Sunday, January 25, 2009

Spankings: What's a Southern boy to do?

I don't know how they do it in the Northern states or in Africa or the Middle East, but being a boy from the South, I was always taught to "look after the 'little ladies'".

I was taught to open doors for women, wait for their short legs to catch up, let them go first, and to walk closest to the road on the sidewalk. Maybe it's all silly. Some women don't like it. They feel they don't need special treatment, that it's a compromise of their equality. Some do. Some complain that men aren't gentleman anymore. If that's true, it's because some other woman gave us some abrupt and negative feedback or maybe they weren't raised with manners. Don't know. Don't care.

I do what I do because I like doing it. It makes me feel good to do something nice for someone, man or woman.

I was also taught never, ever under any circumstances, hit a woman. There are a few women who were apparently not taught the same thing in regards to men, but that's another blog.

Men who hit their women had something demonstrably wrong with them and needed to be pushed down a nice high flight of stairs. Those of us who are at heart chivalrous gentleman find it difficult to stomach the idea of some asshole going to town on his wife or girlfriend. We don't find it difficult to stomach the idea of taking a well chosen 2X4 to the asshole's skull just so he'll get a taste of what he's been dishing out, even though we know, it won't do any good.

So when a girl you're dating decides she'd like a good spanking and then expresses disappointment that you didn't give it to her hard enough, a boy like me is left with a dilemma.

On one hand (pardon the pun), I have an innate desire to give a girl what she wants, that which makes her squirmy wet and infinitely enjoyable.

On the other hand (ditto), it just feels flat out wrong to wallop that beautiful bottom no matter how much she shivers with delight.

The answer to this great dilemma, in case you're wondering, is that pleasure wins out, like it always does.

You learn to get past that little voice that says "don't you never hurt no girls", and to listen to that voice that says, "well, this is interesting".

I guess it all comes down to whatever turns you on. I know there are some things I could never do, things I might be able to get past or stomach, but don't want to.

Sexually, we're all a bunch of depraved little monkeys. Fact: 1 out of 1000 monkeys hope they fall from a tree and "accidentally" get a stick poked up their ass. Fact: that wasn't a fact at all, but something my stream of consciousness made up. It seems we're a lot less in control of our fetishes than we would like to be. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would gladly give up their desire to lick plastic shoes or to waft cigar smoke over their sphincter from a woman's black-lipsticked mouth, but then again, maybe not.

Maybe those little fetishes, those breast fixations and feet fixations, intensify sex, make it bigger and more powerful.

For the record: I gave her another spanking that left her bottom and my hand raw. She loved it. She shivered with delight, and as weird as I felt doing it, I enjoyed it, too, because, well, when a woman shivers with delight, delightful things happen to their breasts.

Aaron Diaz Hoal
(self confessed man-whore)

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Other than that, how was the play, President Obama?

First they compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln.

Is this really a good idea? Jesus Christ! It feels like every one is setting him up for martyrdom.

I have a nightmare of waking up one day and seeing a black face shining with sweat on some television street in some television city, exclaiming with tears running down his face, "They killed him!!!"

We're desperate. We're hurting, and like desperate hurting people do, we're reaching for anything, anyone, which is not to say President Obama isn't worthy of our hope. It's only to say that we're putting all our eggs in his basket, painting a huge "S" on his chest, handing him a cape and saying, "Save us."

This ain't Metropolis, and he's not Superman.

Believe me. I feel it, too. Calling all the Ex-Presidents together like some superhero Justice League, riding the train, irritating his own party. I feel the hope, too.


--the more perfect he seems, the more likable, the more golden, the more I worry.

What if something happens to him? What then? What happens to the rest of us? The race riots will eventually die down, but what happens to the economy? What we're feeling now, depression or recession, call it what you like, is just a pinch. While some of us are losing homes, going broke, searching for jobs, most of us are still treading water. If Obama gets assassinated, America is likely to become the United States of the Titanic.

Dubai will be the new capitol of the world. They will take our celebrities, and the celebrities will go with open arms, because in Dubai, they can shoot photographers if they feel like it. Okay, well, maybe they won't do that, but they can lock them up, deport them if they want, and that will make the celebrities happy. Wait, no celebrities, hmm, okay, so it's not all bad.

This is the part that gets me tagged with the FBI. This is the part that sends them and the Secret Service scurrying to my door with me stuttering and crying out to the media (if I'm lucky enough to get talk radio attention), "But--buh-buh-buh . . . it was only a BLOG!!!"

This is the part I call, "If I Were a Terrorist".

