Posts Tagged ‘sex’

Hi, Hitler.

August 25, 2008

I recently began growing a mustache. No reason really, other than to see what I would look like as a cop, or a seventies porn star.  So without further adue here’s me with a stash.

 Fuck yeah. Evidently God gave me the gift of a semi blond colored beard which contrasts with my hair in a really nice seventies porn star way. My new name is Thomas Woodbluff (Middle name/street where I grew up), purveyor of the Playa Vista porn ring.

I’m also getting a motorcycle and signing up to be a CHIPS officer. I’m gonna grow this thing to stardom.  This mustache could make me the ruler of the earth.

Oh snap, it just did. This is me, ruler of the fascist world giving a speech at a club med convention.

I’m pretty sure Hitler ruined this type of mustache for the history of human kind. It boggles the mind to think that no other person on earth can ever rock this thing again. Except for me motherfuckers, the fascist king of porn.

Brenda!!!! Brenda!!!!! You sleep with me now!!!!

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Go China.

August 19, 2008

The Chinese have shown supremacy in all walks of life during these Olympic Games. A girl who can sing well, replaced by a better looking girl who was super good at mouthing the words even better than the girl who could actually sing them . A team gold medal in women’s Gymnastics, by way of photoshopped birth certificates. A CG fireworks show. And then there was that guy who ran around the stadium sideways. That was actually pretty sweet. So, in honor of China’s supreme supremacy, I have elected to provide another page from the best calendar of all time.

Judging by the young lady’s expression, I’d say she comes with the Egg FOO Young.

Sex Wax

August 18, 2008


When I was twelve, Sarah Morrows was my babysitter. She had long brown hair that flowed around a Charlie’s Angel face. She was also awesome at Pole Position, which increased her beauty ten fold. She was 18, I was twelve, and I was convinced that the two of us were destined to  I have sex under the stars.

The summer of 1988 my parents decided to bring me, my sisters and Sarah on a beach vacation in Destin Florida to a hotel called Jetties East. Sara was there to supervise my sisters and to make sure I didn’t find anyone to have sex under the stars with. “Ha”, I thought, “They’re playing into my plan perfectly.” On the six hour drive to Destin I day-dreamt about being independent, surfing a huge wave, living on the beach, and of Sara and I bedding down in a small grass hut on the sand, maybe raising some babies. Finally we arrived.

But, I didn’t have any money, Florida didn’t have any waves, I was going back to Louisiana in six days, and I barely knew how to masturbate.  So I did the best I could, and asked Sara to drive me over to a surf shop.  At the surf shop I looked at the boards with envy, $400 bucks. “No way I can swing that”, I thought. I searched the store looking for something more affordable but equally as awesome. Near the register I found a small wicker basket that contained numerous nice smelling bars of Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax. One dollar each. I had three bucks. Perfect.  Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax was really surf wax, but everyone on the inside knew that, and that made us “cool”.

Sarah said, “What are you gonna do with that?”

“I don’t know, it says that it’s good for my stick.”

Yeah, but you don’t even have a surf board.

“I know, but I only have three dollars and that’s the only cool thing I can buy for that amount.”

“How about this, if you swear to god not to tell your parents, I’ll buy you a Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax T-Shirt. Then, when you get a surfboard, you can get the wax.”

I thought, “You are for sure the coolest and hottest babysitter in the history of hot cool babysitters.”

The T-Shirt was was white with brilliant flourescent colors of reds, oranges, blues and yellows. “The best for your stick.” was prominently displayed on the back. Such a statement was sure to land me some play. Probably could even get me to second base with a fourteen year old from Alabama. She’d say, “I Like thaaaat t-shirt, and I’d explain, “Yeah I use this stuff on my stick, my big surfing stick.” Then we’d laugh and make out. Hopefully, go down to one of the sailboats and make out until our faces turned red. Then I’d explain to my parents that the redness was simply a rash from all the surfing I was doing.

I left Destin without as much as a peck on the cheek, but before I left, I managed to ride my bike back to the surf shop to buy a bar of Mr. Zogg’s surf wax. I remember it being something akin to Charlie going into the Chocolate store.

Two weeks after we got home, my dad, who was a sex education teacher in the Catholic Church, found the t-shirt and the wax hidden in my closet.

“What the Hell is this!” he said. “This is a disgrace, Sex Wax, you’re promoting sex? You’re twelve years old.”

“Dad, It’s surfing wax, for surfboards, if you rubbed that on your penis it would hurt.”

“Oh, really.”

Just as he said this, my dad ripped open the surf wax packaging, unzipped his pants, pulled down his underwear, and proceeded to rub the bar of wax on his penis like the damn thing was a loofa. After a few seconds his face turned from exasperated disgust and anger to something more like, “What the fuck?”. Then, quizicle turned back to anger upon his internal conclusion that he’d just rubbed surf wax all over his balls.

