Michael Savage is seen here clowing around
with his favorite fan, Barbra Streisand.



by lenny bellows | 18:18

Slumming Again

“So what’s your name?”

“Cynthia, what’s yours.”

“You can call me Kurt...Kurt Bali.”

This wasn’t new to me. My name wasn’t Kurt Bali anymore than hers was Cynthia. In the beginning, I tended to believe them, believe their stories of how this was just a stop on the way to bigger things, usually modelling or acting. But let’s face facts: When you’re fucking guys in shithole hotels for a hundred bucks, your chances of gracing the cover of In Style were slim and none.

“So what do you do?”

I was used to the give-and-take banter. This wasn’t the first time I had financially supported the world’s oldest profession. I’d been fucking hookers for the better part of five years. After a while, it’s like a script.

“I work on the Hill. I’m a lobbyist.”

Which was the truth. A successful one, in fact. If you had tuned into the cable news channels two weeks ago, you would have seen the talking heads discussing the pro’s and con’s of the president’s latest legislation on farm aid, legislation I worked my ass off to get passed and made more than my fair share of behind-closed-door deals to get done. My reward for selling another piece of my soul in the political hell of the nation’s capital was a pretty sizeable pay raise, some of which was being used tonight for Cynthia’s services.

“So you answer phones and junk like that? I have a friend who does that. She fucking hates it. She’s always having to answer stupid questions from fucking retards.”

As you can see, Cynthia wasn’t bright. In fact, I wouldn’t give two-to-one odds she could spell her name correctly with her birth certificate right in front of her. It was pretty easy to see why she had chosen her current profession.

“You’re thinking of a receptionist. I don’t work in a lobby, I lobby congressmen and senators to make new laws.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I never understood politics. Thank God I can get by on my looks, know what I mean, baby?”

Actually, Cynthia wasn’t all that pretty. If she were in a bar, you would take one look at her and not think much. A couple hours later, around last call after several beers and a couple of shots of Jagermeister with your boys, you’d think, “Eh, I’d fuck her.”

And that’s what I’m about to do.

“You got the money?”

The small talk was over. The script is now cutting to the meat of the plot. Money. No matter what she says, no matter what you tell her, it doesn’t take long before the first transaction takes place to pave the way for the second. I had no intention of not paying and it wasn’t just because of the very large, very pissed-off looking bald black guy standing outside the door. Cynthia may not have been on the honor roll in high school, but she was smart enough to realize hooking wasn’t the safest occupation and it didn’t hurt to split your profits with someone who would watch your back. She was providing a service and I felt an odd sense of duty in ensuring she was compensated properly.

I took out my wallet and my eyes immediately fell on the picture of my wife. It was a picture of her from a Christmas party two years ago. The man she was standing next to was named the Super Bowl MVP last year. One of the perks of my job was meeting very rich, very famous people.

She looked beautiful as always. She was wearing what I call the “Meg Ryan haircut,” the moppet look Meg made famous in the late 80’s in movies like “Top Gun.” Dianne, my wife, was wearing the skin-tight, very short red dress she knows makes me horny as hell. In fact, a little more than an hour after that picture was taken, that dress was hiked up around her waist while I was behind her, hitting that pussy like a jackhammer, while she balled her fist in her mouth to keep her screams of passion from echoing outside. The fact we were in a very well-known senator’s private washroom only intensified the tryst.

I handed her five crisp $20 bills I had gotten from the ATM a couple hours ago just for this occassion. It hadn’t taken me long to find Cynthia. I knew all the right places to look. I had no interest in the crack whores or junkies. They were too unpredictable and didn’t take care of themselves. The girls in Cynthia’s neck of the woods were young and usually pretty clean. They weren’t supermodel hot, but if I wanted that, I would be home with my wife.

She took the money, shoved it into her purse, allowing me a glimpse of a small, nickel-plated .25 caliber pistol. I assumed that was done on purpose. Yeah, as if Mount Negro outside wasn’t a deterrent by himself.

“I’m going to go into the bathroom and get ready. Make yourself comfortable, baby.”

With that, she turned and walked into the bathroom with an exaggerated wiggle I assumed she meant to be sexy, but the only reaction it provoked from me was mild amusement. As she was shutting the door, I walked over to the bed, kicked off my shoes, and sat down.

The room wasn’t bad. I had made it a habit to get decent rooms for my little adventures. D.C. had more than its fair share of sleazy, rent-by-the-hour motels, but usually when guys like me went there, they ended up dead, with their money gone and faces plastered on the evening news, while their wives and kids dealt with the fact daddy was fucking $20 whores instead of their mother.

