F.R. Larkin's Blog

How to Eat Your Lover’s Asshole

  Before you endeavor to eat your lover’s asshole, reparations are in order. You see, the asshole is a sensitive thing, and you’ve been hurting its feelings your whole life, possibly without knowing it, as if that’s any fucking excuse. The asshole takes a butt-load of criticism, gets a bum rap if you will, mostly for doing a pretty shitty job in a crappy part of town. Butt ask yourselves, is it your asshole’s fault that shit happens. Fuck no, I say. And yet the very next time some douchebag cuts you off in traffic, the first word from your lips will inevitably be “asshole.” What did your sphincter ever do to you, save excrete your remnant waste to deserve such scorn? If shit smelled like roses, the asshole would be a perfumery, but because we don’t fart flowers, we feel entitled to point fingers? Accepting our eventual demise can start by accepting our everyday decay, understanding that defecating is not only part of life, but essential to life. Our ships of state must offload the ballast lest we drown in our own toxicity. The day you stop taking your (and your lover’s) asshole for granted and accepting, nay celebrating its vital role in our human journey, is the day you can begin to properly stimulate this highly erotic and sensitive orifice. I can’t pretend that I’ve always been so accepting of my asshole or its functionality, but I took a graduate-level course in asshole appreciation at the Phoenix School of Bullshit I Supposedly Learned Online, and I enjoyed it so much I decided to pursue a PhD. I can’t provide you all the online doctorate-level anal insight I received, but I will try to highlight some of the more salient points of my Doctor of Ass enlightenment. Asshole psychologists agree that the best way to get acquainted with your lover’s bumhole is to initiate a dialogue; set aside some time for a face to cheeks meetup. Now remember, your lover’s butthole, like your own, has spent its whole life being either maligned, taken for granted or sitting on that shitty padded toilet seat you insist provides cushiony comfort but biologists say has more hidden bacteria than…well a toilet seat, a normal fucking one that you can actually fucking clean properly. Approach your lover’s asshole in a non-threatening manner, in other words, hide the anal lube and that butt plug for now. Say something like “I’m sorry we don’t get to talk as often as we’d like.” This is a total fucking lie of course, because well, assholes don’t talk, but speaking these words can put your lover’s sphincter at ease, what we Doctors of Ass refer to as the “de-crinkling process,” loosening up all that unnecessary tension. Tell your lover’s asshole that if it were up to you, you’d make sure they sat on a normal toilet seat that could withstand a real scrubbing, not that vinyl-covered, foam-filled, splitting-at-the-seams petri dish it’s shitting on now. How’d that go? Excellent. You’re building an asshole rapport. Ask your lover’s asshole if it has anything it would like to bring up at this point. Hopefully not. Whew. That was a close one. I mean no one wants to really deal with anything an asshole has to say or offer, but it’s important to feign open lines of communication, even though you and I know assholes should never speak, even when spoken to. This is a good time to apologize to your lover’s asshole for all kinds of shit, like “I’m sorry I took you for granted,” or “I know you can’t help who you are, you’re such an asshole,” and perhaps “You had me at ‘pfffft’.” Now that you’ve established your bunghole bona fides, it’s time to get down to business. Give your lover’s right cheek a hearty slap. Should your lover inquire “hey, what’s that for?” you tell them “you know damn well what that’s for” and slap his or her left buttock. Shocked by this second cheek-blushing reprimand, your lover is now thinking “hmm, maybe I do know what that’s for, perhaps I deserved that.” You’re doing great. Continue to spank your lover’s bare bottom with intent, building up a nice blush-luster on both cheeks while spouting vague recriminations and bullshit like “I don’t want