Sunday, November 23, 2014


When I was a kid my parents knew a couple called George and Georgia. Both were made of that exotic mongrel mix you get in southeastern Europe, the land bridge going into Turkey and the Middle East. Mobs of marauders and rapists have been through there for centuries.

George was swarthy and handsome. He'd have looked right at home with a top-knot and Fu Manchu, shirtless and carrying a scimitar. Georgia wasn't magazine beautiful but had a rare blonde sensuality. Not easy for a woman with pale hair, pale skin and pale gray eyes to come off fiery but she did it with a kind of deeper sweet hunger.

Their real strength was others didn't exist for them. George was a typical man of his era, tall and masculine, didn't dance, a sublime undertone of confidence and power. Women went all girlish and soft near him.

The same way men doted on Georgia's sweetness, which seemed to be for the whole world but she was just being a good girl. When those two looked at one another, they burned everything else away. Married but no kids, which was strange for the time and she openly dismissed the idea as "Not for us."

I guess they were too busy fucking to be parents. I was like ten or something and at some big wedding or baptism in a church basement me and a few other kids saw George and Georgia steaming up their car windows out in the parking lot. I guess they couldn't wait to get home, just had to take a break from the drinking and socializing to lay on a good fuck. They seemed a lot younger than my parents or their other friends. Fucking will do that. Amazing they didn't get sick of one another the way couples usually do.

Anyway, the point I was going to make originally was this thing Georgia would do. A couple times she dropped George off at a cafeteria my old man owned a piece of. George was a highly skilled carpenter. He usually did bowling alley lanes with an uncle of mine but since my old man had found him a cool hotrod Buick at a good price, George came round for a few days and built a new cafeteria counter.

I'd be sitting outside peeling potatoes in the alley way and see them pull in and she'd wipe his mouth and his mustache with her hand. Actually, more like fondle his face and mouth, this really slutty smile on her. I didn't recognize it as such then, being just some stupid kid, but I realized later on what her look meant.

I asked my old man about the mouth fondling and he was never a subtle guy. "She wipes her wet pussy first," he grunted then gave me a leer and winked but didn't explain further and I didn't ask since I had no clue what he was talking about.

Those old hotrods had a front bench seat, like a big sofa so were pretty much made for George and Georgia. Not like these cars now with the straightjacket little bucket seats. The crazy thing is not long afterwards he built that counter they were both killed in a high speed crash. I've always had the notion they died fucking, just couldn't wait to get home.

Friday, November 14, 2014


I was recently sent the following message from what I'm told is a local swingers collective. I think I'll give up trying to write satire. The names have not been changed in order to protect the credulous...

If you come alone or with your partner please be here no later than 6pm; please bring a chemise or something similar to wear when not actively engaged. You do not have to, it is not required but most of the ladies like slipping something on even if it is waist or hip long when they take a break for a drink or snack, or go to the bathroom to freshen up.

pleas email us at and all we ask for is a face picture so we know who is showing up at the door. this is not required either but is a good comfort factor for us.

I think the youngest is 30 and the oldest, bringing his GF too if I remember right, is 65 or 66 and I am 60 and I am a Master.

I hope it is not a problem that all the males are white.

When you get to the house we will give the ladies a quick tour, we have three bedrooms and three full baths w/three showers.

One bedroom has a king sized bed and one has a queen while the middle room has a double.

We have a range of toys and equipment, all well sanitized but pls bring your own if you wish something specific.

If you have special requirements, pls write them down so it can be circulated among the men attending so there are no awkward or embarrassing moments.

Please let me know if you d can tell me Saturday. We want to make sure the guys know who does so they do not try anything with those that do NOT.

Okay, we currently have several couples; 4-5 single men and 2-3 Single females.

We are in the Esmeralda apartments; 64-66 Soi Nagmduplee, Rama 4 Rd.
Apt 7C, tell the guards you are visiting RichardMcCormick.

Nagmduplee is Sathonr area; behind the big Q House Lumpini.

It can be accessed down Sathon Soi 1 or off of Rama 4. Soi 1 dead ends on nagmduplee , turn RIGHT, 25 ' entrance to Esmeralda on RIGHT we are in UPPER tower.

