Why the fuck would Drag Queen’s be Feminists?

Thursday, October 28, 2010


Recently, I started Reading some feminist blogs. I have a long running interest in gender and sexuality and feminists seem to be the ones doing most of the talking about those topics. I’m actually a pretty big fan of Clarisse Thorn after reading a bunch of her stuff, particularly after reading this article. Unfortunately, there are so many other feminist writers who are utterly infuriating – this being a prime example.

First and foremost, I should say that Feminism as a concept bothers me. Feminism is by it’s definition, a vehicle to advance the agenda of a single interest group, exclusionary to the interests of all others. Fundamentally – I think that’s disreputable. Masking that process as the pursuit of egalitarianism is I think disingenuous and misleading. I mentally cast that notion in with ethnic segregationists and and misogynistic patriarchalism.

In reality, I know that most feminists are actually egalitarian. Which is a concept that I support whole heartedly. I also know that most supporters of Men’s Rights groups and the like are also fundamentally supporting egalitarianism. But so very many activists are actually supporting their own interest group’s agenda with no real interest in egalitarianism, except in a creepy, Orwellian ‘Animal Farm’ context where they’re more equal than everyone else. So I try and filter my reading down to people who are smart and are actually interested in discussing gender and sexuality in a reasonable way – rather than pushing an agenda.

Today I read this. Convoluted series of links from something Clarrise posted. Wow that was a mistake.

The thrust of the story was that an alarming number of men who dress in women's clothing do not have an accompanying interest in women's rights. Which is frankly astonishing to me. Why on earth would Drag Queens have any interest or concern as a group, in Women’s Rights? Human nature is clear in that we’re self interest. If Drag Queens, as a group – were going to have an active interest in any kind of equality/anti-discrimination agenda – they’re much more likely to be concerned with anti-homosexual agendas. Discrimination against Cross Dressers, and the Gender Queer would also be a pretty big concern I’d imagine. But fundamentally, Cross Dressers aren’t Cisexual women. Most Cross dressers don't even self identify as women. The discrimination that they’re exposed to isn’t discrimination against women. And if any group of people was less likely to see a downside to being biologically female and not having the same rights and considerations as Cisgendered men – I can’t think of who they might be.

You would think that these men would be natural feminists. They are intimately aware of the performance of femininity; their gimmick is based upon societal discomfort with gender nonconformity; they are forced to perform absurd tasks in ridiculous footwear.

The writer was at the Dupont High Heel Race. Does she really think that the queens she was interviewing have a serious problem with ridiculous footwear? That they feel ‘forced’ to perform? Seriously? Drag performers are typically people who enjoy the role and enjoy the footwear. Cross Dressers and Transgendered parties moving towards a female identity aren’t the same Demographic as Drag Queens at all – and in the CD and TG communities – there is a reasonably visible propensity towards fetishizing the ludicrous shoes, but there are also many many people who wear comfortable shoes and pursue their gender role because they find more joy and truth in it. Who find joy and benefit in being feminine.

Also, and this is a little politically incorrect in a time when so many transgender parties are stressing that their change is based in need, not desire – but I know a good number of pre-op M to F, or fully transitioned parties who sought a feminine gender identity because they thought it was better. Sexually and socially – they compared masculinity and femininity and found either the middle ground, or the female transition to be preferable. I don’t mean to imply that it’s a universal truth, or that it’s even reflective of a majority of transgendered parties – but I’d estimate that among my personal acquaintances and friends it’s reflective of somewhere between a third and a half of the gender transitions that I’ve observed. And for reference, I think it’s awesome and those people are tremendously sexually interesting to me. But I think it’s indicative of why they’re the last people I’d expect to see being a woman as a disadvantaged position that needs balancing.

