Trouble In A Bubble. » fucking stories

The Thrill Of The Chase

Kurt Robinson — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 16:50:40 +0000

Sometimes it’s the thrill of the chase. Other times, it’s the thrill of the short-cut.

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Going Home

Kurt Robinson — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 07:09:21 +0000

I guess you can always go home.

I went back to see my family in Maitland a few weeks ago. I guess it’s just what I expected. Nothing really changes there, and it almost reminds me of how little I’ve changed in the past two years – or maybe it’s just been so long that I don’t remember the references I had used to know who I was there.

I smoked a cigarette with Hawk and he told me what had been happening in my hometown.

“Miguel is joining the Navy.”

“Really? That’s great. He loves that shit. Is he in comms or something?”

“Nah – he’s in research and development for submarines. He’ll never see the front line, which is good. If he told me he was going to become a grunt, I’d have to slap him. But nah, I think if he ever is even ever in a submarine, they’ll be joy-riding around the harbour for testing purposes.”

“How’s Sherbet?”

“Sherbet… I don’t talk to any more.”

“Why’s that?”

“It got too weird. She started hanging out at my place a lot. A lot. Like every day, every weekend she’s texting me to see what’s happening. In the end I had to tell her go home, you should be with your husband.”

“Oh. Hey, did Disco get married?” I hadn’t talked to him in years, and when I looked at his Facebook I noticed the status change, and thought maybe it was a joke. Then I looked and saw all his wedding photos, with him in a tuxedo. In the back of my mind I still thought it was a joke. Maybe he was only dressed like that because he was at his best friend’s wedding. Then I saw the ‘kiss the bride’ photo, and thought, what is he doing kissing his friend’s wife?

I guess he really did get married. Though he was something of a ladies’ man, and once told me he’d slept with 300 women “- and that’s low-balling it. That’s like, the number I tell my girlfriend.” I didn’t believe him of course, but he had seen a few things. But when he was drunk, he used to always talk about his sweetheart ex-girlfriend of four years. He always wanted a relationship. Perhaps a cruel irony would be if he really had slept with 300 women, wanted to be in a relationship with every one of them, and afterwards they refused.

“He did. The thing about Disco is, he’s a serial doter,” said Hawk.

Disco said to me once “Whenever I get a girlfriend, I just become so protective. I don’t want her seeing anyone. I just see her every day and don’t let her see anyone else.” I thought it was sick, but I laughed. “Straight to the dungeon,” I said.

“That’s right, the dungeon,” said Hawk. “I haven’t seen him or heard from him since he got married.”

“I always had such a good time with him… when he was in a good mood.”

Disco would come up to me at the Belmore and say “Man I just heard this guy talking shit about you. He said: ‘See that fairy dancing on his own in the smoking court. I’m going to go up and punch him.’ So I said, ‘You do that, and I’ll smash your face in, you useless sack of shit.’ I got your back man!”

I said thanks, and I knew that this was Disco showing his love for me in a backwards kind of way. However I knew nothing was ever going to happen – it never did. I’d been out in Maitland dancing on my own like a hippie on ecstacy for six years or more, and no-one ever did shit. In more recent years, I think some guys might have came up to me planning to do it. The conversation would go something like:

“Hey buddy.”

“Hey man, what’s up?” Smile beaming 1000 watts, grabbing his hand to shake it. “Aren’t you friends with Xxxx. Good to see you man, hope you’re having a good night.” How do you stay angry when you’re faced with that? You’d have to have a heart the size of Phar Lap’s, pumping pure formaldehyde. Nobody ever fucked with me, and rightly so.

After my parents had gone to sleep on Friday night, I went out to the Belmore. I saw some girls from my year in high school, except they weren’t really girls any more – they were twenty-seven and had rings on their fingers. Everyone else at the Belmore, though, had only gotten younger. I was standing in the middle of an alcohol-fueled play-pen… yeah.

Second cold approach of the night, I was talking some shit about coming in from Melbourne for a romantic weekend – only problem was, I came alone. The girl, Yvette, was giving me terrible body language, but – let’s face it – a girl has to be pretty explicit with me to get me to leave her alone. Every time I turned to face her, or turned her to face me, she would revert back to gazing to 82 degrees to the left of me. She was still laughing at my jokes, but it was not a strong look.

But then, the clutch. Her friends came up and said they were going to the Brewery, and vamos.

“I’m going to the Brewery,” she said.

“Okay then. Have fun.” It’s about five minutes into the interaction. She doesn’t have enough invested in me for me to get her to stay, and I don’t have enough rapport for me to tag along with her. I figured I may as well get a make-out, because the situation isn’t looking promising. Kiss kiss, right cheek, left cheek. Make-out.

“Whoa…” she said as I released her. “Where did that come from?” Something had just been turned on that could not be turned off.

‘Okay… well… wow. I’m going to the Brewery.”

“Yep.”

“Pretty sure you should come with me.”

When you’re in, you’re in.

To the Brewery. Have a dance, a couple of beers. Hang out for a couple of hours, catch up with an old friend. Notice that every girl in Maitland that has any kind of boobs, has them bursting out of their tops.

Then it was time to go. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Uh… For a walk.” Logistics are not so hot for me. I forgot to put a condom in my pocket. I’m staying at my parent’s place in the spare room, on the lower bunk of a double bunk bed… At least no one was sleeping on the top bunk.

I didn’t really know what I was going to do. I wondered how my parents would react if I brought Yvette out for our Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausages.

“Okay,” she said. She doesn’t care where we’re going, and she doesn’t care that I don’t even know where we’re going. “Just let me find my friends and say good night.”

We found her friends, outside. Lydia was waiting for her dad to pick up her and her friend/boyfriend/gay best friend, or whatever he was.

