if the Kaiser had said No

November 11, 2019

“But what I would like to know,” says Albert, “is whether there would not have been a war if the Kaiser had said No.”

“I’m sure there would,” I interject, “he was against it from the first.”

“Well, if not him alone, then perhaps if twenty or thirty people in the world had said No.”

“That’s probable,” I agree, “but they damned well said Yes.”

“It’s queer, when one thinks about it,” goes on Kropp, “we are here to protect our fatherland. And the French are over there to protect their fatherland. Now who’s in the right?”

“Perhaps both,” say I without believing it.

“Yes, well now,” pursues Albert, and I see that he means to drive me into a corner, “but our professors and parsons and newspapers say that we are the only ones that are right, and let’s hope so; – but the French professors and parsons and newspapers say that the right is on their side, now what about that?”

“That I don’t know,” I say, “but whichever way it is there’s war all the same and every month more countries coming in.”

Tjaden reappears. He is still quite excited and again joins the conversation, wondering just how a war gets started.

“Mostly by one country badly offending another,” answers Albert with a slight air of superiority.

Then Tjaden pretends to be obtuse. “A country? I don’t follow. A mountain in Germany cannot offend a mountain in France. Or a river, or a wood, or a field of wheat.”

“Are you really as stupid as that, or are you just pulling my leg?” growls Kropp, “I don’t mean that at all. One people offends the other – “

“Then I haven’t any business here at all,” replies Tjaden, “I don’t feel myself offended.”

“Well, let me tell you,” says Albert sourly, “it doesn’t apply to tramps like you.”

“Then I can be going home right away,” retorts Tjaden, and we all laugh, “Ach, man! he means the people as a whole, the State – ” exclaims Mller.

“State, State” -Tjaden snaps his fingers contemptuously, “Gendarmes, police, taxes, that’s your State; – if that’s what you are talking about, no, thank you.”

“That’s right,” says Kat, “you’ve said something for once, Tjaden. State and home-country, there’s a big difference.”

“But they go together,” insists Kropp, “without the State there wouldn’t be any home-country.”

“True, but just you consider, almost all of us are simple folk. And in France, too, the majority of men are labourers, workmen, or poor clerks. Now just why would a French blacksmith or a French shoemaker want to attack us? No, it is merely the rulers. I had never seen a Frenchman before I came here, and it will be just the same with the majority of Frenchmen as regards us. They weren’t asked about it anymore than we were.”

“Then what exactly is the war for?” asks Tjaden.

Kat shrugs his shoulders. “There must be some people to whom the war is useful.”

“Well, I’m not one of them,” grins Tjaden.

“Not you, nor anybody else here.”

“Who are they then?” persists Tjaden.

“It isn’t any use to the Kaiser either. He has everything he can want already.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” contradicts Kat, “he has not had a war up till now. And every full-grown emperor requires at least one war, otherwise he would not become famous. You look in your school books.”

“And generals too,” adds Detering, “they become famous through war.”

“Even more famous than emperors,” adds Kat.

“There are other people back behind there who profit by the war, that’s
certain,” growls Detering.

“I think it is more of a kind of fever,” says Albert. “No one in particular wants it, and then all at once there it is. We didn’t want the war, the others say the same thing – and yet half the world is in it all the same.”

Erich Maria Remarque
All Quiet on the Western Front

Witchcraft & cock torture

October 27, 2019

Sheeba, a 31-year-old energy healer from Portland, Oregon…recommends cinnamon oil, which creates a burning sensation and holds an association with the goddesses Venus and Aphrodite. In her own BDSM scenes, Sheeba often uses thieves oil, a blend of clove, lemon, rosemary, cinnamon, and eucalyptus, as part of CBT, a.k.a. cock and ball torture.

“We used thieves oil on the top of [one of my sex partners’] penis and around the head. I have this really mean clip that fits all the way around the tip of his penis,” Sheeba says. “Some of where his extreme pleasure comes from was from that extra sensitivity from the oils and that constriction.”

Sophie Saint Thomas
Kitchen Witches Are Brewing Lube for the Bedroom

Some say that the “ache for home lives in all of us.“ As I am falling deeper and deeper into onanism, a lot of spaces around me are gradually becoming home: public toilets, McDonald’s under tables, hotel rooms. The itch is then guiding me to one of these homes. It also keeps building new homes for me. Homes in which I feel safe, I feel welcomed, and in a lot of pleasure. Sounds good, but this is also the worst part of the addiction.