Also, and lets be honest, lots of Cis homosexual men, who typically make up a majority of drag queens, are kind of misogynistic. Again, it’s not universal or anything – but lots of gay men have issues with women and apart from close and trusted friends – see women as anything but sympathetic. Admittedly, among my friends and family – there’s some pretty profound misogyny – so maybe I’m seeing that as a broader characteristic than it deserves – but Alan Down’s excellent ‘The Velvet Rage’ gives some great insights into why men only club nights might about more than focusing attention on valid potential sexual partners.

So what's Drug sex like?

Friday, October 1, 2010

When you first drop (swallow a pill, or put it under your tongue and hold it there while it dissolves, feel the tingle, acid burn, diesel and vinegar, powdered bass lines and throbbing dreams of togetherness); it doesn't feel dirty, hell it it doesn't feel anything at all. Until the first time you crush it up, put it in the mortar and pestle your mom bought you from that snooty kitchen store, grind it up with glucose, split it into long white perfect lines, railway tracks to oblivion on a mirror that you can't let yourself look into, acrid and horrible as you inhale, a drop of water makes the burn go away, but the feeling of being dirty lingers when it starts to drip down the back of your throat, burning mucous chunks of filth, that's when it starts feeling dirty, but hey at least you're not one of those freaks who puts them up other cavities, that's something right?; Its like being in an elevator the moment before the cord snaps. Something momentous is coming, but you don't really feel anything at all. When you've done it a few dozen, or a few hundred times, when you're a junkie to the core, you feel the anticipation, feel the intensity building. You're Pavlov's Dog and the dinner bell is ringing. You feel your jaw starting to wobble with an impatient sense of impending something. You never really know what. You hope its going to be perfect.

You go and you lose yourself. Throw yourself away. Burn away the trail of breadcrumbs with a chemical flamethrower, napalm on the wildflowers of your sanity. Hide in the dark and the anonymity of the crowds, Let the lasers wash away what you were in case you come looking for yourself. You dance because you love to dance, or because it makes the high come faster. You think it’s because you love to dance, physical exertion accelerates absorption, but you think you always loved to dance, maybe that was it, you never really know.

You go and buy a bottle of water. You throw a mouthful back and it tastes wrong, sweet, the acid dried saliva washing out of your mouth. You feel that rumble in the base of your belly, you feel your heart starting to pump faster, you can't relax your jaw, one thought burns your brain, "Get me to the fucking dance floor, I hear my train's a’comin."

You dance and you dance and you dance. You spin your hands through the air, little lasers or those stupid sticks you snap to make a glow, you space out and realize that the lights are just a blur. So many colors, so many lights, everything is wrapped in peach fuzz. You brush against something, fur covered pants, made by somebodies mom, you're hand brushes across them, lingering, sensual, Jesus you're shaking like its an earthquake, and baby it’s the big one.

You throw your head back in the lasers, tasting the lights as they wash over your face; washing you away, you find a water bottle in your hand and water washing over your face. You feel the temperature change but you don't feel the water. You're dancing with somebody, or maybe you were just dancing with the bass. You feel her hands on your thighs, fur covered patches sewn to your pants by your Nana. She just doesn't understand kids fashion today. Fuck those are on the other pants, these ones are just comfortable and ordinary, except for the perfect pair of hands wrapped around your ass, pulling you against the most perfect skin you've ever had wet dreams about. She asks if you've got a cigarette, you don't smoke, you put more shit down your throat and up your nose then you can remember, but you don't smoke, that shit will kill you. You tap your friend, or some guy who was next to you and smoking, you can't talk right now but you can put two fingers to your lips, your jaws are wobbling, your eyes are rolling, everything is a blur as he hands you the cigarette, you put it to your lips and she reaches down the front of her pants, fingers lingering over something in there before she pulls out a lighter and hands it to you. You take a drag and remember that you don't smoke, you hand the cigarette to her and blow the smoke out, coughing slightly, trying not to remember that first hit of meth, or the times when you promised yourself you'd never smoke, never end up an addict like your parents. You think she's got that look in her eyes. Is she really there or is she just the bass line? Fuck how good is this DJ? She's taking you by the hand and leading you off the dance floor. You linger, dragging your fingers over random people's flesh, fur, skin and hair as you trail after her. You stop to watch that guy doing that thing with the lights that you love but can never do right. Jesus Christ did you see that? That guy just did a back flip!