“Do you want a lift to your place Yvette?”

“Oh yeah, that’d be awesome.”

“Do you want a lift to Yvette’s place, Jones?”

“Uh… okay!”

“If it comes up, you two have known each other for at least a week. I don’t want my dad to think you’re a whore.”

“I’m not a whore!”

“Just play it cool, okay.”

I started making some conversation with Yvette about amateur theatre or something. She’s sitting on a brick fence in front of me and she starts kissing me. She’s pretty drunk.

“You know, you’re a really good kisser,” she says after an intimate moment.

“Thanks. I practise at home on my hand.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“I put lipstick on it and everything.”

Lydia’s dad pulled up, and I quickly asked “Lydia, what’s your last name?”

“It’s Johnston.”

I got in the car and said “Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnston.”

“Call me Geoff.”

I stayed cool, and I’m sure that Geoff had no idea that I’d only known Yvette for four hours. Though, I wonder how I even get into this situation when I’m twenty-six, and Yvette is (or claims to be) twenty-five. Her friend was obviously a lot younger. Still, I imagine what would happen if I’d got into the car and said something like:

“Hi Mr. Johnston. I just met your daughter’s friend four hours ago, and expect to be bending her over backwards within twenty minutes.”

All the people in that car whom I hardly know, whom I’ll probably never see again, who have no impact on my day-to-day life whatsoever, would probably hate me. Also, I might ruin my chances of getting laid that night – but somehow, I think it’d be worth it. I managed to restrain myself.

Got to Yvette’s house, met her housemate, went to the bedroom. Shit all over the bed, make-up kits, dresses, clothes, bras, tampons. Hm…

Yvette cleans it up, I lie down, she jumps on me like a wild thing.

We’re getting busy, still fully clothed. I’m rubbing up her thighs and lifting up her skirt to dry hump her for a minute or two. Then she goes and ruins it all by saying something silly like: “I need to pee.” Hm…

She goes to the bathroom and comes back. We resume our regularly scheduled programming, and I feel up her thighs.

“I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Do you always leave your panties off after you pee?”

“No, just some of the time.”

I fingerbang her for a minute, then I take my finger up and stick it in her mouth so she can suck on it, and she does.

I think I’m kind of in trouble, because she is going to want to get down so bad, and I don’t have any condoms. Remember, safe sex kiddies. Luckily, she has some stashed away.

We go for a while, but the sex is average because I’m so tired. While we’re in the middle of it, her phone rings and stops, two times. On the third time she says “Shit… I really have to get that.”

She hops off. She takes the call, and goes out the front door. I lay there on the bed naked, with the door half open.

There it is, on my dick… the strawberry surprise. I had to suspect the Communist flag was flying. Tampons on the bed + “I have to pee” (a.k.a. “I have to take my tampon out”) + …sucking my finger after I’d fingered her? I guess that’s kind of kinky. She probably reads Twilight.

Lying there on the bed, at 5 a.m., I nearly fall asleep about three times. I’m worried because I know if I sleep now, here, I’ll wake up at 1 p.m.

Eventually she comes back in, and I’m fully clothed.

“I’m sorry it took so long. My best friend was in trouble.”

“That’s okay. I have to go though. I told my parents I’d have breakfast with them, and they don’t even know I’m gone.”

I call a taxi and give her a hug and a kiss.

I woke up at about ten thirty and had breakfast with my parents.

I guess the main thing that has changed in Maitland is my friend Hawk.

“I’ve been doing a lot of shows lately. Nelsons Bay, Tamworth, Warners Bay. I like to put on a show. I bought a hazer the other day so I can make that fine mist you can’t make with a regular smoke machine. I own about $2500 worth of lighting equipment. When I get up there I’m always dancing and moving and shit.

“Sometimes, in the middle of a set, I’ve lined up a song perfect. The track is just building. It’s early in the night and the dancefloor is still empty. Thirty seconds before the track peaks, I launch out on the dancefloor and start shuffling my heart out. All the wallflowers and guys on death-row turn around and do a double-take. They’re like… wait, what… it’s the DJ!!! FUCK YEAH! I make an experience for the audience, like a live show. They love it. I get the best compliments from all the venue owners.”

By the way, you can listen to some free album-length electro/dance mixes by DJ Danç’s here.

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Iola – Let’s Just Be Friends

Kurt Robinson — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 01:48:29 +0000

Her name was Iola. She’s about thirty. Dark skin. Curly hair. I met her at Bar Open.

The night I met her, she invited me to come to her place for a barbeque, but she never gave me the details, so I didn’t go. After that, I didn’t speak to her for a year. I texted a bunch of girls in my phone, telling them to come to a party at my place. She said she was busy, but we should catch up.

I went to meet her on Brunswick Street. She was there with her friend Sam, and when I sat down and introduced myself, Sam continued with what was obviously a long monologue about how her housemate wasn’t talking to her, was being a bitch, etc.

Iola went to go get some drinks.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not normally like this.”

“That’s okay – everyone has bad days.”

“Ha. More like a bad year.” She may as well have said: “Actually, come to think of it – I am normally like this.” I could see why she was having friendship troubles.

Sam took a taxi home and I went with Iola to the Night Cat. By that time I was fairly drunk. I ordered another beer. We sat down on a lounge.

“My dad was a geologist and my mum was an archeologist. I moved around a lot, and I never watched TV as a kid… People always make these pop culture references and I never have any idea what they’re talking about. It’s awkward.”

“Yeah,” I said, and leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait – what are you doing?”

“I was going to kiss you. C’mere.”

“Wait – no. I think you got the wrong idea. I only invited you out here as a friend. Can’t we just be friends?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’m going to get another drink.”