to have to do this of course,” or “If only you hadn’t made this necessary” and “When you “assume” you make an ass out of you and me.” That last bit should leave your lover thoroughly butt-fuddled. It is time. Like a hot bipolar mess, abandon your punitive spanking and begin to kiss your lover’s flush cheeks, planting soft smacking kisses all over their much-offended buttocks as you wax apologetic “oh my, your poor, innocent bum, it’s so tender and raw.” Gradually introduce your tongue, planting hot, wet swipes in between your continual little kisses. Tenderly part your lover’s cheeks and swipe your tongue across your lover’s asshole. Begin to swirl your tongue in a counterclockwise fashion, intermittently chanting “Deedle doo deedle dum, this is how we eats your bum.” This is an old wiccan summoning spell we Doctor’s of Ass swear by; basically it summons harmonious ass-ness while simultaneously banishing evil spirits and flatulence. Whatever you do, for the love of god, don’t swirl your tongue clockwise while intermittently chanting the “deedle dum” spell–you may inadvertently summon the Goddess of Fiber and Regularity; I need not elaborate on the potential consequences of such an act. Continue to encircle the anus with your tongue as you relieve one hand from cheek-spreading duty. Part your lover’s cheeks with your remaining thumb and fingers as you begin to gently prod and poke your tongue up and into the asshole proper. That’s it, don’t be half-assed, get up in there and fuck that asshole with your hot spit-slippery mouth muscle. With your free hand begin to masturbate your lover, gently easing a finger or two into her (you know what she likes), or stroking him (he’s so fucking easy to please) as you continue to encircle and penetrate that ass with your hungry tongue. Keep masturbating your lover as you ply their ass cheeks apart and give their tight, tender little asshole the tongue-fucking it deserves. Pause for a moment to spit audibly on your masturbating hand; say something like “I spit on your need to come, motherfucker.” Apply this “disgusted” spit to your hand and press on, penetrating or stroking as required. Reengage your lover’s sex before they have a chance to process your blatant hypocrisy. “Motherfucker,” incidentally, is a real gaslighter in bed and should provoke some unknown response, hopefully something hot and sexy, but one never knows, perhaps let us know. Now that you’ve established your anilingus credentials, go for the leap of faith. As you continue to drive your lover mad with your steamy, spit-coated tongue diving into their sensitive little asshole, pause all anilingus and masturbation activities momentarily and issue the following command: “I want you to beat yourself off while I continue to eat your little asshole until you come like a motherfucker. Understand? Do it now!” If necessary, take their dominant hand and guide it to their swollen, needy sex while you take their blush-spanked cheeks back into your hands, once again parting them nice and wide as you feast on their vulnerable, little pucker hole. Your lover is now very close to orgasm, you can hear it in their choppy breath, you can sense it in their belabored moans, you can feel it in their grinding hips as they begin to fuck themselves into your face, taking what they need from you as they diddle themselves with orgasmic resolve. Continue driving your sloppy wet tongue and lips into that asshole, penetrating and exciting all those fabulous nerve endings as you eat that ass. Grab those hips and smash your lover’s asshole onto your intrepid tongue as they rub, yank and prod themselves into glorious, selfish release…coming so fucking hard as they experience that incredible sensation of your generous lips and tongue plunging inside their most intimate orifice, resulting in one of the most explosive orgasms they’ve ever experienced. Wrap yourself around your lover like a warm tortilla, absorbing the last throes of their ecstasy with your responsive body as you climb atop their still-trembling form, kissing them passionately on their mouth as you remove your underwear and whisper “your turn.”