She's leading you up the stairs and into the bathrooms, the ones with the doors that stretch floor to ceiling. You blink, you've got her pressed up against the wall, your hands holding her wrists above her head, her body arched, aching against you, you open your eyes and read the graffiti on the wall behind her hair, one of her hands is free, pulling up your shirts, skin on skin, you can feel her, crushed silk and velvet, a kittens fur and perfection, unbefuckinglievable, Christ its hot, you're pouring water down over both of you, you don’t remember pulling the water bottle from your pocket.

You’re soaked to the skin with sweat and ice water, burning up, her hand wrapped around you, your hand in her hair, mashing your mouth against hers, her nipple in your mouth, she's got the cutest freckles and a tattoo of something, your vision blurs and you can’t tell what, you’re pretty sure its cute though. You know time passes but you can't remember it, she's on her knees, her shirt on the hook on the back of the door, don't want to get it dirty, Jesus Christ she's got her mouth around you, everything blurs and she's bent over and you're inside her; am I hard? Fuck! God what is this feeling? Pounding on the door? Bouncers are telling you to get out now. You aren't finishing any time soon with the chemical flood rushing though your blood.

You aren't sure how but you talk your way out of getting kicked out, you're back on the floor, she's dancing with you like you're still fucking, you've got your hand down the front of her pants, inside her panties, rough plastic baggie full of something crystalline and her wet lips against your fingers as you dance, and then she's gone and you never know if she was real. A hundred photos on your camera phone the next day, was that what she really looked like? Or was it her? Maybe it was that one? Maybe it was just the bass line.

What's the epilogue? Where's the morality tale? Every one of these stories has one. Eventually, if you push the recreational narcotics envelope far enough, if you're hardcore, old skool, last of the real ravers, dedicated to the pursuit of the perfect high, or just persistent in your stupidity, you reach a point. Some people see the point coming and stop early. Some people never really push themselves, their bodies or their minds far enough to reach the point. But if you push hard enough, long enough, everyone reaches the same point. You get depressed, nothing feels real, you feel sanity slipping away. You realize you can't stand any of your friends in the cold light of sobriety. You start to hate the scene, the bullshit, the desperation, the depression, the paranoia. You fuck up some friendships and you hate yourself a little more every day. You clean up or you break up, little pieces of yourself lost and gone away. You are never the same person again. But it's a long, fun road to reach that point.

Do I miss it? The journey? The chemical safari? Riding the Disco pony to funky town on a road made of rainbows and dream? Nah. I don't miss it. Not at all. It's not me any more. I don't still Jones. I don't hear Pavlov's dinner bell ringing. I hear the music now and it's cleaner. Pure without the drugs. My brain works now. I don't miss the drugs. The escape. Not at all. I'm not a junkie. Not any more. Not at all. I'm fine. 100%. A-Ok. Fuck I could do with a trip.

Drug sex - We bump and we grind
Drug sex - We lost track of time
And you never fuckin' done it 'till you done it fucked up
Drug sex - I can't believe I'm still up
~ Machinegun Fellatio

Give her a kick in the box and tell her to shut the fuck up

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I'd like to note that some of the people reading this are going to get sand in their vagina's and take my abstract rants as personal attacks. To those people, I'd refer you to some fairly famous Carly Simon lyrics. This song is not about you. But hey, feel free to get sand up your vagina if you feel the need.

That said, the drama llama has been doing his quarterly visit to South East Queensland lately. I'm thinking seriously about hanging out some llama baits and hiding up a nearby tree with a shotgun - cause christ I'm sick of this shit.

"He's a bad person, if you're friends with him, you can't be friends with us."