I went to the dancefloor and started scoping out some other girls, and I was about to grab one and twirl her, when Iola jumped in between me and my mark. I glared at her. I thought, not only do you want to be my friend, you want to be my cockblock as well.

Funnily enough, nothing panned out for me. The bar shut at 3 am. I went outside with Iola and said “Good night,” and opened the door of a cab.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

“Come talk to me a minute. I need to tell you something.”

I closed the cab door and walked over to her.

“What. What do you need to tell me?”

“Well… where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“No…” she said. I glared at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s so ridiculous… I just thought, if you’re going home… I could come with you.”

I could have slapped her. Instead, I pushed her into the cab and made out with her.

I hate having drunken sex. It’s my second-least-favourite form of sex. We woke up in the morning and had hungover sex, my least-favourite form of sex. She had fake breasts and her nipples seemed permanently erect.

Then she left.

I’ll tell you the rest another time.

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Straightforward Girl With Mysterious Breasts

Kurt Robinson — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 08:29:19 +0000

I’d just gotten into Melbourne. I met this chubby eighteen year old girl with braces on Johnston St. Textbook as it comes. Said “hello” waiting for the little man to go green, got her number. I said “I’ll call you.” And she said “I look forward to it!”

I called her a couple of times – pumped my state beforehand by jumping around a bit, told her a few funny stories or whatever. Said we should meet up. When we did, I realised how little game was actually necessary. I had her from “hello”. Pretty fucking romantic really.

I met up with her near her work on Johnston.

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve just eaten.”

“Okay. I’m starving. I know this great place to get a falafel.” I bought a felafel for $5 from Lamb on Brunswick. At that time I was living off savings, so I knew all the cheapest places around Fitzroy to go for food. Go to Vegie Bar and order the nachos for $7.50, and they give you an enormous plate of nachos – they must use a whole bag of corn chips. (Not any more though – I guess they cottoned onto the fact that this “starter” was bigger than most of their main dishes). Go to Lentil As Anything at the Abbotsford Convent and pay by donation. Especially go before 11 for the breakfast menu.

I ordered a falafel and two pieces of bakalava. “Here you go.” I handed Vanessa a piece of baklava.

“What is it?”

“It’s baklava. A Greek pastry with nuts and honey. Delicious.”

She took one bite and handed it back to me. “Uh.. Thanks. Where are we going now?”

Then I said those two words that I would become very used to saying over the next few months: “My place.”

I took her back to my scummy studio apartment. Make out. Bedroom. Take off her jacket. Take off her shirt. Take off her bra… almost.

“Wait – don’t.”

“Okay.” Make out. Take off her skirt. Take off her panties. Take off her bra.

“Wait… I can’t take my bra off.”

“Why not?”

“That’s only for special people.”

We had sex, with her bra still on. I was scrambling with the strap, trying to take it off just at the right time so she might not notice, and get a glimpse of those bazoongas.

She stopped bouncing on top of me. “Don’t. Hey! When did you undo that?!”

I fingered her and tried to get her to come. I put my index and ring finger on her labia, and tried to put my middle finger on her clitoris. She was starfishing. She just lay there and didn’t make a sound.

“It’s done,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s okay. I’m done.” Worst fake orgasm ever. “Don’t worry,” she said “One day someone will teach you how to do it.” Most condescending sexual statement ever made by an eighteen year old girl in any bed I’ve slept in. I felt like telling her that I’ve had quite a few sexual partners that seemed to think I did know what I was doing. But then, what would I gain from telling her that.

She was the only girl in that period that I invited back for more sex. She came over about once a week for four weeks. I was really curious about her breasts. I don’t know if it was a brilliant ploy on her behalf to get a continuing sexual partner – but if it was, it worked wonderfully. They looked great in a bra. She said if she was drunk she would probably show them to me. So I bought a bottle of wine and invited her over. She took about two sips.

“Why do you want me to drink so bad?” she said.

As if I wasn’t being obvious enough. “No reason,” I said. I guess this was before I invented “Direct As Fuck Method“.

She didn’t finish her wine. I took her to bed. I have to wonder why she kept coming back, considering she seemed so dissatisfied with me every time I had sex with her. I never made her come, unless she is one of those girls that just looks like they’re daydreaming when they orgasm. Though, she never made me come either, except for the one time when we were watching lesbian porn beforehand. That time I came almost as soon as I entered. Oops.

After that, I stopped seeing her. I guess the possibility of seeing her breasts wasn’t enough to warrant keeping her around any longer.

I got a text from her a few months later. The worst booty call text ever. “hey is anyone bored this week?” Okay, you’re not really selling me here. You’re telling me that this is a mass text message to all of your fuckbuddies, and implying “hey, if you’ve got nothing better to do, you can stick your weiner in me.”

I wrote back “I would, but I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

About nine months after that, I texted her for some reason. I think it was to invite her to a party. Everyone knows you can’t have enough cute sluts at a party – they’re what make it worth turning up.

She wrote back something like “I’d love to but I have a boyfriend… What would we do at this party?”

I wrote back something charming like “I’d stick my dick in your butt.”

“Oooh, that’s my favourite!”

Following was about half an hour of sexting, with her telling me what a dirty slut she was, and how I should blow a hot load in her mouth – fun stuff like that. Her boyfriend had dungeoned her, refusing to let her out of the house to see her friends. I think there must be some kind of formula… I’m not sure of the exact science, but it would go something like:

SLUT + DUNGEON = TURBOSLUT

She told me to text her back in a few weeks when she could get rid of her boyfriend. I assumed she meant she was going to dump him, but who knows. I haven’t spoken to her since.

Sweet girl. I wonder what her breasts actually did look like. I guess some things man was just not meant to know, or at least a man without strong liquor.

