The Prickly Hand Against the Cheek

I've got a mother- fucking itch that I can't scratch enuff!!!

It's driving me fucking crazy. I can't do anything but scratch it, dig my nails into it. I don't want to watch television, don't want to eat, I don't want to go out, I don't want to do shit but scratch that itch. Dig in, dig in, like a damn dog with a flea circus on its back. What the fuck is this itch? WRITING! I swear, I sit in front of this computer all day now, writing, writing, researching, researching, surfing, surfing, writing email, writing email, just going bucking fucking wild with my boat captain hands. I have a cleaver here. If this shit keep driving me crazy I'm going to remove my appendages at the wrists.



Either that or the bitches will just fall off! Shit, I wrote from 4:00 this morning to about 10:30am. Then I felt tired and sore, so I stretched across my bed, and I was out like a light. At 11:00am I got up again, this time to watch Al Pacino in 'Carlito's Way' and could only do five minutes. Five minutes of the best part, you know, the part where Penelope Ann Miller's character, Gail is dancing topless in a strip club. One of the hottest motherfuckers on the goddamn planet! She has the roundest, fullest pair that you have ever seen! They look like saucers on her chest and...well, that's for another post. I could barely sit through it. My itch rose up seconds before the scene and I was going crazy. If felt like a heroin addiction. It felt like when I felt the need for a drink.



My keyboard was calling to me. Shouting to me to put my fingers on her 101 key body. She begged to feel my soft caresses on her cold black body. Touch me in all the right places, Hobobob," she moaned. Fuck Penelope, I turned  off the movie and got to typing. And once again, I'm typing at 90 miles an hour, correcting my errors constantly because I can't get the words out of my head fast enough. Maybe I should dictate my posts from this point on. No...dictation is not writing, and the joy I'm feeling now comes from tickling the keyboard and watching the thoughts in my head turn to words on the screen.



So, I write and I surf and I have to admit, the Internet will fuck you up if you stay on it as long as I do. If you walk ALL of it's hallowed halls, you'll find some fucked up closets that will change your outlook for the rest of your life. Yeah, I shit you not. When I was a young Internaut, I used to turn my head away from web pages that disturbed me. Now I don't, except for web pages with bugs on them. I can't abide bugs. When I see them, in real life or photographs, I freak. I don't care, even butterflies. I can't handle them. They make my fucking skin crawl all the fuck over the place.



So...oh, changing your life. Yeah. I'll give you a piece of my old history from 30 years ago. I was eighteen, living in Burbank, renting a new car every weekend, hanging out at the clubs that allowed us to hang out in and we had these two motorcycle Hell's Angel's dudes that lived right next to us who were too cool for words. We would pay them to get cases of beer and bottles of booze for us (since the legal age for drinking back then was 21) and they would do it without a problem. Oh yeah, we always let them in on the score, but they were always cool that way.



Well, we were always driving around Hollywood, and we used to pass by all the great clubs, like the 'Palomino', which was just down the street from us. A real red-neck place... and I wanted to go there so bad, but one of my Motorcycle friends, several years my senior, warned me that they were 'tight knit' over there and didn't take well to outsiders. Especially outsiders from New York. Okay, not a place I wanted to be found at.





And then, there was a club called, 'Filthy McNasty's". This one raised our interest  because MEN were not allowed in until AFTER 11:30pm. Yep. After. It was strictly a girls joint from opening till then. They would also have tons of bachelorette parties in there and for the life of me, even as perverted as I was back then (shit, one of our buddies got a part-time job in a nearby porn shop. The bunch of us, over a dozen, used it as a club house, a place for parties, and a base of operations) I could not imagine why the fuck men weren't allowed to go in there. I mean, don't women want to meet men? So why exclude them then? It must have been some kind of butch joint. And from that point on, thirty years ago, the issue was settled.




Until this week. One thing that bothers me is that when it comes to sex, women get all the slack. All of it. Men get shit. I mean, even when it comes down to sexual abuse. You talk to guys and tell them about an older man having sex with a sixteen year old girl and they'll bitch and curse. "If that was my daughter, I'd go find that motherfucker and kill his ass." Everyone at the table will agree. But when that very same shit happens to a boy, well you get, "Shit, I wished that shit happened to me when I was his age. How did he get so lucky?" What kind of shit is that?