How can someone say no to this?! How can someone who has been refused all these things all her life can destroy them when she finally got them?! HOW?! I can easily say “No!“ to onanism, as I said to sex. But I can never say “No!“ to having a home. I think that’s the issue with most addictions: in order to get “cured“, we need to destroy that “ache for home“. We need to become homeless…

I call my toys after writers, both males and females. Today I fuck myself with Celan, with Akhmatova, or Bukowski…With one of them, or with 2, with 3. Later in the day, or tomorrow I’ll change the names, I’ll have others over. I have a few toys, but I want to get so much more. I want to organize huge literary orgies in which my body and my flesh will be at their disposal. I’m already their slave…Have been so long before I became an onanist. Falling in love with their words and their worlds saved me.

When my onanist lust starts to gradually grow inside me, I feel how every cell in my body slowly transform itself into a clit, into a nipple, another cunt, another raging leaking hole… I touch my neck, my ear, my lips, and I feel burning. My arms, my neck again… I finger my fingers, I kiss my own mouth, I whisper in my own ears. I start shacking, my vision blurs, I can’t hear well anymore, I start to droll from everywhere. No matter where I am, I start to retreat from reality, to run away, to disappear. If I cannot masturbate right where I am, I’m becoming increasingly desperate and looking for home. It’s force of attraction is unbearable. My breathing gets heavier, I’m starting to sweat, to melt, to grunt. As I walk I put the belt of my purse over one of my breasts, and start to rub my nipple with it. That doesn’t help at all, but I cannot fucking stop, it’s pleasure, pleasure, pleasure…My mouth is full of saliva, my cunt is under water, I feel my clothes rubbing against my skin and my ears are ringing. I wish I’d have a horse-sized dildo right there so I can impale myself. Maybe the itch will go away. I put my purse in front of my belly so I can finger my navel. It doesn’t bring relief, but the opposite. Bad idea, though the only idea.

I know a bookstore in the city where they have real toilets, not booths. It’s my home away from home (or one of them). I’m heading there, almost crawling, as all my energy and force gets sucked by desire. It’s hot outside, and I hate it! Between me and that toilet there is a gigantic swamp, and I have to cross it. I have to survive, somehow. I’ve done it before, I have to be able to do it this time too. But with every time it gets more difficult. When the urge hits, it hits hard. At the beginning, when I was just getting into all this. I was able to go on for days and weeks with that lusty feeling inside me, without doing anything. Now, I’m completely enslaved. It controls me, my soul belongs to it.

I want to sit on the ground, right there, rip my clothes off, spread and start fisting myself. I don’t care about anything anymore, I just want to make the itch stop, I want to get delirious with pleasure, I want I want I want I want!!!! I can’t breathe…

Keep walking!, I keep telling myself Your home is not that far anymore… Your home is not that far anymore…

I finally manage to cross the proverbial swamp, the imaginary yet equally equally real rest of the city that separated me from the home I need so desperately to get inside. My cunt leaks so much I look like a peed on junky, I am a junky, an onanist junky about to enter in a coma from prolonged lack of masturbation! I need to fuck myself more that I need to breath, more than I need to…FUCK! I’m fucking dying, but I’m finally here! The bookstore with its toilet rises in front of me…Get in, NOW!

Door opening, door closing – our lives, everybody’s lives in two minimal moves. Then we die. The door closes for the last time. In between, hell with pockets of paradise. I want to die impaled in toys, still spasming with orgasms hours after I’m declared clinically gone-for-good, on the morgue’s table, under the mortician’s knife. He cannot cut me, I’m moving too much, I’m cumming to violently, I squirt everywhere yet I’m dead dead dead where the fuck am I?! Oh yes the bookstore. I’m in so much lust, I need to masturbate so badly I forgot I’m here to masturbate. The toilet is near, I can smell it with my cunt. This is how I feel a home is close, my cunt sense it, my flesh, my whole body, my skin, all my holes start dancing and I cannot say “no“, I cannot say “stop!“, I cannot say “ENOUGH!“. These are things people with brains say, but I have none. The little that’s left swims in alcohol, and is used to type the pin code at the sex store while buying yet another toy. You need some brain for that too, not much, just enough.

I enter the toilet, drooling, grunting, dying. I let the purse fell on the floor, I pull down my skirt and my soaked pants and finally touch the cunt. I almost scream, that first touch is the most insane thing that can happen, my life has no purpose other that, I have nothing to live for anymore, nothing, 0. I rub few times with drool falling in my blouse, I don’t care, I’m crying with pleasure, frustration, lust, hate, all at once. I’m home!! There’s no world left outside that toilet.