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Not Sorry, Wrong Number

Kurt Robinson — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 12:20:11 +0000

I was in Sydney at Superconference. It’s Saturday, about 7pm. The conference is over for the day and I’m back at my double bed hostel room at Base Backpackers, staring at the ceiling. I go through my phone and call some of the numbers I got at Bungalow 8 the night before.

“Hey, Clarissa.”

“What?”

“Is that Clarissa?”

“Who? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“That’s okay, never mind.” I hung up. Delete the number. Sometimes girls give you fake numbers on purpose, sometimes they do it accidentally because they’re so drunk they can’t see straight. No biggie. I call a few other numbers, get some voicemails.

I got a text a few minutes later. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

I don’t remember who the number is from. I write back “I was looking for Suzy.”

“Oh there’s no Suzy. I thought you were looking for Amber, this used to be her phone.”

“That’s cool – don’t worry about it. So what’s going on?”

“Not much… I don’t know who you are.”

“That’s okay I’m all alone in the big city and I need friends. You live in Sydney right?”

“Ah… yes. This is so weird… My name’s Kaity. What’s yours?”

About ten minutes later I had her on the phone and I started talking a variety of shit, crap, poop, and faeces. Maybe I told her I was just down in Sydney to go to a conference to learn about picking up girls. Maybe I didn’t. She was 17 and lived about an hour out of the city. Then I started escalating, saying I was going to grab her ass or some shit.

Then, I had phone sex with a wrong number.

She texted me a couple of times that night. I tried to get her to come and meet me in the city but she didn’t have any way of getting in. I never really spoke to her again. I looked at her pictures on Myspace though. She was pretty hot.

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My Housemate’s Friends Are So Incestuous

Kurt Robinson — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 09:46:00 +0000

We had a party a few weeks ago. My housemate Woofy invited all his friends, I think some of them even came down from Ballarat. Woofy dresses like a metalhead, listens to Aussie hip hop, and DJs drum and bass. Most of his friends are along similar lines.

I was talking to one guy by the fire. Everyone calls him by his last name, Douglas. He was a RAAFy, and one of the few people at the party not dressed in black. He started telling me a story about how he was dating this girl. He went to a strip club one night, and one of the girls came up to him and he said something like “Hey! I know you – you’re my girlfriend!” (Don’t ask me how this works, but this is how he told it). Then it turned out she was a prostitute and his friend Leonard was dating the girl as well, at the same time. Leonard didn’t talk to him for six months after that.

Check turns to me and said “Man it was so weird before. They were going around the circle saying Odette has had sex with him and him and him and her.”

“Did you feel left out?”

Just then Marguerite came out and sat by the fire. She said with some disdain “I’m being hit on by my boyfriend’s best friend’s girlfriend!”

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Sexual Abuse – My Housemate Brings Home A Psycho

Kurt Robinson — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 01:20:18 +0000

My housemate Den brought some girl over. I figured it must be one of the many girls that he meets off RSVP.com. Den is about forty. She is about the same. He was showing her pictures of the lingerie that he sells on his sites. Then they sat down. She complained of having a knot in her back and Den started giving her a massage.

“That Karl Sanders is such a scumbag,” she said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Karl Sanders. That radio show host who interrogated that poor rape victim on air. I wrote a letter to the editor of The Age, and it was really good. You know how good it was? I’ll tell you how good it was – it was so good, they printed it.”

“Kyle Sandilands? Did you hear a recording of the interview?”

“No, I didn’t hear it. But I have a very strong opinion about it. Anyone who questions someone about sexual abuse like that is a narcissist who only does things to fuel his ego. People’s first reaction to anything reveals who they really are and what they’re really thinking.” Den continued to give her a massage, though she kept jumping over the chaise. A massage wasn’t going to do her much good as long as she got tensed up about something she didn’t even know anything about.

Me: “The media always blows things out of proportion. If I’d heard the interview itself I could form an opinion on what really happened.”

“No, his first reaction revealed what he really is. That he sees other people as just toys for him to do with as he pleases.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s true. He thinks tormenting a rape victim on the air is entertainment. Torment, and even torture. Pure narcissism. People like that shouldn’t be allowed on radio.”

“Prmbably,” I said with a piece of diced beef in my mouth.

“What?” she said, as if she were expected a confrontation.

“I guess so.” I’m not going to argue with her, partially because I didn’t care that much, partially because she wouldn’t even hear what I was saying. All she’d hear was “I am a man, and I am a rapist!” Mainly though, I didn’t want to cockblock Den by incensing her any more.

“I heard on the radio the other day – and I found it pretty funny – because what the hey, if guys laugh about girls being sexually abused I can laugh about a guy being sexually abused. I heard about this guy on the radio. He’d had a stripper for his birthday, and while she had him lying there on the floor, she’d stuck a vibrator up his arse.”

“That is pretty funny,” I laughed.

“But then, she shoved it up there so hard his arse had started bleeding. He’s suing her for sexual assault, because she looked down at him while she was doing it and said ‘You like that, don’t you?’”

“That’s terrible. Even aside from the sexual abuse of it.”

“It is sexual abuse!” she said, ready to jump at any signal of an argument.

“I know, I’m just saying the violence of it is pretty brutal regardless.”

“I have a girlfriend who was delighted when she asked her current boyfriend if he liked anal sex. He said no, why? She said because the last four guys she’d dated had said to her ‘every girl likes anal sex’. I hate anal sex. It’s awful.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ve met a couple of girls that like it though,” said Den.

I thought back to all the girls who told me they’d liked anal. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I wish I’d have told her about a friend of mine who told me she would love to have anal sex, because she loved feeling like a slut.