If anyone knew about my late-night activities, which they didn’t, most would be shocked. Not by the fact I was cheating on my wife. Are you shitting me? If you’re naive enough to believe guys like me are loving husbands to the same woman forever, then I’ve got a deed for a great ocean-front house in Phoenix I’d like to show you. The surprise would come from the fact I have a wife most men would not only leave their own wives for, they would gladly hand over the car, house, and all their money just for the opportunity to smell Dianne’s panties.

Don’t get me wrong, Dianne was beautiful and she was sexually insatiable. She was a woman who loved to fuck, anywhere, anytime, anyway. My dick was getting hard thinking about the video hidden in the cabinet on top of the refrigerator featuring my lovely bride sucking my best friend’s cock while getting fucked from behind by his brother. That was my Valentine’s Day present last year.

No, Dianne was the best wife a guy could ask for, but the fact of the matter was, she was too perfect. I had always been able to get the hot girls. I was the obnoxious prick you remember from high school who was Hollywood handsome and fucking the best-looking cheerleader and also nailing your girlfriend behind your back just because I could. I grew tired of the string of model-lookalikes. I began to crave normal, less attractive girls. The kind of girls with some flaws. A little too fat in the ass. Nose a little too big. Tits a little too small. The kind of girl who would more than make up for her physical flaws by letting you fuck her anyway you wanted to and then thanking you for doing it.

I quickly found those girls were few and far between in the real world. Plus, they were usually psycho bitches who wanted a relationship and I’m not about to lose half of everything I own just because some lovelorn broad with a penchant for Danielle Steele novels thinks she hit the jackpot. I discovered the rewards of anonymous sex with faceless, nameless prostitutes and never looked back.

I heard the bathroom door open and Cynthia walked out, wearing only a very flimsy black lace bra and matching panties. She walked slowly to me, again, probably imagining herself to be a catlike sexual predator, but in reality, looking like she really was: A tired, young hooker with a small hole in the left cup of her bra.

She walked to the edge of the bed where I was sitting and climbed on me, straddling me and forcing me to lie back. She leaned down to kiss me, her jet-black hair falling down into her face and I immediately put my hand to her mouth.

“Not on the lips.” I mean, shit, who knew how many cocks had passed that portal today. I’ll fuck a whore, but I’m not kissing her.

She gave me a half-grin, indicating she took no offense. She began kissing my neck while unbuttoning my shirt. I slowly grabbed a handful of her hair and gently lifted her head so her eyes met mine.

“Don’t worry about all that. Unzip my pants.”

She smiled again. She lifted herself off me and I moved back on the bed, laying my head on the pillow and putting my hands behind my head. She leaned over and unbuttoned my pants and then began unzipping them. When that was completed, she put her hands on each of my hips, grasping both my boxers and trousers, slowly pulled them down to my knees. She then wrapped her hands around my semi-erect dick, leaned down, and with the tip of her tongue, ran it up the length of my shaft.

My cock immediately snapped to attention. To me, nothing was better than head and it never failed to make me rock hard, regardless of who was on the giving end. She looked up at me and said, “Do you have a rubber?”

“It’s in my right-front pocket.”

She reached her hand into the pocket and pulled out the square, foil package and tore it open with her teeth. She took the prophalactic and placed it on the top of my penis. She then put her mouth over the condom and in one motion, took my member in her mouth while unrolling the condom to the base of my cock.

She raised her head up and began stroking my dick with her hand, looking me in the eye.

“Don’t fucking look at me. Just suck me.”

Once again, she gave me a sardonic grin and proceeded to take me into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down while pumping my cock with her hand. I was writhing in ecstacy. She continued sucking me off for about another minute, then stopped and stood up.

She unlatched her bra and shrugged it off, allowing her tits to free themselves. I was pleasantly surprised to see they looked pretty good. A lot of times, you’ll see a decent-looking bitch and come to find out, her breasts look like fried eggs nailed to a wall. Cynthia was a nice, firm C-cup with erect nipples.

“Do you want to touch them?”

“Come here.”

She laid down on her back next to me. I rolled over on her, cupping her left breast with my right hand, using my left hand to again pull her head back by her hair, gently, exposing her neck. I began to nibble on her neck, just below her ear, and I heard the softest of moans escape her lips. I kept licking that area, and then leaned my mouth to her ear and said, “Do you like it rough?”

“Oh, yes.”