Bukowski was right (how could he not?! He was a home-seeker too): “Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.”

Some years ago I found what I love. Now, it’s already ruining my life, my body and my mind. It drains me, it clings into me, and it’s gradually annihilating me. Stages of disappearance.

One day, it will kill me…

Ghost with Bones

women in porn

September 14, 2019

In film theory everything has meaning. Everything is symbolic. Similarly, in pornography, as Dworkin points out “everything means something.” Gender means something, bodies mean something, body parts mean something, the acts done to women mean something. Getting a facial in your bedroom doesn’t necessarily have the same meaning as a woman getting a facial in a porn movie does and, in fact, the relevance of whether or not the individual actress in the porn appears to be ‘enjoying’ the cum shot to her face is less important than the larger meaning of the image on screen. I am not at all surprised that “the majority of porn shows women basking in and positively loving receiving a facial” or that “a lot more straight porn features women happily accepting facials than reacting with disgust and evident humiliation” because women in porn are presenting a fantasy and that fantasy is that women enjoy being objectified, cum on, gang-raped, called whores and bitches, whatever. Porn is about male fantasy. The fantasy is that women like everything you do to them, as man.

Megan Murphy
Facials, feminism, and performance: On f**king men in a patriarchy


September 3, 2019

The worst thing about wars is that they reduce the enemy to a single characteristic. The country ceases to be history, language, architecture, theatre, gardens, and legends;  a heritage of love stories, philosophy and science; shared ancestral dreams and uncountable varieties of human striving along the roads of the universe. Instead, everything becomes a mere label, blot, field of battle. This is what war has done to the names Palestine, Vietnam, Lebanon, Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan, and Iraq. These are no longer multifaceted countries and their names are mentioned in news bulletins not as such but as ‘fields’ – fields from which the numbers of the dead and wounded are garnered daily like the output of a canned goods factory.  The whole of history is now  ‘today’  and today has become a reduction of every ‘yesterday’ that has passed over the face of this earth, a reduction of all history. As though al-Mutanabbi had never walked the markets of al-Kufa hugging himself with joy at a nation that would be singing his verses for a thousand years.  As though the Abbasids had never built their libraries on the banks of the Tigris and Abu Nuwas never maintained his pinnacle of shamelessness and flagrant sexual indulgence through to the pinnacle of day,  after first exhausting the night with poetry and lovely depravities that spared neither male nor female. As though al-Hallaj had never been crucified defending what he had seen with the eye of the imagination and the eye of the mind. As though Hammurabi had never written his code on tablets of burnt clay before Coca-Cola and McDonald’s had been transformed into a religion for all mankind, while Gilgamesh,  who achieved immortality but not finding the plant of immortality on the steppes of his everlasting legend, is treated as though he were not of the land of Iraq. Bush and Rumsfeld reduced all of this to the word ‘enemy.’

Mourid Barghouti
I Was Born There, I Was Born Here

(Always use lube)

Use both hands, alternating back and forth in a pattern you develop to offer him the most arousal. He will notice the difference. Don’t get into a routine where the strokes are dull, and noncommittal. Give it to him good. Get him to the point where he’s singing out, “I second that hand motion!”

How about going double or nothing! Bring both well-lubricated hands down on his shaft. Some cocks are so big they require both hands. If your partner’s doesn’t, then use the other hand to caress and lightly flutter his balls, or tighten around the base of his shaft. If both hands fit along the length of the shaft, move then together, up and down, in the typical pumping motion. Pretend you’re holding a baseball bat and are about to score a grand slam. You can also vary the directions of your hands, one up, one down at the same time. There’s no doubt that two hands are better than one.

Bring one hand down, letting it stroke the penis from the top all the way to the bottom. When it hits the bottom, release it. Meanwhile you’re bringing your corresponding hand down to the top of the shaft, creating an alternating beating motion, hence the name “anvil stroke.” Think of those blacksmith duos who keep up a double beat pounding motion as they beat that rod of iron on a piping-hot anvil.

Not many people have heard of the “shuttle cock,” but it’s one of the best. Take the penis in both hands, fingers lightly touching the sides of the shaft. In order to visualize the position, think of yourself holding a clarinet. Now flick the penis back and forth between your two hands by holding on to the loose skin of the shaft. Shuttling it back and forth in this manner may not seem incredibly thrilling to him at first, but pretty soon, as it builds up momentum, it will drive him out of his mind. Orgasms encountered via this method are sometimes messy, but always memorable.