“Guys who like anal sex have small penises,” she said. She looked at me. “Sorry.” Looking back now, that almost looks like a shit-test.

I shrugged and said “I’ve never had anal sex.”

“I’ll tell you one thing though. I’d never marry a Greek man.” I can’t wait for this self-righteous nutjob to leave so I can ask Den where the hell he picked up this psycho.

“Why not?” I said.

“Well, when you get to a certain age you start to understand certain things.” Like how to be a man-hating, condescending, racist, narcissistic mega-bitch?

“Greeks are the ones that love anal,” said Den.

“Good little Greek Orthodox girls,” said me.

“Exactly.”

“I’ve known so many girls that see Greek guys,” said Queen of the Harpies. “It starts off well, but then it all goes to shit. It’s too much of a culture clash.”

“The family all love the girl while they’re dating,” said Den. “But as soon as they get married, the family will all say ‘She’s not Greek, she’s not Greek! What are you doing with this slut, this malaka?’”

“That’s right,” said Ho-bag. “It was terrible when I was in Greece. I couldn’t go anywhere without a guy whipping out his penis. I was walking around with my friend Alissa. We saw this guy walking ahead of us. He turned around and saw us, then he ran a little way ahead and went into an alley. When we got to the alley, we heard a voice saying ‘ey, ladies!’ and there was this guy with his arms out. And his penis out.

“He’d actually gone to all the effort of running, finding an appropriate place to wait, taking his penis out and waiting there for us.”

Then, after a short silence, the Dungeon-Mistress said “I’m just appalled about the police who raped all the fire victims around Melbourne.”

That came from nowhere. I laughed. Den laughed as well. Maybe she has a sense of humour after all.

“It’s not funny.” She glared at me.

“Oh – I thought you were kidding.”

“Who would joke about such a thing? It’s terrible, people who’d just had all their belongings consumed by this huge, flaming monster. Then the police come in from Adelaide to help, but they’re not there to help, they’re there to fuck up your life and traumatise you,” said the Dragon-Lady. I guess if anyone knows about firey beasts…

Den and Cuntballs went out for a smoke, and went they got back, she looked around and said:

“It’s funny. I look at all the things that men keep in their homes as they grow older, and I look at all the things that women keep. I see these things like stereo systems, TVs, video games, and I just think, that holds no interest for me whatsoever.” The subcommunication was that all those things are stupid, and she’s much better than us. I don’t know if it was supposed to be directed at me or Den, but it didn’t matter anyway, because all of those things were our other housemate’s.

“I hate TV. There’s never anything good on TV,” said Panty-rash.

“Really?” said Den. “What about Farmer Wants A Wife? That show is brilliant.” She glared at him. I laughed. Den: “I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic!”

“If guys all know how beautiful and amazing it is to have sex with someone you love, why do they abuse?” said the Dung-Beetle.

“What a question,” said Den.

“What?” I said.

“Why do guys abuse women?” said the Muckraker. This girl really needs to read the chapter in Awaken the Giant Within about asking empowering questions.

“Power,” said Den. “Only a certain type of guy would do it. You wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.”

“What gives you the idea that men abuse anyway?” I inquired.

“Look around you – it’s all over the media. Every day I read something about a woman getting abused by a man in different circumstances.”

“That’s why I don’t read the news,” I said. “They always blow a small thing up and try to make it something big. They only tell you the bad news. Why would I want to hear bad news if I can’t do anything about it? Well, not that I can’t do anything about it. But I don’t care enough to do anything about it, just enough to make me depressed. Fuck that, no thank you.”

For once she didn’t have anything to say back. She left soon afterward. I expected that she might say “Nice to meet you,” to me, to be polite. Or even a simple, “Goodbye”. But no, she just disacknowledged me instead. Den walked her out, then came back in to the loungeroom.

“Where the fuck did you meet her?”

“That’s the one I met jogging the other day.”

“She’s a fucking psycho.”

“Isn’t she. But I’ve got to talk to her because she’s a potential customer. I’ll try to keep her out of here… Great tits though.”

“Sure, but what are you going to do with tits that are full of venom. So that’s the one that reckons she was sexually abused by her ex-boyfriend?”

“Yeah, apparently he was fucking her, pulled out and stuck his cock in her mouth. That was the sexual abuse.”

“If she was my girlfriend, I wouldn’t take my cock out of her mouth, just to shut her up.”

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San Francisco Sexual Adventures Part Four – Internet Wingmen, San Francisco Cokewhore Nightclubs and Not Making Breakfast

Kurt Robinson — Sun, 24 May 2009 09:22:39 +0000

“You! What happened to Fresno?” said Jaime as Aster and I walked into their place.

“I decided against it. I figured I’d only have one day in LA if I went.”

Taylor looked at me blankly, and said nothing.

“So what are you guys doing tonight?”

“We’re meeting up with some guy from the Internet in Fidi.”

“What’s a fidi?”

“The Financial District?”

“What? I’ve never heard it called that before. You should be wary of people you meet on the Internet. He could have ulterior motives. This is San Francisco, after all.”

“Yeah – that’s weird you would want to meet some guy off the ‘Net,” said Taylor.

“What do you mean? I met Aster off the Internet.”

“No you didn’t. We met in a bar,” Aster said sternly. The first two rules of Fight Club.

I laughed.

Aster and I were going to get lunch, and Spesh messaged me. “How’s SF mate? Did Aster get my text about Capone? He needs to tap that pronto.”

Hm. Spesh must have got the rundown from Taylor. “He lost his phone, remember. He doesn’t think it can be done. He doesn’t think she puts out.”

“I believe in him. Taylor thinks it’s on too. Just needs to oil the axles with booze and lead hardcore.”