I happen to have a sore spot when it comes to sexually abusing children, BOY or girl. I feel rage when I hear it, and more rage, if that's even possible, when men and women both excuse it happening to a young man, but not a young woman. That's bullshit. Oh...the Internet changing my mind from a 30 year experience with clubs. I almost forgot! I just wanted to make a point how women get all the slack when it comes to sex. Women get laid, well that's good, men get laid, and their 'lucky'. Why the fuck aren't women lucky? Because men want to give dick to every woman they see, that's why. Women have so many offers for dick the moment she gets up in the morning until she goes to bed at night that it's enough to drive them crazy. Men, on the other-hand, rarely get a pussy offer, and I guess when we do, we are lucky.

It's a strange mind game, because if we look at the population of penises, we are talking about an organ outnumbered by women damn near three to one. And yet, a woman will get more offers for dick in a day than a man will get for pussy. Go figure. This should be shocking to you men out there, but I'm sure it's not. I'm certain that you don't even acknowledge it. Alright, how about this mind bender, or maybe MindFuck, straight from one of the dark closets of the Internet (okay, a bit of a warning here, if you're reading me at work, you might want to NOT click on this link until you are home, away from the kiddies). What is the fuck up with this shit?



Yeah, women at a bachelor- ette party, drinking, clapping, watching a male stripper, and then at the end, he prances around in between the tables and the women play with his johnson. Some actually swallowing the brajole! Now, I think back here, when I got married and my friends took me out to a bachelor party. Well it was actually in my favorite Mexican restaurant. Now my soon to be wife back then warned me not to get too fresh and do something that I would regret later, so I was careful. I was a wild child at the time, so anything was possible. At the Mexican restaurant there was a waitress called Rachel (oh yeah, I remember her name. She was just that hot) and she would serve shots of Tequila and lemon juice with 7up and slam them down on the tableside causing them to foam before you gulped them down. So she earned the name: "The Slammer Chick." She also wore a thin white undershirt, and two bandoliers with shot glasses in them instead of bullets. They would push her ample tits together until they looked like two honeydew mellons trying to pop out of a grocery bag. And hot pants that looked like they were painted on her hard, round ass.

We used to bring all of our friends to see the Slammer Chick, and she grew to love us and our wild antics. Well, little did I know that they PAID the Slammer Chick to fuck with me. Okay, let me correct that. NOT fuck me, to fuck WITH me. A big difference there. But she was rubbing her hard tits in my face when hitting me with a slammer, sit on my lap, stroke my tools. All kinds of fucked up shit that I both enjoyed and was horrified over that one of my buds would get drunk and tell their woman, who would certainly tell my new wife. Let's just put it this way, there was a lot more sexual tension at my party than fun.



But my soon to be wife had one too. What the fuck? She didn't seem as tense as me returning to the crib afterward. What was she doing? Blowing some dancing cock while I'm sweating bullets trying not to put my grubby hands on the Slammer Chick? Yeah, when women go out, they go out to party like they're in fucking Vegas or something, and they can be in Newark New Jersey. Men are light years behind women when it comes to a good time. We think we have them beat, but trust me guys, we don't. The video above is just another dirty little secret to them. I'll get some shit for revealing it, but that's what I do. I'm not original. I find it, I post it. This is some brutal shit, isn't it?



When I was a teen, I used to think that a fun night was getting drunk with my friends, catcalling women and driving fast. When I got home I would fall drunkenly into bed and laugh at the good time that I had that night. Women, on the other hand, consider fucking a complete stranger fun. Can you imagine that shit? Or blowing some friend of theirs just to see his reaction. That's fun. How about kissing and crawling naked into bed with each other. Hard to imagine? That's a fun night out. Makes me want to be a gansta. A good time for them is planting two in some stool pigeon's skull, throwing the body in the trunk of a car, and dumping him in the swamp off the Jersey Turnpike.



No I'm really serious, I'm going to take up a new hobby. Stamp collecting. That's fun. Oh wait. That costs money also...gotta skip that one. Maybe girl watching. That's free.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2010/11/prickly-hand-against-cheek.html
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