“YOU’RE GROUNDED.”

Now, after his test, I thought my dad might be convinced that Mr. Zogg was in fact a scrupulous surfing enthusiast who just wanted to make sure people’s feet didn’t slip on surf boards, but my father was convinced that Zogg was the four letter word for Satan. So the t-shirt disappeared. Gone forever. Sarah’s gift of love, that remotely related to her and I sex having something to do with sex together, was gone. I never dared tell my parents that she had bought it for me. I had made a promise, and I kept that. I cried for at least thirty minutes. Then I played some Pole position.

Six months after our beach trip, I got called into the office at school.

“Brett, you’re mom is coming to get you from school. Something has happened, and you have to go home.”

My mom picked me up, and delivered the news that Sarah had had an asthma attack at school and died. She had taken some aspirin which caused a freak asthma attack, and she didn’t have her inhaler with her. She suffocated to death in the school’s hall before anyone could figure out how to help. On the way home my mom and I stopped for nachos at Mr. Cooks. I couldn’t eat them. The cheese felt cold, like death. At twelve, I had no real way of understanding what had just happened, but I knew my connection to Sarah would never be tangible again.

Fifteen years later I was set to be married, and at the rehearsal dinner my dad gave a speech. He spoke about how he loved me and how happy he was for me. Then he pulled somethng out of a brown bag. It was the Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax tank top. He had kept the damn thing for 15 years. “Brett, now that you’re getting married you can have as much sex as you want.  Just don’t rub this stuff on your penis. It hurts.

I had Sarah back. Proof that she had existed in my life.

When Brenda and I moved to the beach I began surfing in earnest. In some way I think the tank top t-shirt pushed me back towards the waves. 

Now most days before work I drive down to the beach wearing that t-shirt. I walk down to the waters edge with my 7′ 4” stick and rub sex wax all over the thing.   Then I go out into the waves and think about what really matters.

One for the ladies.

July 9, 2008

After the “Does she…” post I thought it important to point out just how far you could push the limits of advertising in the 60s. Meet Ron Rico, he is an expert lady killer, who’s concocted 6 deliciously fruity daiquiris that enable him to steal garter belts from enebriated brides.

This guy single handedly carries an arsenal of 6 devastating daiquiris, a framed and autographed head shot, and 6 daiquiri glasses at all times. And his name is Ron Rico. Pronounced with a rolling R, I’m sure.

This is perhaps the last time in the history of the world that the words lady-killer and slay, were or will be used  in anything other than a serial killing or dragon slaying. It’s fucking insane.

The only warning on the entire ad is this:

Warning: Mix with Ronrico and it’ll be love at first sip.

Coco De Mer

June 16, 2008

The day I posted the spanking image, I had 100 hits. In the hope of 200, Adam and I created these posters for Coco De Mer’s upcoming spanking seminars. You can buy a paddle, you can buy a whip, you can buy a damn good spanking.

coco_posters

New Haircut/Rough Trip

June 9, 2008

I got a haircut today, and when the stylist handed me the mirror to look at the back of my head I was reminded of this scar.

Since I don’t spend much time looking at the back of my head I often forget it’s there, but when I see it, I can’t forget how it got there.

It all went down in Juarez, Mexico, 1,159 kilometers due south of Denver. Ten and a half hours by car.

In 1997 I was attending college at the University of Denver. One morning myself and a group of friends decided to take an impromptu road trip. Juarez was the closest town we could find that was outside of the US, and it seemed like a great place to enjoy a little rest and relaxation from the “stresses” of white-collar college life. At the least we thought it would be a great town to find cheap beers and some easy prescription drugs. You know, those pills aren’t getting any cheaper, and we didn’t think taking a bus to Canada with a bunch of snow birds was going to be an awesome time.

We had a good crew. My roommate Fletch, my other roommate Ben, a cowgirl from Montana named Gia, Andrew from Tennessee, Boarts from Manhattan Beach, a girl who’d met Boarts at a party the night before (can’t remember her name), and Keith and his two buddies Ron and Mike who I didn’t know all that well. We packed up two cars and drove south with a map, some money and a bunch of weed that Ben had grown in our basement.  

After ten hours on the unremarkable I-25 we reached the border town of El Paso. El Paso smells like shit, literally. I think it’s because of the amount of cattle that’s transported through the town, and the amount of shit that cattle shit. It’s a town filled with truckers and truck stops and dirty bathrooms and a lot of dirt and crap. And shit. But we had booked the nicest hotel in the town. The Camino Real. Marble tables, jacuzzi tubs, a view of Juarez that was to die for, and air conditioning that seemed to filter out the cow smell. From our suite window we enjoyed a panoramic view of a million shanties strewn along a dirt hillside; as well the electrified barbed wire fence that seperated those shanties from our united states. When the sun went down, the thousands of twinkling light bulbs strewn from a single wire were reminiscent of a giant outdoor summer fistival. It was strangely alluring.

