The opposite of decapitation. A Shamanic exercise for regaining one's head after losing it through sex acts. Process prescribed by Toltec Shaman Koyote.

No.1 Secret -- hmmmm, this one, I'm keeping for myself, wink... however, I am inclined to share with generous ladies, couples and gentlemen who like to watch.

Sacred Whores and Trick Hos - Part 1

I'm going to discuss 2 types of prostitutes: trick hos and sacred whores. For the trick ho, it's all business. For the sacred whore, it's all work. Both get off on the end result of their efforts. Only one finds the process beneficial.

The trick ho is the one that get media attention -- she feeds the general misogyny that comforts a partriarchal cult ure by representing the wicked predatory woman as someone tamed by money. She serves a very important role. She's a teacher. She has the ability by ur perception of her to make u feel like a god. And yet, by statistics alone, she's disposable. There are clients who need to be with someone disposable -- shame issues. It is fucked up that trick hos have been historically targeted by sadists and masochists alike.

The less time a trick ho spends with her trick, the safer. U won't get a full throat blow job from a trick ho, that's for sure. But a good trick ho will make u think ur getting the best suck of ur life... in a condom. Everything is covered up, no open mouth kisses, no finger penetration, no anal, no touching, licking or kissing of the breasts. It's always shocking to me to see hos portrayed in the movies all kissy face and shit... i mean, how would she be able to work if she caught anything.

I remember when i first started working at the massage parlor, I confided in one of the house mums that i was a nymphomaniac and that i was totally loving my new job. She slapped me with her eyes and said, "I don't know anything about ur little problem, but there are girls here to make money and they know how to do their job so if ur sharing clients, u better not fuck it up for them. And u better keep that shit 2 urself." She was wonderful. And so right.

One time, one of my regulars wanted a double with another girl at the parlor and i started getting into it, using my tongue on the skin -- just soft licks, but oh so wrong. My girl looked disgusted and when the trick asked her to do what i was doing, she said, "Not a fucking chance." Afterwards, she told everybody. The friggin owner of the parlor called me in to her office and had to remind me about safety and her reputation. I lost Saturday night shifts.

Rules are rules.

The sacred whore governs herself by a different set of rules. She uses her sexuality like a singer uses her voice -- to captivate, tell a story, or move one or many with equal intimacy. She structures her session to the movement of energy. It can be over in 3 minutes or take 3 days. Her attention never wavers.

Don't get me wrong, sister sacred gets paid -- her rare expertise attracts a coveted client pool of both sexes. This ain't about which ho is better -- in fact, there would be no need for sacred whores if trick hos did not exist. There would be no need for trick hos if tricks did not exist. It's a working balance, a psychosystem.

[continued in Part 2./tba]

Song Of Sacred Lovers

i am a vehicle for the Absolute
sacred sex is the highway
u r the slickest tyres that keep me
contact patched on assfault in 6th gear

kundalini coils suspension
steering columns via sinistrae
solomon justice axle drives
cummins engine full-lotus buddha

eternity cannot measure the now/here of being present
music scores the soft gold lining of pure intention manifested
cannabis fields of Eden distract from the Tree of Knowledge
royalties in Truth and Light defeat the Prince of Lies

i miss ur hands like Michelangelo Buonarroti misses marble
i miss ur thighs like the 500cc misses Valentino Rossi
i ache for ur cock like u ache for my cunt
yearning the touch of your voice like the desert yearns the rain

we fuck like gods do
we love like dogs do
we laugh like nobody’s business
when we pass hurt, we fuse confusion with compassion

humming u lullabies with ur sword at my word
soft steps with big stick entry to the back door
pequod withstands ahab’s love of the sperm whale
call me ishmail, narrator, u, queegqueg, my mate

An Open Letter To Every Person I've Fucked

To all my one-night stands, thank you for demonstrating for me how easy it is to make someone feel good without investing any of yourself.

To all those who told me after one fuck, "I'm looking for someone better," I bet ur still looking.

To the pedophiles, in the next life, I'm your bleeding ulcer.

To all my group sex partners, use protection for fuck sake.

To the tricks that tell me they're in love -- many of u r PTs -- ur in love with the idea of being a better man by having a lower status woman in your mind love and need you. Get a friggin grip on ur sanity and quit testing mine. U trick, we Ho. And that's as far as it goes. Just because we say we like u does not mean we will tolerate your taking advantage... and your nice guy veneer will not hold up as an alibi.

To my men of pimp status -- thank you for all you have shown me through our experiences and your insight. Now, go back to your wives.

To all of you who thought I'm cheap -- no, you're cheap. I was just pitying you at the time.

To those of you who talk of ridiculous prices, you're the one suggesting a ridiculous price for what you are looking for. Stop putting it on working women who know the game and realize that maybe you may not be able to afford the fantasy you imagine for yourself. Maybe you need to save a little off your paycheck every week and treat yourself once a year to a cosmic experience. Maybe you could hit low track... or high track if you think you got game. Maybe you can spend your energy on other areas of your life other than paying for sexual gratification. Am I being ridiculous?

To my military men -- goddam -- me love you long time, no joke =D

To my fine bitches, you talk too fucken much about nothing. THAT's why I don't stay the night.

To the intellectuals, you're ever in my thoughts and good intentions.

To my square couples, ugh... what was I thinking.

To my live couples, thank you for including me in a most special and intimate expression of sexuality.

To my rapists, how long did your piss burn?

To those of you who call wondering when we're gonna hook up... well, u see... I work in a FUCKEN BROTHEL U DIPSHIT -- make the effort and come up anytime you want, sheeeyat.

Same goes to those who are curious:
10511 Homestead 89061

To my anonymous partners, our experiences turn me on more than any other but two kinds.

To my sex artists and body modifiers, thank you for appreciating my art and connecting with me in ways that inspire me to this day.

To you who said, "I love you," I hope everyday you say it with meaning to someone who reciprocates unequivocally.

To all of you who said, "You're the best," thank-you. It was my pleasure and I am grateful for your awareness. It was key to what we created together.

To my long term partners, I'm so very sorry for how I treated you. We BOTH deserved better from me. I hope one day, I'll be able to tell you personally.

To those who openly welcome me between their legs whenever I come through town over the last 15 years, the familiar way our bodies meet never gets tired, and your reliable enthusiasm through our 20s and 30s makes returns to the Hometown oh so saucy.

To my sacred shamanic sex partners, I know ur feeling this. Sorry to pollute but it is necessary for the nurturing of The Absolute.

To Solarco, your influence on me cannot be described in human language. id -- SIn7 'n 3^o7 I

To anyone who falls under the Subject but does not see a dedication, get your head out of your ass -- you're represented.