No, I can't be friends with you because you're acting like a 9th grader with her first bout of PMS. Fuck off with that bullshit. I don't care of your relationships has dissolved, or if he kicked your dog, or if he gave your mum herpes. I'll make the decision about who I'm friends with based on my interactions with them. Not yours. And it's ludicrous to expect me to pick my friends based on your say-so.

"I'm a poor innocent, won't somebody help me!"

Wait, did you safeword? Were you pissed off about this 10 minutes after the fact? What about the next day? Oh, you loved the entire scene until a week later, you got your panties in a bunch when some third party said something on the internet that made you paranoid? And now you want me to stick my nose into a situation to help make you look good and somebody else look bad, in regards to a situation that I had no involvement with, when you were happy as a clam until somebody said something that made you a bit twitchy? Riiight.

"All members of <Gender> are <something bad> because of <something stupid>"

Maybe if you hosed that sand out of your vagina, you'd get laid more and get over this bullshit. Plenty of people are stupid. Plenty of stupids have done 'something bad' - but frankly, their shared gender is far less relevant a connection to your problems with those stupids who did something bad than their shared association with you. Projecting your poor decision making regarding the character of people you associate with onto an entire gender is offensive and fucking stupid. Stop it.

"I'm a dominate!"

No, you're semi-literate.

"Nobody likes me because I'm old/young/a Sagittarius"

No, nobody likes you because you're not very likable. Plenty of old people, young people and Sagittarians get on just fine in the community without any of the problems you're having. Because they're not annoying. You're annoying in a way that's associated with being an old/young/Sagittarian and you're mistaking the fact that you're living up to a negative stereo type for those people being prejudiced against you.

"I've got too much free time to spend on the internet, so I'm going to manipulate people to create drama for my entertainment and to make me feel important."

There's a lot of house bounds or 'Pros' who fall into this category. Too invested in being entertained by the drama in the scene to survive without the drama and not enough other shit going on to keep them busy. Get a fucking new hobby - one that isn't 'provoking fights on the intarwebs'. FFS.

n.b. If you're a Pro or a housebound who just got sand up your vagina about the above comment - chances are I was talking about you. Otherwise you'd recognise that someone can criticize a group that you belong to without criticizing you. The reference to 'Pro' in the above statement was a description of a certain group of people who take the occasional paying submissive, but are about as professional as a 'Yo Mamma' joke.

"I base my kink on a set of arbitrary rules and expectations laid out in a work of fiction, intended to depict a fantasy world entirely disconnected from reality, and people make fun of me!"

No Shit. Srsly?

You've got a profile with 120 pictures and none of them are you? None of them even resemble you? They're all pictures of some cross dressing idiot with a sword riding a giant eagle in a world where all women are slaves, and people make fun of you? Oh my god that's horrible.

You probably didn't catch it, but that was sarcasm. If you do something ridiculous, people may not respect you and may well even laugh at you. Welcome to the real world - where our kinky sex lives revolve around the people we have kinky sex with, and the rules we've negotiated with them. Not the pretence that we're born warriors from a planet on the other side of the sun, or giant giraffes - and a set of rules dreamed up by a second rate sci-fi author in the 70's.

And if you're going to play pretend, I don't have any problem with that. But please try and keep track of the fact that you're playing goddamn pretend. You are NOT a giraffe/human hybrid from the planet Bleezel, you might be pretending to be, but you're not.

And unless you're a giraffe human hybrid from the planet Bleezel who plans on sucking my dick, I have no motivation to play pretendsies with you. Interact with me like a person and don't expect me to acknowledge your hierarchy in the herd, your status as a warrior or the fact that my She-Giraffe should be behaving differently. Very few BDSM parties are run by the Great herd of Bleezel and unless we're at one where that is the case - chances are you're at a party where the vast majority of the audience doesn't care about your herd, your giant flying birdy or the fact that you're the dominant warrior of the giraffe herd.