If I were a Terrorist, I'd be finding the next John Wilkes Booth, the next Harvey Lee Oswald (or well, anyone who uses all three of their names), and setting him up as the next patsy.

Which would have the most disastrous results? Taking down the Twin Towers of New York or having some Southern Racist assassinate the first black president?

Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I'm scared of nothing, but it feels like Obama is taking the same kind of chances that Kennedy and Lincoln took.

This is the part I will call, "If I were a Secret Service Agent"

To Do List:
  1. Hire and Train the shit out of more agents
  2. Corner the market on Teflon and Bullet-proof glass
  3. Buy Depends in patriotic colors.
People. An observation:

People, most people, are basically good. We all want the same thing: to be happy. Most of us just want to get to work, do our jobs, get home and enjoy our lives, whether that's through a night dancing at a club, a quiet night with the family, an outdoor BBQ with neighbors or getting shitfaced on our front lawns.

But there's a lot of us in the world, enough to create a tiny percentage of us that are fucking nuts.

A rule of thumb about this whole "one person making a difference" crap.

To make a change for the better, it may take only one person or event to start the movement, but it takes a consistent effort by a shit load of people to carry the movement forward until it sticks.

But it only takes one, single nutcase to fuck everything up.

And now my own State of the Union address:

Folks, we're hoping things get better and we're struggling and putting a lot of faith in our new golden boy, rock hard abs, new puppy and all. This ain't Camelot. This is America. This isn't the Civil War. This is a united country that's accidentally put nearly the entire global economy into a tailspin. No one said it better than the Sargent on Hill Street Blues, and it's advice that goes for our new president as well as us:

"Let's be careful out there."

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Welcome to Dallas, President Obama

First we compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln. Neither president ended up where any of us want our new Commander in Chief to end up.

What do we do with a black president? Well, he's not that black. I'm going to be a racist for a few minutes, because I can, because it comes easy, because I'm white and not that poor, and because I've got nothing better to do. I was thinking of writing Pepsi to discuss how their logo is a perversion of the unnursed female breast and how God explicitly forbid such a thing in Luke 23: 47--49 . . . ahem. . . .

"The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, 'Surely this was a righteous man.' When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things."

See? The red and blue breast of the Pepsi logo?! Can this resemble nothing more than the bruised unnursed breasts of the people Galilee? Atrocious!

But now we're going to get a black president, and I, being Holier than all you Thous, must weigh in. Don't worry about the weight thing though, I'm trying to exercise more. I make two trips to the refrigerator for each commercial break and I walk down my driveway to get my mail now instead of driving my car.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, a black president.

Do you think any of his advisers are whispering in his ear, "Oh, yeah, one more thing, see that? The Manson-Nixon, er, Mason-Dixon line? Yeah, don't go South of that. And for God's sake, whatever you do, do NOT let them talk you into taking a sunny drive through Dallas!"

Of course, we're all wiser and more politically correct now. Our nation is without hate. No one hates black people anymore, or white people, or brown people, or even yellow people. That's what we have terrorists for. If red is the new black (and I'm not sure that it is, honestly), then terrorists are the new communists which replaced the horribly antiquated "witch". Where's Senator McCarthy when you need him? Oh, yeah, rotting in the grave, heh, heh. Right now, he or is ilk (why does the word "ilk" make me "ill"?) should be holding up laundry lists before Congress or the Senate and claiming to have proof of terrorists sympathizers having infiltrated our God-fearing nation, wait, was that supposed to be God-fearing or God-loving? I'll have to check the bible again. Strangely, I feel a perverse need to fondle myself when I perform Biblical research, which explains why I'm not allowed in church anymore. (Well . . . at least one of us was not nodding off during the sermon, and I was certainly feeling the hand of God, because we're all made in His image you see, and that means God's got to be hung like a horse with great big luscious breasts. Again, kicked out of church, now you see why.)

Now, a small passage which attempts to redeem me before both African Americans and America's Salt of the Earth:

First, I like black people. I grew up in Louisiana, and have lived in the South my entire life. Being somewhat musical, I find it difficult not to groove to the blues, R&B, and even the occasional rap. Being a gourmand, I find it difficult to pass on a plate of good soul food. Being human, there's something beautiful about a black family on Sunday morning, the men all bald and beautiful, the women dressed in flowers and heels. I especially admire the older black men, of course, with their suspenders, their pot bellies and the pride of their family gleaming in their eyes.

Second, I like farmers, ranchers and cowboys. I've had good experience with these good ole boys, and I know that if you were stranded somewhere in your finest hose and heels (which I often am) and one of these "rednecks" came by in their pickup truck (confederate flag sticker and all), they wouldn't hesitate to stop and give you a helping hand, buy you a new battery, offer you a ride or use of their cell phone, and you'd be thankful, because like African Americans, they are basically good people.

