czyli dziewczęta prosimy o darowanie sobie dzisiejszej lektury bloga, albowiem notka zawiera jedyny idealny zestaw prezentowy dla każdego mężczyzny, czyli blow-job i cycki (a jako, że to blog przyjazny gejom, do cycków w gratisie skaczące fiuty):
Was there anything quite so under‐rated in this shallow, plastic, global‐corporate, tall‐skinny‐latte, kiddy‐meal‐and‐free‐toy, united‐colors‐of‐fuck‐you‐too world, than a good old‐fashioned, no‐frills, retail blow‐job?
It was one of the very few consumer transactions left in which you really did get what you paid for, no more and no less. No packaging, no marketing, no fake smiles, no on‐the‐door greeters, no aspirational lifestyle kudos; just functional, dispassionate cock‐sucking for a pre‐agreed flat fee.
All those uptight assholes who took way too much pride in telling you they never paid for it in their lives – they didn’t know what they were missing. And this was because they didn’t understand the nature of the transaction. They thought paying for it was undignified, that it somehow diminished them as men. What kind of insecure loser did you have to be to believe that, when, in every other aspect of your life, paying someone else to render you services was what underlined your status? Yeah, sure, you could pump your own gas, wash your own car, shine your own shoes; you could roll dough and make your own fucking pizza. But who the fuck wants to do that when you’ve got money in your pocket? Having to do that shit yourself because you don’t have money in your pocket – that’s undignified; that diminishes you as a man. Paying for it didn’t mean you couldn’t get it any other way – it meant that you could afford the convenience option, same as any other service.
And talk about denial! ‘Never paid for it.’ Yeah, right. Maybe not directly, asshole, but you fuckin’ paid for it, make no mistake. Sneakier than a stealth tax, and just as unavoidable, there’s a traceable dollar outlay connected to every time she unzips your fly, whether she be your wife, your mistress or a one‐night stand. And this isn’t just about steak dinners and hotel rooms, either. This is about that thousand‐buck suit on your back, your health‐club subscription and your stylist’s fee, too. Even if you’re a rock star backstage at the Hollywood Bowl: that seventeen year‐old with the doe‐eyes and the awe‐struck look is still playing an angle, and she ain’t leaving without a piece of you bigger than the one between her teeth. Whether it’s a noseful of your best pure, or the cheque she’ll get when she tells all, one way or another, that blow‐job is coming at a cost.
Of course, there were also those who claimed it didn’t turn them on unless the girl was genuinely into them; presumably the same deluded jerks who thought that no broad had ever faked an orgasm while they were fucking her. Sure. Like every girl who ever went down on them did it because she found them irresistible. Were there really that many chicks out there with a fetish for pot bellies and beer breath? Come on. Even your ever‐doting wife has to feign her interest now and then. So if feigned interest is what you need, a hooker could fake it better than most. But that’s only for those sensitive‐flower or pretty‐boy ego tripper types who actually thought it made a fucking difference whether the bitch gives a shit.
What these clowns didn’t grasp was that you were paying for their disinterest as much as their attention. That bored look was an integral and essential part of the retail blow‐job experience. Jeez, it was an insult to your intelligence for her to expect you to believe she was enjoying it, so there was an invaluable honesty about the nature of the transaction if she looked like she couldn’t care less. There was no have‐a‐nice‐day fake sentiment bullshit. Blow‐job, understand? Not blow‐hobby. She wasn’t doing it because she liked it, she was doing it because she needed the dough and you were going to give her it once she’d made you come. Two blocks down, the girl flipping burgers at Mickey D’s would be looking even more bored for even less green, but it didn’t make your Big Mac taste any different whether she had a fucking smile on her face.
This was raw, honest, old‐school, pre‐globalised capitalism. You need her services, she needs your money, and nobody is pretending there’s anything else going on. No branding, no mission statements and no customer loyalty card. You want No Logo? Go get yourself some professional head.
And if the chance presents itself, go get yourself some Third‐World head, especially. Shit, it was only natural that there had to be some kind of benefit to balance out the negatives about being stuck in fucking Mexico. The whole place stank like a busted sewer, the beer tasted like anaemic piss, and just driving as far as the fly‐ridden corner store was like entering a stock‐car race – but goddamn if the skanks weren’t a whole different quality.
It was kind of reassuring to know that there were still places in this culturally colonised and strip‐mailed world where you could find a hooker who wasn’t about to put every cent you gave her straight into her arm. Unfortunately, those places also tended to be the most economically deprived. That wasn’t to say you couldn’t toss a rock down a Mexican red‐light street without it bouncing from crack‐whore to smack‐head like a pinball; nowhere was isolated or backward enough to be immune from that most successful example of globalisation. Jeez, there was probably some junkie bitch selling her ass in the middle of the Sahara fucking Desert right now. But the thing about south of the border was that there were girls down here who were selling it simply because they were dirt poor from the day they were born, and hadn’t needed any drugs to put them on the street. There was something satisfyingly pure and natural about that, and at the basest level it was far more of a turn‐on if the girl didn’t have track‐marks up her arms or eyes like an insomniac panda.
More: The Sacred Art of Stealing by Christopher Brookmyre (wynalazek ^twosheds jak na razie przecudnie się czyta)
BOYS MUST HAVE SOME FUN.