From Rama 4 you turn directly onto Nagmduplee. Stay straight, all cab drivers want to turn. When you pass the only 7-11 (scary I know) you are close. Stay straight. Pass the intersection (Soi 1 enters on your right) and again stay straight and 25' on right side

Walking distance from the 7-11 or the IBIS Hotel on Soi Nagmduplee.

Again - upper tower.

Anything else? Oh, no drugs, no drunks and no vulgar language. We will have drinks and snacks. We just folk to have fun and get what they want.

And please be aware we practice safe sex and keep to strict safe word limits and all encounters will be monitored to keep all safe and for no misunderstandings.

And if you wish a particular group activity such as GB, please let us know beforehand to again ensure there is no embarrassment.


Master Richard

Friday, October 24, 2014


I got an email from some pretend college in Canada offering weekend courses in how to write fiction and get published.
"We're Ready When You Are."
They make it sound as if you're building a deck. 5 Easy Steps To Being A Nuisance!

The course will "Launch you toward the top tier in the highly competitive world of modern fiction." But it doesn't say where you'll land after being launched toward the top tier.


I love this Ikea style branding. It's 10 hours over 2 days of "a simple and easily understood assignment and peer-review based learning process."

PT Barnum and Ripley got rich off these rubes. Incredible they'll pay $350 each to be diapered and stroked by some loser in a plaid shirt.

But the really depressing part is the "Instructors."
Paid pretty much shit, a dumpy middle aged schmendrick must drag his sorry ass outa bed on a freezing Saturday morning in some obscure hick town called Parry Sound and go deal with the aspirations of a bunch of angry housewives and the one geeky gy who's got half a foot out of the closet door and wants to start a magazine.

So here's the "instructor" - driving his shitty little leased car across the wind swept plains of some Canadian steppe, full of dread at the upcoming two days locked in a room with a herd of big mouthed yentas who'll sit at the front and kibitz and openly compare him to some other asshole instructor and demand their money's worth.

While getting his drive-thru ten dollar coffee from the new Cognoscenti's outlet, he prays for a willowy little English lit major to show up and sit at the back of the class and shyly pull out a copy of his pointless novel, hoping he'll personally sign it. He'll tell her she has talent, she's not like the others, her pussy's definitely not like the others, etc etc. He checks his bald spot in the rearview mirror and wishes he had the money to buy Rogaine on a regular basis. 

Then he curses himself for being such a putz to marry that fucking cow who ditched his ass after screwing some hockey player and she's now living downtown in HIS condo with their ingrate kid going to a fancy school, while the dyke cunts who run the government force him to pay through the ass and he's the actual artist in the family and he had to move to this whitebread buttfuck end of nowhere and beg for a job as an "Associate Instructor" at a former agricultural school after they took government money to create an "arts based curriculum" for the hags who bought big boxes houses up here a hundred miles from town because they're too cheap and stupid to have cashed in on the red hot real estate market in the city and now he's making $175 bucks for 10 hours of HIS time to teach them how to get published. What the fuck.

If he had any balls he'd drive to the city, find that other bitch, his so-called publisher, and beat her to death with a tire iron. His most recent novel, A Dog's Breath, won two "non-monetary" but noteworthy awards and then he once again got zero attention because his grant-whore publisher couldn't give away free money, let alone sell a fucking book.

And forget having his bonehead students work on whatever garbage they type on their laptops worth more than he makes in a month. Noooooo. He, a published author, will be harangued, harassed and hammer-locked into giving them the Secret to seeing their slop published - ie: shoved between the covers of some cock-eyed Print On Demand piece of dreck.

As he drives away with his coffee and settles back into the more soothing notion of a willowy little thing grasping his genius, he takes a sip and almost vomits onto the steering wheel. He very specifically asked for a Neo-Grande Double Naught Despresso Famagusta and they gave him fucking coffee!

In a rage, he tries to reverse but a giant SUV is already at the window and to get back in line he must exit the parking lot, drive three miles to get around the concrete divider then wait ten minutes to make a left turn back into the official drive-thru entrance and once again join the parade of waiting cars.
hey, teach...

Monday, October 20, 2014


I still get some manuscripts sent to me, a few per week. People who want to be writers tentatively reaching out. Some seem to believe since I've gotten published somehow, and I'm living in SE Asia, I've figured out something they haven't.