Now, allow me to unredeem myself:

President Obama will soon find himself in an impossible position (which is not the fun impossible position where you try to lick yourself because today is one of those days that you are depressingly single and it's fucking HOT!). No, I mean the impossible position of being too black for the whites, and not black enough for the blacks. At least with white presidents, all the off-white citizens expected to be fucked. If one of these white guys give an off-white citizen a concession, a boost to immigration or inner city schools, they have the right to be ecstatic, though that ecstasy could and will be used against him.

For some reason I keep seeing a smiling Hillary and a Billy whispering into the microphone, in his scratchy Southern dialect, "Wow, he didn't even last 30 days."

Let's hope I'm wrong. I usually am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more bible research to conduct, as soon as I find that hand cream my last ex-wife left behind.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Friday, January 2, 2009

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tampon

She stands in my living room, pupils dilated, nostrils flared, rosaciaed cheeks extra rosy, holding a diaphragm in the palm of her small hand, showing me her blood clot. Probably in response to some unsympathetic asshole-type thing I'd said about how she's always bitching about her period but she's had them for years now and shouldn't she be used to them by now?

"See?" she snarls, shoving the filled diaphragm towards me. I can see the clump of red in the center and I don't want to see the clump of red in the center so I shut my eyes and avert my face with the expression of a ten year old who has just had his first foray into an abattoir. "See? This is what WE have to put up with!"

In her passion, her hand shakes a tad and the clot drops on to my plush, white carpet. She bursts into tears, apologizes and runs for the Fabreeze, the soap, and the scrubby brush she uses when her cats have their accidents.

I light a cigarette and watch her scrub my carpet like some feverish maid who has just been threatened with I.N.S.

Time. Stops.

It does that sometimes.

I start thinking about shit. Weird shit. I usually do this after sex, before sex, when I'm trying to find someone to have sex with, and when I'm viewing porn. It pisses me off, because it's usually ill-timed, but not today. Today, the timing couldn't be better.

Men experience blood as the potential for death. Our only history with blood is being wounded. Losing blood is losing life is draining energy until we're cold and in the ground. Blood=bad thing.

For women it's more complex. (Isn't it always?) Women have the same experience with blood, PLUS the potential for life. Each uterine lining shed is another opportunity passed, another moment where they could've conceived, but didn't, and therefore are failures.

Time. Re-starts.

By now, she's finished scrubbing and I'm not saying a Goddamn word, despite the fact that I can still see a pink aura around the spot. I'll probably forget about it, but she won't. She'll feel ashamed about it every time she passes by until we finally call a professional cleaner or get a new carpet.

The important thing is I can take advantage of her guilt and have some rocking good sex for awhile. She might be a little more willing to go down on me or she might let me finally do her doggy-style. Either way, until her shame lifts or until I piss her off again (which is why I have to take it while I can get it), I'm looking to be a lucky boy.

Now, which is worse in your experience? Being sick in the hospital or having to visit a loved one who's sick in the hospital. I'd rather be wearing a thin, backless paper gown and having my guts laundered than to have to make small talk with someone who's managed to get past my defenses and make me care about them. It's just easier. I'd much rather piss blood for five to seven days than to have to listen to someone whine about it.

Every month, your girlfriend, sister, daughter and mother become mental patients. I'm not complaining. One out of those four give me a good occasional fuck (two if you live in Alabama or Mississippi; three if you live in Arkansas). And I'm just horny enough to plow through even during the violent march of the Crimson Crusade. If she's willing; I'm willing. I've had blood on my dick and on my hands and I've found that it all comes out with some soap and water. To some men, this idea is abhorrent. That's their business, but it's one less fuck for them and one more for me, and I've found when I show no disdain for Little Red Riding Blood, I score a lot more Brownie points. If she can put up with the mess and the stink (which I rarely notice anyway), I sure as Hell can. And I'm just horny enough to not care about the conditions (with the following exceptions: 1. whores in Mexico 2. transsexuals in transition and 3. common prostitutes).

Now, she's curled up in my lap, weeping, apologizing and ignoring my hand which has somehow snaked its way up under her shirt and wire-framed bra and planted itself on her breast. Maybe I'm a bastard, but I like her when she's like this, vulnerable, needy, wanty, soft and sweet. It's like an ice cream that's begun to melt. If your hand ain't a little sticky before it's all over, you're not doing it right.

Aaron Diaz Hoal
Originally published 1/27/08