We walked across the border just after sundown. The border crossing was uneventful but as we entered the town of Juarez I felt a distinct sense of unease. A bunch of rich white kids walking into the one of the poorest, most murder-ridden, rape-infested towns in Mexico (remember to do good research before traveling). The locals looked at me with the eyes of townsfolk who were expecting wild bandits to ride into town at any moment. The good, the bad, and the ugly. We were all there.

Eventually we discovered a quaint town square with a bevy of innocuous white tables complimented with a pharmacy that was just around the corner. Easy drugs. Bottles of 100 count valium for $20, sheets of Rohipinal for $15.

Any place where you can buy enough date rape drugs for a year probably should tip you off to what’s about to happen. And I think that includes guys raping guys.

The night began with a traditional Mexican dinner and a table that grew increasingly crowded with Corona bottles that looked as if they’d been reused a thousand times. The Valiums we’d bought were also consumed at what Dr. Drew would consider an alarming pace. We thought it was pretty much par for the course. We were numb and content.  Juarez looked beautiful. As dinner was wrapping up, Fletch Mike and Ron, at the table next to us decided to split up a bottle of 100 Valium. Just as they were scooping up their shares two Federales took notice and came over. An argument began. None of us spoke very good Spanish and within seconds, the Federales were carting Fletcher, Ron and Mike off and threatening to do the same with the rest of us if we didn’t back off. So we did. I watched Fletch, Mike, and Ron walk away handcuffed, into the Mexican night.

From what we’ve gathered, this is what happened next.

First they were broght to a Mexican jail for interrogation. After this interrogation they were transferred to Juarez’s Cesaro “pound you in the ass” Prison where they were beaten, their clothing robbed, and I’m assuming made someone’s bitch. This all transpired in the first night. Three college kids who had everything, now had nothing. Not even the clothes on their back. In one year, eighteen inmates had been murdered in this hellhole. A prison built for 300 that now housed over 1,200 of the nastiest rapists, murderers, drug dealers and filth on earth. Fletch, Ron and Mike spent the next three months trying to stay alive.

Later that night I stumbled back towards the border in shock of what had just happened. Everything was cloudy. I stopped for a drink with Dycus at a bar called The Submarine. From there I somehow made it across the border and into our hotel room. Just as I walked though the door to our suite, I passed out and slammed my head on the corner of one of the marble coffee tables. The Valium helped shield the pain but when when Gia’s hand touched to the back of my head she felt a running river of blood.

 “Oh my God, you’ve gotta go to the hospital.”

We arrived at the hospital in a cab (the driver stole Gia’s wallet) and the doctors were not happy to see me. They took one look at the back of my head and decided that 6 huge cattle staples would be the right remedy for my night of stupidity. The staples were so thick that upon my return to Denver they had to be ripped out and replaced with stiches. I’m sure that’s why the scar is still there today. Just as the doctors were stapling my head shut, Ben walked into the room with a his hand wrapped in a towel, blood dripping from it.

Evidently, after I had left The Submarine, some marines from the El Paso US army base had decided to pick a fight with Ben in the bathroom. A bad choice. Ben is like a pitt bull. He looks like a pit bull. 6’2″, 230 pounds, with a nose that’s slightly upturned and a chin that looks like a concrete street curb. He’d taken the three highly testosteroned army newbies and used their heads to remodel the entire bathroom. Toilets smashed to rubble. Ben hid is bloodied paws in his coat pockets as he crossed back into El Paso and had ended up on a stretcher next to me.

The drive back was a mix between the joy of survival and the sadness of a loss of friends. I never saw Fletch, Mike or Ron again. My roommate and my two other friends had become a statistic that mothers fear most. After three months in Cesero prision the guys were brought to trial for distribution of narcotics. In Mexico they had two choices. 1. They could serve the time sentenced for the crime. In their case 3 years. Or 2. They could pay the equivalent of said sentence. In their case $150,000 a piece. Each of the boy’s parents took their college fund. The money that grandparents, parents and other loved ones had saved up to provide an education to get them out of Mexico and used it to grant their freedom. They never came back to the University of Denver. Their families couldn’t afford it. The money for education used on one lesson that will last me and those guys a lifetime.

Brenda says this story makes us seem like assholes. We were assholes. We were young and stupid and doing all the things that make me look back on this and think, “What the fuck were we thinking.”

We weren’t.

If I can pass on any good advice from this experiece it would be this.

1. Don’t vacation in Juarez.

2. Carry plenty of cash to pay off the Federales.

4. Canada is nice this time of year.

Deez Beez Some Arts I Beez Doin

May 8, 2008

 Pen, ink, watercolor and whatever else happens to be around. I’m doing these to further my lifelong career in art (without instruction from the Art Instruction School of America).

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