Place both of your hands side by side against his shaft like a pair of bookends. Now push hard against his penis. Then lift your hands up and down. Continue in this manner for a while. The constant tugging of the skin around the balls and the mons pubis will do the trick.

Place your hands down on either side, your fingers pointing away from the cock. Pretend you’re a campfire girl and start spinning his pecker like a stick of wood. This way you’ll keep the home fires burning for a long time to come.

Tighten your thumb and forefinger around the base of the shaft, pressing down on the balls. This will cut off the blood (acting as an impromptu cock ring) and help you steady the shaft in your hand. If the skin on it is slick and immutable, you can stroke the penis with more friction, thereby enhancing the excruciating experience.

As you are stroking him, lightly pull on the wispy strands of pubic hair sprouting from his testicles. Don’t pull so hard that you remove them, but tease them gently, lovingly. This will make him holler with delight and awe at your inventiveness.

Tickle his balls with one hand while the other jerks him up and down.

Use the hand that is currently unemployed to firmly but lovingly pat his inner thighs.

Place your fist against his perineum as you’re stroking him. He’ll probably start opening his legs a little wider, giving you more space to press against. Guaranteed to drive him wild.

As always, it is the psychological impact of what you are doing that makes the sex so satisfying. Let your mind escape into the uncharted wilderness of fantasy. As a sexual pioneer, it is your manifest destiny to explore the outer limits of your sensuality.

Opposite of the Anvil – Hands alternate ‘milking’ up the penis, starting at the base and working all the way up past the tip.

Like the Anvil, but rather than just grabbing the penis at the top, let his penis ‘penetrate’ into your fist on each stroke. Before the head of his penis pops out of your hand, bring the other hand up for the next penetration. This way it seems to him like he is penetrating deeper and deeper into an infinite vagina. Make sure you keep the penetration continuous for best results. Try faster or slower to taste.

Use your open palm to swirl around the head, the way your tongue would lick an ice cream cone. This sensitizes the head, and will make it get larger and turn (even more) red. Try reversing direction for a surprise.

As in “The Palm Swirl”, use your open palm on his glans, but stop at each “hour of the clock”, and make circular motions with your open palm. This will make this part of the head EXTREMELY sensitive, so move to the next hour after a few circles.

Make a ring with your thumb and forefinger, and pump up and down with this ring. When you get to the top, close the ring, then make him squeeze his way in as you slide back down to the bottom.

Turn the head of his penis like a you’re trying to open a door knob coated with grease. It won’t turn, but he may flip. Now try turning the other way. Repeat.

Stroke only his shaft, ignoring the head. You will notice it swelling and turning red. When it’s bright red and rock hard, use the Door Knob, the Palm Swirl, or the Perpetual Penetration.

Lightly and slowly run a finger up the underside of his cock. Ask him to tell you where the most sensitive spot is. Pinch it, squeeze it, nibble it, tease it. This is a good spot to pinch to turn a soft cock rock solid.

Recently my mother in law and I made plans to go shopping. She came to my house and was in my bedroom as I tried on old clothes – I wanted see what I should keep or toss. I was changing in and out of clothes, so was semi-nude at times, but didn’t think much of it as we chatted away. I had a bathing suit I wasn’t sure if I should keep, so I stripped down naked to try it on.

When my MIL saw me, she remarked on my shaved pussy. “I haven’t seen a grown woman smooth like that,” she said. I was standing near my closet and she came right over and asked if she could touch me. I kind of blushed and said “okay,’ not sure what else to do. She ran her hand and fingers over my bald pussy. She asked a few more questions about how it felt, how often I shaved, and kept remarking how nice I looked. The entire time, her fingers were touching me. I kept blushing and giggling a bit as I answered her questions, too polite to tell her to stop.

Much to my embarrassment, I started to get wet, and she noticed. “Do you like how that feels?” she asked. Now, I really began to blush. I started to stammer and said, “I think so.” She kept touching me, running her finger up and down my smooth lips until I was quite wet and then I felt her finger nudge inside of me. I froze, feeling half scared, half excited and having no idea what was going on, or what to do.

We were standing just inches from each other and she kept stroking her finger in and out of my now very wet pussy. I felt my body surrender to what was happening. I leaned against my closet door and parted my legs slightly, letting her finger me more easily. Very quickly, I felt myself rushing towards an orgasm. I don’t remember how long it took. It seemed like forever, yet I know I was gasping and having spasms in just a minute or two. Finally, when I calmed down, my MIL pulled her fingers out of me and sucked on them and then she kissed me. She smiled and said, “next time, it’s your turn,” and then said we better get going.