I showed Aster the text and he laughed “He believes in me? Can’t I get a six step attraction formula instead?”

Spesh texted back “It’s all about beliefs mate. That’s all that matters nowadays. Did you see the planetarium?”

“Nah, we didn’t get in time to get a booking.”

Then he wrote back, enigmatically “It’s the fucking cookie. Motion sickness timez. Have fun and ttyl.”

We met up with Gamma from RSDNation. Cool guy. The thing was though, he was a top guy at the San Francisco Lair, and he was training up a crew of ten chodes – some of them even had balls to go with it.

The funny thing about bars in San Francisco. A lot of them are really small, and even though it was Friday night, when we rolled into a bar, the bouncer would say “Looks like it’s going to be a real sausage fest.” Inside there were about three groups of girls, which we’d quickly creep out and have to move on to the next bar.

Aster said it made him realise how good we have it in Melbourne. Places like Transport and Espy, filled up with 200 people on a slow night. Transport is rated as one of the top five places in the world to pick up, probably because it’s full of Irish backpackers, and girls from the outer suburbs who come out on their “big night on the town” – away from all the people they went to high school with. No self-respecting Melbournite would go to Transport, except corporate types, and lair members.

“You know how Jeffy always talks about those places in San Francisco that are full of cokewhores? This is the place,” said Gamma.

His friend joked “The easiest way to get a girls’ attention in this place is to sniffle and rub your nose a lot.”

This place was a bit bigger. It had AT LEAST ten girls in it. AT LEAST. I let loose, got my creep on, and hooked a 29 year old blonde with the body of a 15 year old. Stella.

She kept Blackberrying all her IM friends while I was talking to her.

“Hey!” I said. “Talk to me. I’m a real person.”

“I am talking to you! Wait – let me add you on Facebook.”

I get a text from Taylor. They said they were at some Irish pub near their place.

Aster said we should go. “You should take this girl with you.”

“I’m not sure I want to take this girl.”

“Why not? She’s good to go.”

“What about Taylor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to bring another girl there when I’m going to see Taylor.”

“Fuck Taylor. You’ve gone for her the past two nights and got nothing.”

“Yeah… I guess you’re right.” I actually liked Taylor though.

Stella said goodbye to her friends and came out the front with us. One of her guy friends IM’d her saying “Looks like someone’s getting lucky tonight.”

She texted back “No, I don’t sleep with guys the first night I meet them.”

As we were waiting for a taxi, Aster said to me “She’s really good to go – you should just take her back to the hotel.” And I tried, half-assedly. However, she knew something I didn’t – her place was two blocks away from the Irish pub we were going to.

Taxi. Irish pub. The place was packed – there was really people in there, a lot of them. We went up the back and found Taylor and Mariana. I introduced them. Stella grabbed me and made out with me. I didn’t resist.

Taylor and Mariana walked off in puzzlement.

Getting drinks at the bar with Stella. I ordered Captain Morgan and Coke. A cute chubby brunette came and rubbed Stella’s torso, then her boobs.

“Sorry – I just felt up your girlfriend,” she said with a smile.

I laughed “Cheeky bitch.”

She said “Sexy bitch.”

I ended up dancing with both of them, trying to get them to make out. It didn’t work out. Brunette disappeared, maybe to go find her male friend that was lurking throughout some of the interaction.

Twenty minutes later, I said “Come on. Get your jacket. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“My hotel.”

“No – I can’t. I don’t sleep with guys on the first night.”

“S’ko.”

“No, I can’t.”

“S’ko.”

“…You can come back to my place as long as you leave right after we have sex.” As if I wanted to stay and make her breakfast.

“Okay.”

We walked to her place. Climbed three sets of stairs. Got naked.

She wanted me to go down on her, but her pussy looked like an exploded banana lasagna. Not appetising. We had sex, and afterwards she said I had to cuddle her.

“Whoa – you said I had to leave afterwards,” I laughed. “That was not part of the deal.”

I cuddled her and she fell asleep instantly. I went back to the bar and tried to find Aster… Taylor… Brunette. No avail. In retrospect I wish I’d approached again and went for the double feature.

I went back to the Monarch and fell asleep.

Aster finished his night by standing there listening to Capone. After 15 minutes he started blatantly hitting on girls in front of her.

“Aster – why did you do that?”

“Let’s face it. I’m only in San Francisco for another seven hours, and I want to get laid. I may as well spend my time where I’m going to get a return on my investment.” Capone was not impressed.

Taylor had said to Aster: “I can’t believe Jones brought a girl with him and made out with him in front of us.”

Aster just said matter-of-factly: “Yep. He’ll do that.”

“She said that?” I said. “She must think I’m a cretin. Maybe I am a cretin.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

Continued – Los Angeles Adventures Part 1 – Gold Member meets Iron Mike, Those Fucking Tourists and Revenge of the Nerds M3

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Las Vegas Sexual Adventures Part Eight – Annaliese No. 2 2/2

Kurt Robinson — Sun, 10 May 2009 07:16:01 +0000

I guess the accent helps. I remember having the discussion with Aster. Putting us both in Vegas meant we both now enjoyed the same unfair advantage, which was previously his alone as an Englishman in Australia. We came to the conclusion that while an accent helps with attraction and hooking, you still have to have a firm grasp of the mechanics – approach, escalate, bounce, pull, from tongue-down to fuck-down. If you don’t know that stuff, the girl is hardly going to screw herself. Right? Well, maybe.

There are other factors to consider. With her knowing that you’re leaving the country in a week and you’ll probably never meet her again, ever – as in never, ever. Even remove the chance to run into her randomly at a bar with her friends, putting her in an awkward situation, in case you do something like coming up to her, calling her your girlfriend and trying to make out with her. Not that I would do something like that.