Honestly, I wouldn't recommend writing to anyone. For me it's a terrible compulsion. I spent 2.5 decades or so as a narcotics addict and a general waste of space. It left a huge hole in my life when I came to Thailand and quit using. I mean, anybody with a keyboard is a 'writer' these days. You'll make more money begging and get far more respect if you can actually do something useful, like fix a flat tire or screw in a light bulb.

Tons of writing sites tell you to post your stuff in exchange for 'exposure.' Pay you money? Don't be gauche. Nobody can tell you if your writing is any good and really, does it matter? Maybe it's just about quantity and nothing to do with quality. Agents tell me to write what 'appeals to readers.' What readers? Who reads anything longer than a couple lines? Why would they? Soon, the Google created Googerator will allow 'readers' to absorb information through an extremely fine wire thinner than a human hair which is inserted into the anus and works wirelessly, the beta version was called Satellass, btw.

So... you will be sodomized with a slow enjoyable pulse and absorb data at quantum rates. Farts will be transliterated to texts for a select group of recipients - your 'friends', so to speak. There won't be any context since experience is an extremely difficult algorithm to parse and of little practical use. However, consumers craniums will house a vast array of admittedly circumscribed human knowledge and also convincingly ape countless human activities, ie: reallyreallyreallysmartapp.

Anyway... I know, it was bizarre to come to one of the world's great narcotics producing centers and quit using but I did. Why did it work when rehab, headshrinkers, beatings and the like didn't help? My theory is the ready supply, high quality and cheap price allowed me to keep postponing what seemed to be the inevitable. I could delay buying good drugs and not worry they wouldn't be there later or tomorrow.

Back home there was constant panic to raise the money, find good stuff and stock up since it likely wouldn't last. Even my doctor there joked he'd come to the airport to take delivery of my body bag.

So writing became a way to try to fill the huge  hole left by a chaotic and time consuming lifestyle. Selling dope, running whores and racing around on a baffed out old Japanese sportbike was very involving. Constantly in a state of rage, I felt I was spitting in fate's eye - like, Fuck you! Kill me now or fuck off! I don't care if I live another minute. Do your worst, Fate, you dirty bitch! Snarl and howl inside my helmet as I'd rip through traffic, take mad chances and near misses. Really stupid stuff.

So writing became a kind of compulsion, something to do in lieu of violently killing myself. No, writing is not something I really enjoy. It's cathartic in its way but mostly I try to write about friends dead or imprisoned or gone nuts, try to keep them from disappearing entirely and I fear I'm forgetting so much, my addled mind losing cohesion, losing clarity, a mad jumble.

But the worst thing about sobriety is waking up every day to once more face myself. Oh, great. You again...

So I write. Not cuz I'm dying to but it might be a way to keep my dead from abandoning me entirely because I am certain there is nothing else out there. No gods or aliens or ghosts or spirits or magic or "earth-like" planets. There is nothing but us and our here and now and this one life you get to try to somehow be human.

But don't fall back on having children to compensate for your own failings. They have their own troubles...

Monday, October 13, 2014


Check this out. I stumbled across some Magick Guy's blog. He seems nice enough, trying to do some holistic type crap with magick. Its sad but whatever, harmless enough hobby.
So he writes some spiel about a very funny demon called Sitri, who has the ability, if properly conjured, to make women drip with heat, basically swallow your cock where you stand, right out of the blue.
A super hot, snooty nose-in-the-air girl goes by, wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but then she's suddenly gorging on your suddenly massive cock. Great magick trick, right?
Impress the hell out of your friends. Hey, guys, watch this!

So some whiner writes in to Magick Guy bitching he's famous but it hasn't gotten him any extra pussy. A few meek homely women shyly rubbing against his leg a couple times a year but no cock crazed knock-outs begging for some stinkin' hot perv'n 24/7.

Okay, here's his whine, and I didn't make this up:

magus93 said...
So...even if you are correct about sitri shinig forth his light from your soul, who gives a fuck. As long as you get laid, so what. I haven't been getting much more than once or twice a year and I've grown to become a public figure from all my non goetic efforts and hard work so far. Still haven't got much sex. I say it is about damn time for me to get sex and love but mostly sex on a regular basis and who gives a fuck even if you are right. I'd be getting what I want thus I will use goetia...I am almost ready to start once I finish jsut a bit more studying.