"I've been doing this for 92 years!"

That's funny, I was there when you started doing this and it was less than 18 months ago. Have you figured out some kind of time machine? Can I borrow it?

If you're going to lie - try not to pick lies that your audience knows are lies. 'I was in great shape a few years before I met you' is a plausible lie. 'I was a purely heterosexual male Pro Dom making $200,000 a year as an expert Master for the 18 years before I met you, even though I was introduced to you 6 months ago as 'at my first party' and had clearly never held a flogger before' doesn't fly so well. Especially when you're still visibly only border-line competent. And Ugly.

Male escorts who Pro Dom do exist. But they're rare. They very, very rarely cater to an exclusively female clientele and if they suck a LOT of dick as part of their business model - it's unlikely that they out-earn their female counterparts. And the guys who do make it work in that industry are almost without exception good looking guys. Being podgy, middle aged, balding and not terribly attractive on your best day - doesn't sell the bullshit.

'I was adopted into a native American tribe' is also a poor lie, Australian aboriginal tribes sometimes do that, Native American tribes? Not so much. As was 'I spend 20 years living in Japan learning Martial Arts with a Shinto master, 20 years in the navy as a special forces mercenary, 20 years in a gorean village in Dakota and 20 years 'maintaining' the harem of an Indian Mogul who was unable to look after them himself, if you know what I mean' is also a poor lie. Especially when you're only 65.

Why can't we all be who we are and get along? I'm fat, bald, and I've been playing for a long time - but for a fair bit of that time, I was an idiot. I made some money from doing something stupidly dangerous in the industry for a while. If anybody is impressed by me - I hope it's because they've seen what I've been up to lately, and been impressed. Not because they heard that 15 years ago I had a 14 inch (diameter) vibrating penis and ejaculated chocolate.

Mini Dom/me, Tiny Dom/me, Baby Dom/me - Ugh

Is it just me that gets creeped out by people who project sexual roles on their kids? I mean nobody looks at little sally and say 'Oh, there's a tiny little reverse cowgirl! She'll ride cock's like they're a fair ground ride' or 'Look at little Tommy, he's such a little carpet muncher. He'll spend half his life flossing pubes out. But for some reason - so many parents in the scene have this obsessive idea that their child is a tiny/born dominant.

Here's the thing. Lots of kids go through a stage where they're pushy, arrogant, demanding. They're not being dominant. They're establishing boundaries.

Your 6 year old? Not a dominant. Just a pushy kid. Learning the boundaries. Demanding. Perhaps over exposed to your lifestyle. Perhaps over familliar with the use of rope and riding crops. Perhaps mimicking the mannerisms of a strong figure in said child's life.

It's not indictitive of your child's character, sexual identity or ultimate destiny to follow in your perverse sexual footprints. It's just kid behavior. That's why there are a million tiny dominants out there and very few people coo'ing over their grade schooler's submissive proclivities 'Oh, little sally's going to grow up to be such a good little slave for her Master' is much less common then 'Oh, Little Betsy's going to be a bitch of a Domina when she's all grown up. She'll be hell on her boyfriends.'

I wonder what that says about us as a group, and about the children of perverts.

Buying a Violet Wand

This comes with some caveats. I have NOTHING TO DO with the person running the store I'm about to link to. I have never met the operator, and have no business connection with her other than being a satisfied customer. If the store operator kicks your dog or sodomizes your aunt Jane - please note that I take no responsibility.

That said, we bought one of our wands from her about 2 years ago. Two or three of our friends have bought wands from her since and have had experiences consistent with ours.

Slavic Beauty on Ebay

The kits from this vendor that we've had first hand experience with are less powerful than our antique units, and some other modern units that we've played with. But they are in our experience reliable and well priced. We have a custom milled copper infuser wand to give this kit some additional zap and we like that it's robustly made, travels well and great for taking with us to play parties.