The point is, without that possibility of social pressure, she’s at band camp. She can be like 2 Live Crew… Nasty As She Wanna Be.

Play it, don't say it

“Oh my God! Where are you from?”

“I’m from Australia. I live in Mal-bin.”

“Oh wow – that’s so cool!”

“Is it? Most of my friends are Australian.” I smirked to myself. “I’m Jones.”

“My name is Annaliese.”

“Of course it is.”

“Excuse me – I have to stand up for a second.” She stood up and straightened her dress. It was a vintage-style blue dress with white polka dots. I sat down in her seat and pulled her onto my lap.

She laughed. “You’re just out to pick up, aren’t you?”

“No, no… no. Every night other than tonight I’ve been trying to pick up. But tonight I’m just out to have fun.”

“Oh.”

She was a local, which in Vegas almost definitely means she’s a stripper. “I’m a concierge.” I thought she must have been telling the truth, because while I thought she was really sexy, no strip club would employ a girl with a pear-shaped body.

I had an ongoing joke with Aster that if you wanted to live in Vegas, than you would have to be crazier than Vegas, so the city would never catch you off-guard. Spesh was a perfect example. Just then, he walked past in a drunken stupor and tried to talk his way into getting a vodka cranberry from our table.

Junior Spesh was quite a character. In his mid-teens, he was a notorious computer hacker. He broke into many three letter agencies, bragging a 100% success rate. When he got out of juvenile detention, he worked for Microsoft, IBM… Then started his own company, wrote a book or two, got rich and retired to a lifestyle of a nerd trying to pick up girls. After two or three years, all that trying paid off, on a weekly basis.

As Spesh wandered off to harrass Aster and Taylor, another English guy tapped me on my left shoulder. “Say, are you English?”

“No mate, I’m Australian.”

“Oh right – I thought I heard an accent – I just got in from Birmingham.”

“Oh really. My travel buddy is originally from Wolverhampton.”

“Oh fantastic – I’ve just been…” As he went on, he gradually shifted his focus from me to Annaliese, until he was getting her phone number right in front of me. I thought, this guy has balls. I waited till he got the number, winked at him, and put my arm around her and pulled her away.

I laughed “What was that?”

“What? I’m a concierge – I need to make contacts.”

Twenty minutes later, a similar thing happened. She excused herself “Wait here for a minute.” I danced with her friends while she talked to some black playerish looking dude 7.3 metres away. She made eye contact with me while he kissed her neck. It’s funny when chode-hope becomes lord-surity.

She came back over.

“You’re a real working girl huh?”

“What???”

“No, I mean – always making contacts aren’t you? A real hustler.”

“What????”

“No, I just mean… you’re a hard worker.”

“Yeah, it’s my job. Hey, I have to go to the restroom. Come with me.”

“Uh. I’d like to, but I hear they have cameras in the toilets in Vegas, and you can get fined or arrested.”

“Haha. No, just come with me and wait outside.”

She wants to make sure I don’t wander off and talk to other girls. I go with her.

Aster appeared at the door to the men’s. I slapped his hand. Annaliese came out and I introduced him.

Aster started: “It’s enchanting to meet you.” I thought, great, attack of the English accent Part 2. I grabbed her and walked off.

I sat down and said “Get your fat arse over here,” and pulled her towards me, my eyes at breast level.

“Hey! I don’t have a fat ass. I like my body.” As I ran my hands over her hips, I looked into her eyes and felt the sexual tension. “You like it too… I think it’s time to go.”

She gathered her friends up and told them that she was “going straight home”.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Her friends were pretty cool. But surely they must have known she wasn’t going straight home if I was going with her. I guess you overlook some things for good friends.

Car park. Black four wheel drive. I got in, and she started driving out of the car park.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much… About 12 vodka cranberries.”

“Oh great. SO this is going to be like that scene off 40 Year Old Virgin huh.”

“No, it’s not that bad.”

She only drove on the wrong side of the road once.

“Oops!” she said.

We had to do a U-turn in an illegal spot because it seemed like there was no other way to get into my hotel car park.

“Where can we park so I can keep an eye on my car?”

I carefully avoided telling the story about the afternoon I checked in to Americas Best Value Inn. That afternoon, I went to have a nap, and woke up after having a dream about there being a hold-up in the car park. I looked out the window and it was all clear. Just a dream, I thought. Then when we walked down to Coco’s diner to get breakfast, there were three police in the carpark taking statements. Americas Best Value Inn certainly wouldn’t look out of place on an episode of ‘Cops’.

She told me she hadn’t had sex in three months. The sex was fantastic. She gave me a blowjob and started speaking in tongues. She got on top and put her legs forward in a squat, with the effect of combining my two favourite positions – cowgirl and piledrive. She started moaning like I wasn’t sure it was hurting or pleasing. Wow.

Continued in San Francisco – San Francisco Sexual Adventures Part One – Aster’s Blonde of Glory, Margaritas, Sake Bombs, and Capone’s Vow of Abstinence

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Las Vegas Sexual Adventures Part Seven – Annaliese No. 2 1/2

Kurt Robinson — Thu, 07 May 2009 01:02:49 +0000

“Do you think we should just go in?”

“He looks like he might be in the middle of something. Could be a sensitive time.”

Aster owed Tamer $400, so we’d come here to Parasol to give the money to Spesh. Spesh was reclining in his chair next to some blonde, fifteen metres away, with a huge glass door between us and him. He hadn’t seen us.

“Yeah – he does looks pretty engrossed. I’ll text him.”

“He looks so awkward and angular.”

“Hah. We’re doing espionage on Spesh here. Speshpionage… You know you’re right – I guess it’s because he’s so tall.”