Yeah. This guy is for real. Either that or he's a very sublime satirist. It'd be great if he was but I wouldn't bet real money on it.
"love but mostly sex"

Friday, October 3, 2014


Sorry for late reply.
Another couple for money? They'll be dogs generally.
Hot fuckables usually don't need to pay.
Actual 3D pervs, esp guys, are pretty tough to find.

I know one white guy, awesome cock, nice bod, good brain, but stuck at not wanting to give or receive anal or ass whippings. He's into suck and sucked and handjobs, that's it.
The gruesome bi-curious thing.

Im still at the seaside. She's genuine Aussie, blonde, beachy, her old hubs asleep by 8. She reads him into a snoring coma as I lean in the bedroom door. It's watching grass grow.

I have an idea to line up your two asses next to one another and teach you both a thing or two about manners. She's a jealous, greedy little cunt. Enjoys my verbal abuse and trying to please, slinks on the floor, writhes on my fist and makes puddles almost as big as yours.

At the poolside all these buff lads who look like hot fags to me, they put the moves on but treat her so gently and they're so concerned, long winded convos, frowning with deep interest while they scope her long lean bod. They ignore me entirely while I read the Herald and wait for her to get her rocks off on blueballing them. She's raised cockteasing to a cruel and unusual cock torture war crime. 

She sits up straight and rocks on her clit, a severely controlled orgasm shown only in her little girl mouth parting slowly at me.

She sends away one young Russian hardon and some Euro beef kit sits in the still warm chair after she makes eyes. He takes his shot, goes for the direct route, tries to hold her hand in both of his. I watch her fingers squirm out of his grasp. He doesn't know what to do with his paws and pulls out a giant kinda smart phone and loudly makes 'excuse me, is business' call.
Yells about 'millions of millions.'

When he hangs up I put down the paper and put out my smoke and I look at her and say:
"Let's go. It's time for your ass whippin."

"Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy."

She smiles at Igor or Sven or whatever and gathers my phone and smokes and paper and lighter and puts them in her beach bag. I clip her long silver leash to her silver collar and she trots off ahead of me, proud little doggie excited for a run in the park.
I smell her. She's wet her shorts at the look on the poor bastard's face.
It's actual piss this time. I think he smells it too.
He gulps so loud it's a door slammed shut.

I would take her money to do what I want to do but she'd come attached.
Caveat Emptor.
Some days I really hate my guts.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


When I get home at dawn I hear Ren bangin around way back in the workshop. I find her standing over the bench, single bulb on, some hand tools scattered about and wears vintage black and gold Tony Bettenhausen coveralls, cinched at her waist with a stainless steel leash.

“What are you doing? What is this?”

She doesn’t look at me but continues to turn a box in her hands about the size of a car battery. It is upholstered in rich black leather, finished with dimpled brass studs. A brass S shaped crank sticks out of one end. Its handle is made of dark, polished hardwood. The underside of the box has two half-moon section cut into it, a large brass lobe protrudes between them.

“It’s an artifact,” Ren says and hands me the origin nal documentation, a small square of embossed and yellow Byronic paper.

Instrument For Use by Qualified Physician when Carrying Out Relief of Chronic and Occasional Female Hysteria. Her Royal Majesty’s Patent Registrar as granted to Messrs Maw. London.

I’m mystified. “What the fuck...?”

Ren reaches for a tiny eyeglass screwdriver and adjusts the handle.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“This little brass screw,” she shows me, “keeps falling out so I cleaned it and re-cut the threads.”

“Kudos, baby. I’m impressed.”

Ren finally turns to me. Her smile is benign.

“Well, I have picked up a thing or two watching you mess around with your bikes and cars. I wasn’t always idly playing with my pussy at all your sweat and muscle and grease.”

“A girl who can handle tools. Very fucking hot.”

“Isn’t it? Okay, let’s give this thing a whirl.”

I wink at her with a gravel-voiced leer. “As you command, Mistress.”

She grins and tilts her chin. “Come along, Igor.”

Ren lays on our four-leaf dining room table, her legs straight down, and sits the box on her crotch. The half-moon sections on the underside fit onto her thighs and hips. She fidgets and gets comfy.