I rose up, grabbed her panties and ripped them off her body in one motion. Her pussy was completely shaved, with a small Taz tattoo right above her clit. For a split second, there was panic in her eyes. The fear immediately subsided and when it did, I got back on the bed, straddling her chest.

“Now, suck my cock like you mean it, whore.”

In the blink of an eye, she had grabbed my manhood and began blowing me as though her life depended on it. I grabbed the back of her head, forcing my dick deep down her throat. She gagged slightly and then went back to her task. She took my member out of her mouth, still stroking it lightly.

“I want you to fuck me. Now.”

“I’m the one giving orders, not you. For that, you get punished. On your hands and knees.”

She rolled over onto her stomach and did what she was told. I looked at her, cock growing harder by the second. I opened my right hand, arched back my arm, and slapped her ass.

She grunted with pleasure. “You like that, huh?” I said. “You like being punished? Have you been bad?”

“Oh, yes, Daddy, I’ve been bad. Spank me again.”

It was as though someone had opened the floodgates of passion in my brain. I immediately jumped on the bed, landing on my knees behind her. I cupped her left buttock, caressing it, while slapping the other harder and faster. She was moaning louder with each strike of my hand.

“Oh my God, fuck me PLEASE!”

I positioned myself behind her, grabbed her now-red ass, and rammed my cock into her soaked pussy. Her head went up with a scream of orgasmic pleasure. Like I had Dianne in that congressional washroom, I fucked this little no-name whore with a vengeance. I turned her over on her back and continued fucking her bald cunt, watching her tits bounce up and down with every stroke of my cock inside her.

“OhpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohyesohyesOHMYGOD!!!”

She came hard and fast, but I wasn’t done. I continued fucking her as though it were an Olympic competition and I was heading down the homestretch in the gold medal round. I looked at her face, with her eyes rolling back in her head and her mouth gaping open and shut, like a fish out of water. I pumped my dick into her a couple more times with extra force and withdrew from her.

I tore the condom off, hurling it across the room in one motion. I again straddled her chest. “Open your mouth,” I said. “Open your fucking mouth.”

She obligingly opened her mouth as I pumped my cock furiously. In less than five seconds, I erupted, sending cum into her mouth, on her face, in her hair. I then rammed my member into her mouth, where she milked me dry, my manjuice dribbling down the sides of her cheeks as all the energy left my body.

I stood up and continued to look down at her semen-covered face. Any pretense of being sexy was gone now and she knew it. She got up, wiping her face on my shirt.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

She reached into her purse and pulled out the pistol, pointing it at me.

“Hey, what’s the deal? I treated you good, I gave you the money, I let you bring your bodyguard up here, what the fuck?” I stammered. “You’re gonna fucking jack me now?”

She walked over to me, gun still aimed at my face. She grabbed the back of my head with her other hand and began kissing me hard, her tongue probing into my mouth. She moved away from me and smiled.

“You should have let me kiss you on the lips, asshole.”

Just as she pulled the trigger, I thought of how hurt and pissed off Dianne was going to be when she turned on the news tomorrow morning.


by Kurt | 17:55

check out the funky fresh adventures
of lou dallas...

my way or the highway, bi-otch...

by Kurt | 11:33

You want answers.
I want verbs.
Tear your scratch out, punk.

Seethe.
Smoke grass and flay donkeys under the curious, round eye.
Take their measure, then act.
Watch the 'puter fade out.


by lenny bellows | 18:15

What the hell did you do Ricky!

Gotsta get tech support in on this one!

Phooweee!!

by lou dallas | 19:51

Spitting mental came easily to Bill Joe.
We stare at the spokes like children waiting for visual candy.

Someone white guy is scrambling for bus fare
while I cash out a shard of grey shore.

My left hand went numb while saving turtle acids.

Michael Jackson was abused to a supernatural degree
by his father. I finally understand!!

(He still makes great music.)

Unless you are out-of-date or foolish, you know
that his nose is intended to mimic Peter Pan's.
The skin disease is called vitiligo, not "whitening".

I truly believe he plays with kids
because he is a Kid. Not a molester.
If you haven't seen the Martin Bashir documentary,
get off the venom purse. Shake a triangle.

I am racing to finish my drink so I can
piss into the empty jar.

by lou dallas | 17:16

Yo, me monkey! Duhhhhh.... Me want you give me dumb pill!
Me want to Hate Michael Jackson! My people persecuted!
Stampede for Nehru! Beatch! 400 years, guru. Get to work, boy...

by lou dallas | 20:40