Watching this 6’5″ lanky, skinny, white, very white Englishman sitting outdoors in a cocktail bar, it’d be easy to overlook him – from a guy’s perspective anyway. You might not realise that this is the man who Natural Tim described as “the biggest pimp in North America right now”.

“It looks like she’s not that into him,” I said. But this is why game is not a spectator sport. It’s the same reason that when you show a guy Treas‘s “Oi minger!” video, and he says “She was just bored – that’s why she stayed there talking to him”, you know that guy is not in the field. The classic chodexplanation.

(For those of you who haven’t seen the video, it’s since been removed off Youtube. But to give you the drift, Alex verbally near-assaults a Norwegian girl, grabs her, and tells her to make out with him on camera. When she refuses, he asks her “Why not?” as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to make out with him – and for a lot of girls, it is. After the video stopped, he ended up laying her.)

Finally, we decided to barge in on Spesh. Walked up to the hostess. I reached for my passport. Aster reached for his passport.

“Oh you didn’t leave your passport at the hotel, did you, you silly bastard,” said Spesh, as he emerged from the glass door.

Aster shook his hand and laughed. I shook his hand.

“What’s up?”

“Just cherishing in the night.” The girl outside was his long-term San Francisco girlfriend, Taylor.

Aster said “Oh right – I thought it might be Tina,” – Spesh’s long-term Vegas girlfriend Tina.

“No, no. Tina’s still in New York. So are you guys coming out tonight or what.” It wasn’t a question.

For five nights in a row, Aster had been saying to me that he was going to take a night off, or at least take a night off drinking.

“We were going to have a quiet one, but now that you mention it…”

“Yes! So the Bristol crew is in effect – what about you, Hugh Jackman?”

“Ah. I was keen to just chill at the hotel,” I said.

“Come on Mel Gibson, don’t bail on us now!”

“I dunno…”

“It’s your last night in Vegas – you’ve got to go out tonight Matt Damon!”

“Matt Damon isn’t even Australian.”

“No, but he is retarded!”

“I see your point. Okay, since we’re in Vegas, I’ll flip you for it.”

Spesh called it “Tails never fails!” and the quarter evaded my hand, spun out onto the marble floor, and stopped. Tails.

“Alright buddy – you’re coming out tonight!” I didn’t think of it at the time, but Spesh was well on his way to being really drunk.

Back to the hotel. Get changed. Get Aster’s pasaporte. Back to Encore.

As we walked through the casino I noticed an interesting table.

On National Lampoon’s Trip To Vegas, there’s that scene where they go to a dodgy casino, with games like “Guess Which Number I’m Thinking”, “Coin Toss”, and “War”.

I guess there must have been some casino execs that paid attention, because now every casino in Vegas has Casino War. In Australia, it’s a drinking game called “Higher or Lower”. In Vegas, the drinks are free, as long as you’re giving away your money.

We met up with the guys on the roof, in the car park, tailgating out of Tamer’s big red four wheel drive.

Spesh was wearing his shiny silver American Apparel jacket with a Union Jack badged onto the sleeve. He was happy to see us. “Hey! GUys! This is TAYLor. And this is Drake!” We shook hands with everyone.

“So you guys are coming to San Francisco in a few days?” said Taylor.

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“Oh awesome! It’s my birthday on Wednesday so you guys can come out drinking with us.”

Taylor seemed unusually friendly. I thought, maybe she’s just like that. We were Spesh’s friends, after all.

“Yeah, so I just moved to San Francisco a few months ago, so I’m still figuring it out. I’m actually from -”

“Oh no!” laughed Drake. Spesh turned the bottle of vodka upside-down on his head, waited till it all poured out, stared at the bottle for a second, then threw it down on the ashphalt a few metres away, smashing it.

Kinda set the pace for the rest of his night. Once we got into the club, Spesh would say to Aster “ALriGHT! I’m going to get you LAID tonight mate,” and drunkenly grabbed girls, virtually slobbering in their ears “HEY! This is my friend Aster! He’s ENGLISH!” And throwing them onto him.

“Uh… sorry about my friend. He’s quite drunk.”

Then when they wandered off, Spesh would say “Oh well! Better luck next time mate!” Actually believing what he was doing was helping.

I walked into XS following Tamer. XS is reputedly the hottest nightclub in the world, and possibly the most expensive. It cost $100 million to build. While its little sister Tryst has a pond with a waterfall in the centre, XS has a huge three-quarter circle pool, with blackjack tables and a bar in the centre. XS is a club in a casino, with a pool in the middle, with a casino in the middle of the pool. It’s the circle of life.

The guys quickly dispersed, with the words “C’mere girl!” echoing throughout the nightclub. I grabbed a few girls as they walked past, but nothing stuck. I wasn’t resisting being there, but I was feeling a little unenthusiastic.

I walked to the right. There was a gorgeous brunette sitting at a table. Remember, if you go to a nightclub in Vegas and you want to sit down, it costs $500. Not really the way I prefer to spend my money, but there you go.

I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was probably something like:

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much…”

“Are you keepin’ it gangsturr?”

“What?”

“Are you lowridin’ with the homeboys on the flipside, knahmean?”

“Haha what?”

“Keepin’ down lizzle at the crizzle befo’ the popo even know, knahmsayin?”

Ah, the keepin’ it gangsturr opener. How do I love thee.

Actually, I probably didn’t say that, because she had an entourage of four black girls. I have a little more tact than that.

No wait, maybe I did say it. Who knows. Point is, the set blew wide open like Dorothy’s door in a Kansas tornado.

Anyway, this post is too long and I know you all have ADD so I’ll finish the story in another post.

Continued – Las Vegas Sexual Adventures Part Seven – Annaliese No. 2 2/2.

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