The person who milled our infuser wand isn't taking commissions - he's just a bloke who had a metal lathe and calipers handy when we asked the question, and was nice enough to help us out. If you want to offer him a truly ludicrous amount of money persuading him to make it a commercial enterprise, let us know and we'll see if he's interested. For a very reasonable percentage of the transaction.

Again, I'd like to stress that I have NOTHING AT ALL to do with Slavic Beauty. It's just that a lot of people have asked us for the link to her store and this seems easier than emailing a dozen people after every party where we get the kit out.

The more expensive modern violet wand units that you see around for sale are usually modified neon testing units that are hard to get hold of and expensive due to scarcity. They're nice kit, but they're expensive. They're easy to find through google and the question is really just about how many times you want to mortgage your house for a really fun bit of kit. We're cheapskates - so we can't recommend any one vendor over another in that department. Google truly is your friend.

If you're looking to buy antique units, it helps to speak or at least read German. German ebay is consistently where we find the best prices when we're looking at antique units. We don't speak German, so we harass one of our friends who does when we're looking at antique units. If you don't speak German, you'll have to find your own multi lingual friend to help you read listings, as ours are busy.

Antique kit vendors tend to either be expensive, or not terribly reliable about having stock listed/on hand and ready for sale - so we can't recommend specific sellers. But we would stress that Ze Germans are consistently cheaper then any of the english language listings that we can find, and restoring and reselling kits seems to be a bit of a national past time.

First they came for the porn importers

Tuesday, February 2, 2010


As I read about the current state of Australian censorship, in which pornographic images depicting characters from the Simpsons are considered child pornography. In which depictions of models over the age of 18, no more misleadingly edited then any other image published in pornography (oh, she's had her complexion flaws airbrushed in post production - and you think that the lack of visible pimples makes her look MORE like a teenager?) is considered to depict someone under the age of 18 (it depicts a model, who's over 18, how the fuck does it depict someone under the age of 18?) and video games which will be played primarily by men aged 18-34 and could legally only be sold or rented to people over the age of 18 are considered too harmful to children to be classified - I can't help but wonder if I'm living in the right country.

It bothers me that the government is intending to force import restriction level censorship on the internet. It bothers me that those restrictions are so impractical that they cannot help but have a vast range of false positive. It bothers me that they are so expensive and so ineffective that all they truly do is make criminals of honest people. It bothers me that Australia's already limited bandwidth capacity will take a massive speed hit. It bothers me that the obvious ways to avoid these solutions will make investigation of cyber crime virtually impossible. It bothers me that the obvious ways to avoid these restrictions were developed to bring democratic freedom to dictatorships and fundamentalist nations. It bothers me that no deployment of nationalized internet filtering has EVER been implemented without it being misused to suppress political opposition.

But mostly it bothers me because as a grown adult - my government shouldn't be determining what ideas I can and can't be exposed to. My government shouldn't be limiting what filmed actions of consenting adults are suitable for my exposure. And it bothers me that my government having determined that I'm too feeble minded to be exposed to these ideas, has started off with pornography - but continues to allow increasingly graphic violence to be shown to increasingly younger audiences.

I voted for this government. I voted for a leftist government with an eye towards increased social freedoms and a reduction of war mongering and repression of the rights of minorities. I recognized that I was trading a government with excellent fiscal policies for a government with I believed, better social policies. I'm increasingly finding that despite the campaign material - what I voted for was a right wing theocracy masquerading as the left wing moderates.

Stop the country. I want to get off. Without having to explain to a government censor that the video I'm watching is of a petite and youthful appearing 23 year old who gave her full legal consent to having the video taken, and that's neither illegal nor immoral under any reasonable interpretation of the law or common sense.

Blind Date

Sunday, January 17, 2010

I’d completely forgotten this story until I found it in the archives from the forums. This took place in about 2001/2002 I think.