The post How to Eat Your Lover’s Asshole appeared first on Heat and Stir Magazine.

I Practically Invented FUPA, Goddamnit.

I guess because Beyonce says it, we can now lose our shit over our sex fat, rebranded recently as FUPA or (Fat Upper Pubic Area). I don’t want to bitch, but I have been actively promoting FUPA awareness for decades, only back in the day we called it PUPPS (Pudgy Upper Penis & Pussy Syndrome). “Feed your PUPPS” I said…I always fucking said that. Nobody ever listened of course, ignoring this massively underserved syndrome, but now because a recently pregnant Beyonce says “Right now, my little FUPA and I feel like we are meant to be” everyone suddenly gives a shit? Sometimes life can be so unfair. A trained Clinical Body-Positive Sexual Psychologist – whatever the fuck that is, (I got the certificate from the Phoenix School of Bullshit I Supposedly Learned Online), I’ve spent years studying the effects of excess pubic fat on lovemaking. Here’s the thing, it’s absolutely imperative for proper lovemaking. However, the lack of FUPA-PUPPS can wreak havoc on haphazard fuckers. Fucked up, right? Like what is this judgmental syndrome that differentiates between lovemaking and an impromptu schtupping…how can the dear lord who gave us these divine bodies perfectly designed so to tuck so nicely into one another be so cruel as to punish the spur-of-the-moment fucker; is that even fair? As you might expect, the science is incredibly complicated but it goes like this, the dedicated lovemaker with his or her fancy foreplay, including whispered sweet nothings, subtly smacking soft-butter kisses and spine-tingling caresses, well these selfish “I’ve got all day to fuck” motherfuckers, with their pre-penetration gamesmanship, tend to prime the pubic region, delivering an ample blood supply that further swells and flubberizes the erogenous area into an accepting, gracious state of being…basically a distended welcome mat for a sound, proper fucking. Now the haphazard or improper fucker, having exercised their right to get some on the fly, these hapless fuckers tend to achieve penetration and even ejaculation (rarely female orgasm unfortunately) before the welcome mat cushions up, leaving the upper coital shelf in flat seltzer mode, deprived of the requisite blood flow necessary to jumpstart the bump. This lack of bump can result in sex-negative outcomes, like the man’s flub-pack fails to distend adequately enough to make contact with his partner’s clitoris during a haphazard fucking… this by the way is the number one reason you want to avoid the gym rat with the 6-pack–well sure, that svelte tummy makes his penis look longer, but the dedication necessary to achieve this advanced state of fitness also means that fit-man has little time to spare for your clit’s needs, let alone your own. But it gets worse. The hyper fit-man, so self-satisfied with his own bodyscape, may offer tips on how to improve yours, offering up “awesome reps” you can do in the gym to deflate your FUPA-PUPPS. Resist the body-negative fucker at all costs and embrace your FUPA PUPPS, Readers; it might not be exactly what Jesus would do, but it’s what Bey-Bey does…even though she stole that shit from me, the same me who would never, ever advocate on behalf of a little belly roll and denigrate the exceptionally physically fit, just because I’m slightly out of shape and five cans shy of a 6-pack.

The post I Practically Invented FUPA, Goddamnit. appeared first on Heat and Stir Magazine.

She’s So Cute – I Just Want to Kill Her

Sometimes, I Want to Squeeze the Shit Out of My Pug Sophie…and That’s Normal? Have you ever found some little furry fucker in the petting zoo so cute you just want to pinch or maul the little fucker? That’s referred to as cute aggression, and as the link attests, it’s a real thing, discovered by Yale psychologists and all, back in 2013. But like many discoveries, they just labeled this shit, because if they’d lived in the Philippines, they’d know that in the Filipino language of Cebuano, there has always been a word for wanting to violate something overly cute, and that word, dear Readers is gigil, pronounced “ghee’-gill”. I first learned of the word about four months after a major surgery, when all those days away from the gym added up to some serious love handles. Irene violently gripped my tummy blubber and taunted “gigil, gigil, gigil” which of course I assumed meant “fat fucker, get back to the gym.” But no, apparently Irene had developed a passive aggressive attraction to my love handles, who fuckin’ knew? The questionable attractiveness of my side blubber notwithstanding, the cause of this perverse reaction to overwhelming cuteness seems to be a form of circuit breaker, the brain can only handle a certain threshold of emotion before sensory overload, wherein that excess feeling can morph into a diametrically opposed reaction, like anger and rage. Sounds fucking nuts, right, but think about people being so happy they cry… same thing in reverse. Now in the actual study they gave people bubble wrap to pop while they looked at all kinds of photos that could be considered either funny, cute or neutral, and apparently people popped the shit outta their bubble wrap when they encountered the cute photos. The initial conclusion was that the inability to actually cuddle, interact with or nurture the “representation of cuteness” caused a passive aggressive frustration, but this explanation fails to account for the same reaction when faced with an actual cutie, like my pug Sophie, who is so fucking cute sometimes you just want to smother the little bitch…in rub-rub and scratchy-scratch of course. Did you really think I wanted to kill my little rump roast?