“Aren’t you gonna take your clothes off?”

“No, this was done with women clothed.”

“What women?”

“Stop talking and do as I say.”

The brass handle at one end of the box points toward her feet.

“Okay, so now what?”

Ren raises her head a bit to see what’s going on.

“Now lean on the top with your open palm, but not a lot, just enough to keep it snuggly in place.”

I do so.

“All right,” she continues. “Turn the handle.”

I turn it. The heavy brass lobe inside the box is a big rounded tear drop shape. It begins to rotate, the fatter bottom end acting as a centrifugal weight.

“The idea is the round thing underneath presses my clit and pubic bone every other revolution. This is supposed to stimulate orgasm, thus relieving Female Hysteria.”

“Hm… ‘Kinky’ as the rubes like to say.”

“Turn it faster.”

I pick up the pace.

“It’s a Victorian thing,” she tells me. “Doctors would use these to basically get women off and keep them from going completely insane and killing their children and their maids. I’m also supposed to have a wooden bridle between my teeth so I don’t bite off my own tongue.”

“Very kinky.”

“Husbands would bring their hysterically bitchy wives to sanitariums. It was all very medical. A nurse in attendance to handle the bridle and pat the patient's forehead.”

I crank it a bit more. “Is it working? You feel anything?” I’m breaking a sweat, one-man dildo engine.

Ren gets up on her elbows to watch. “Wow…” she nods, impressed. “This is pretty good.” Her brow wrinkles, half mocks but her body begins to tighten. “Oooooh, that’s right, Poppa… crank it for momma.” Her eyes go wide suddenly, gulping for Jesus. Her mouth falls open, an expression somewhere between panic and paradise. “It’s kinda…” She spasms suddenly and grabs the table. “Oh, shit!”

“Oh yeah,” I grin at her but begin to pant and throw in my body weight to make up for failing arm strength. An evil notion to just stop crosses my mind but Ren’s molten green eyes find mine and I see all of her, my little darlin, remember all the times when she’s let go and I get to witness her from then to when as she casts too many shadows to count.

“You’re such a good girl,” I mumble, mesmerized by her sweet sulky woe. “So well behaved. You make me wanna cry my eyes out.”

Ren hums some dirty longing and gathers her breasts to herself, hips now rockin.

“Yeah, Poppa… you know me...”

“Uh uh… it’s all for you, baby girl.”

My arm aches, I try to encourage her without breaking the spell.

“You know how, momma. C’mon, cum in Poppa’s mouth.”

Her voice is irresistible, a child’s heartbreak. I battle the need to yank her ass to the corner of the table and fuck the living shit out of her. A rogue wave of blind desire lifts her ass right off the table as she stutters out a long and broken word. I put aside the Victorian jerk-off machine, grab her with palm up, two fingers slide into her soaked cunt and up under her pubic bone.

I stroke deep and deeper, middle and ring fingers enter now as my thumb clasps her luscious hump and rolls her rock hard baby hard-on. My forefinger and my pinky get into her and then the mounds of Jupiter, Saturn, the Sun and Mercury. Ren’s pussy snakes and flows, slides onto the hills and plains of Mars and over the Moon and my Mound of Venus is eclipsed.

She sits up for it, reaches down with both claws and grabs onto my forearm, my whole hand now. My dreamboat coughs and gushes and gushes, she sprays and grinds out Ishtar’s anthem; a tortured hiss of guttural urge. Her bitter salt sprays in my eyes and mouth, puddles onto my boot and onto the floor. I hum a quiet lullabye. My sweet little waterfall…

Aftershock tremors give Ren a few more shallow convulsions as she lays back in slow increments. I’m suckin wind, forehead on the tabletop, next to her hip. She strokes my neck, absentminded, processing what just happened.

“It does have possibilities,” Ren ponders. “Retro… steampunk sort of idea… Beautifully upholstered, three point five millimeter cowhide and genuine brass studs. Could you rig up a motor of some kind so a woman could control the cranking herself?”

I raise my head and mull over her question. “Sure. Maybe just a big flat coil spring you wind up with the handle. With a one-way gear that takes time to unwind.” I reconsider. “Naw, that’d be too heavy. I know. A small but powerful electric motor inside the box so you could have a choice of push-button start or hand crank – just like a Land Rover.”