I was once the wing man for my former roommate 'Ben'. Ben is from Australia's gold coast, and he is every cliche you care to mention. He is a shaggy haired blond guy with Tan, he plays bass for a band and is an environmental science / philosophy major, despite having such worthless majors he is surprisingly intelligent and all of my female friends have rated him high 4 star or better.

Ben desperately wanted to fuck some chick, and because I happened to be home and not busy when the girl in question told him she would come out, but she would be bringing her friend 'Dee' with her, promptly volunteered me to be his wing man, after reminding me that he'd had to take cold showers 3 days in a row because I'd used all the goddamn hot water.

Ben is one of those obnoxious people who will NEVER tell you that someone is ugly. He will always dwell on their good points because he is basically a little bitch and feels bad if he contributes to someone not being liked, so it shocked the fuck out of me when he warned me that 'Dee' was in one of his classes and I would probably fucking hate her, but begs me to be nice to her long enough for him to seal the deal. I assume she has a beard and a lazy eye or something and brace myself with a shot of vodka before we leave.

We got to the Bar and have downed our initial shots and started on beers when two girls arrive at the mostly empty bar, one calls out Ben's name in greeting. I turned and looked, one unquestionable 5 star, easily the best looking woman I had ever seen in a shitty student bar, and one low 4 star wearing a Pixies t-shirt, no where near par with the first, but easily the second best looking woman in the bar at the time.

I assumed naturally that the 5 star was the Ben's target, but hey the other one is still well above average and has excellent music taste. I was mentally thanking jeebus for whatever the fuck I'd done right when the 4 star bounced over and gave Ben a big hug and started flirting with him. I was instantly wary. Karma had to be fucking with me. There's no way a mind blowing 5 star needs her friends to find a guy with a wingman unless there's something seriously wrong with the bitch. Little did I know.

The evening started normally enough, she seemed like a relatively normal human being, maybe she has herpes, maybe she has 6 children from different fathers, maybe she's a lesbian and this is all just some cruel prank to get revenge for the hot water thing. Then out of nowhere, at the table next to ours, somebody mentions that they saw some politician opening some building or something. I see Ben cringe.

Miss 5 star whirls on the poor unsuspecting guy at the table next to us and unleashes her first salvo. The bitch started quoting Karl Marx passages on Class. This mind blowing body is attached to a goddamn communist. Her rant lasts for at least 10 minutes before the guys at the table next to ours give up trying to argue with her and just leave. I am jaw dropped. She goes after them pulling something out of her bag. Socialist party propaganda. She insists on handing them pro revolutionary material. I am cringing and and trying to drink myself deaf so I can appreciate her tits without having to listen to this shit.

She comes back and launches into an extended rant about what assholes those guys were. Ben is giving me the look which translates to 'Please don't fuck this up for me.' I am out of alcohol, so I offer to buy her a drink - hoping it will shut her up or at least chill her the fuck out a little. She turns on me. My little communist 5 star is also a femminazi. A RAGING femminazi. She barely draws breath while chastising me for being as big an asshole as those machine supporting assholes who left with my sexist and patronizing implications that she needs my money.

I roll my eyes and go the bar to get my own drink, knowing that anything I say will set this off further. I come back to the table, she is subjecting Ben and the 4 star to a diatribe about the evils of men and her theories that men will be made redundant in the next 3 generations and a purely female society will emerge into communistic utopia. I roll my eyes and drink quickly. She ends her diatribe with a comment that she is thirsty and is going to the bar to get her own drink, with a pointed glare at my chauvinistic ass.

I drink faster, hoping to not be able to hear by the time she gets back. The bar is now starting to get busy, and by the time she gets back I am finished my drink and immediately head to the bar for another. By the time I get back, Miss 5 star is staggeringly drunk and laughing obnoxiously. She is also trying to flirt in a very direct manner, with a support beam. I ask the 4 star what the hell she had to drink. Apparently it was a long island ice tea, it is all gone. I get the feeling the bartender, hoping to butter up a 5 star made it extra strong.

Ben and the 4 star have advanced to moderate making out, I drink more and watch miss 5 star molest the support beam. I give Ben a look which should convey 'Close the deal and lets get out of here' - he takes 4star by the hand and stands up... and then goes to dance. I drink more. I pour myself a drink from the pitcher of whatever the fuck he's drinking, its the least he can do for making me be nice to a communist femminazi. The communist staggers back over to the table and picks up my drink from the table and chugs it. Strangely enough - a large quantity of alcohol turns an offensively stupid mega-bitch into a barbie whore.

She decides that I am a suitable replacement for the support beam and starts flirting with me. By flirting I mean air humping the chair next to me and asking where I live. Ben and his 4star come back. I suggest we go home and hang out there. As grenades go, drunk, slutty and hot is certainly a fuck sight better then hell bitch or bearded lady - I've got something to gag her with at home if worst comes to worst. Its possible that I should have considered from her abrupt personality change that maybe these mood swings would continue, but irritation and alcohol do not combine to bestow on me great foresight.

We get home and Ben and his 4star immediately go to his bedroom. Thin walls lead me to believe that they aren't wasting any time. Drunk and Obnoxious whore asks where the bedroom is. We get to the bedroom and I start to take my shirt off. She bursts into tears and sits on the bed. I am confused, I put my shirt back on, but the tears continue, I know I'm not Brad Pitt lady, but what the fuck. She confesses that she just broke up with a long time boyfriend (I assume he was deaf or a retard), and its all really weird and she thinks the alcohol might be reacting with her bipolar medication. Ding! so many mysteries answered.

She tells me she is sleepy and wants to lie down. I say fine and go to get her a glass of water. Curse my stupid sympathetic ass. She is unconscious when I get back. I roll her on her side to decrease chance of drowning in her own vomit and go downstairs to play some computer game. Thin walls tell me that Ben and his 4 star are still fucking/fucking again when I go up to check on her a few hours later to make sure she hasn't died in my bed. She hasn't. She has thrown up though. Lovely. I sleep on the couch. The next morning when I wake up she is gone. Vomit still covers my sheets. Thin walls tell me that Ben and the four star are either still fucking, or fucking again.

I go and clean up my sheets, reminding myself that I used all the goddamn hot water 3 days in a row. Karma's sole redemption is that my mattress is undamaged. Ben and the four star emerge eventually, I tell Ben about the events of the evening. Four star hears and offers to pay for the cleaning. I am a fucking pussy and tell her that it's ok, as long as I never have to see that communist bitch again.

If this was a normal morality tale, I’d say I never used all the hot water again. But I really like long hot showers.

Dude, even by my standards, thats fucking weird.

a few years back, I was at a friends place on a Sunday afternoon. We were chilling and drinking and listening to the radio. The radio announces some prize for the best embarrassing story about your ex, and one of the girls dives for the phone and starts frantically dialing, while giggling her ass off.

Now this chick had like 3 ex's in her life, she didn't do hookups she only did relationships and all of her relationships had lasted a while, so we'd met all these guys and none of us knew any good stories about this guy - we're looking around puzzled trying to figure out what the fuck, she goes outside for some quiet and we're listening to the radio when she comes on telling her story.

Apparently her ex who she named on the most popular radio station in town had a slightly unusual habbit. Right as he was about to reach the point of no return when they were fucking, he'd whip it out and slap it against the wall and slam it back in. They always had to fuck near a wall so he could do it - blowjobs were the same deal, if there wasn't a wall nearby - he couldn't get it up. If they got it on in the great outdoors - he had to slap it against a tree. Apparently he quite regularly shot his wad over the whatever he slapped it on as a result.

I'd had beers with this guy. I'd heard drunken stories about his family and his childhood and all sorts of shit, I never heard anything even vaguely unusual, completely normal, to the point of being boring from everything I'd heard/seen. Where the fuck does that sort of fetish come from?