The post She’s So Cute – I Just Want to Kill Her appeared first on Heat and Stir Magazine.

The Mill Vanes Position

Mouth arrives, the woman tends with the opened legs to receive its companion who, in this position, front penetrates it to the legs of her. The difference of sensations is remarkable in this type of penetration: clitoris and the vaginal lips are in the heat of contact with pelvis and the environs of the penis of the companion and the most accessible penetration are through circular movements. The fact of not being able to see itself expensive face gives a special enchantment him to the position. The newness of the caresses surprises pleasingly: the woman can caress the rumps of her companion, to smoothly nail her nails in the later part to the knees, to grasp the testicles of her companion. The man; to absorb the feet of her, to bite its fingers, to approach its hand the genitals of which they are being fused and to take its penis to penetrate it better. The Mill Vanes position, also known as the “I’d like to fuck, but also swipe” position, is perfect for the noncommittal Tinder fucker. It says, I’m way into you, yo, well enough to fuck you for sure, but I’d also like to keep swiping left, because there’s probably someone else out there I’d like to fuck too, yo.” Top physical fitness isn’t necessary here, because your co-fucker will never see your 1-pack flab stack, in fact they don’t have to see you at all. She’s on her back staring at the ceiling, or possibly her iPhone 8, congratulating herself for not falling for that iPhone X bullshit, he’s on his stomach facing the opposite direction for some fucking reason, with his cock shoved down and backward, as if trying to fuck himself – perhaps because he’s a noncommittal Tinder-fucker, admiring his new down comforter, or his iPhone X, wondering not for the first time why he spent over a grand on this fucking thing with the already-cracked glass that can’t be repaired for another 6 months according to the Genius Bar.   According to the hot write-up I read on this Twister-fuck, this position allows the woman to “caress the rumps of her companion” and “smoothly nail her nails in the later part to the knees, to grasp the testicles of her companion.” Now I don’t know what the fuck that means, but it sounds awesome. I’m pretty sure it means that she’s gonna gouge the shit out his left-swiping ass just before she punches him in the balls for swiping right…but not to worry men, your cock is going to be so sore from trying to fuck your own asshole that some minor scratches and some ball pain won’t even register.

The post The Mill Vanes Position appeared first on Heat and Stir Magazine.

Conservatism, Sexual Repression and Their Combined Threat to Life Itself

Another agonizing chapter in the Dump administration, “Justice” Kennedy stepping down and thereby shitting on the next 30 years of our lives – the rest of my life. It’s our own Brexit really, something so fucking unimaginably horrific that it’s hard to fathom. How we can allow a bunch of bitter, sexually frustrated and closeted old white men decide the fate of women, African Americans, Latinos, the LBGTQ community, immigration, the environment, voting, life itself. The irony of course that their closeted status drives their ambition to dictate policy and punish society for what they deem our “non-Christian” ways. As if marginalizing and punishing immigrants, minorities, women, and children are the epitome of Christianity–Dump’s Christian Army seems to think they are. The reality is that we as human beings are constantly at odds with our tremendously fluid states of gender and sexuality, preferring to corral ourselves into a false duality, the masculine, and feminine. Those born with penises must be shining examples of masculinity while those born with vaginas, the very definition of feminine – and let’s not forget that God ordains that the addendum folks be solely attracted to the envelope set and vice versa. It’s all so fucking simple if you’re a turbo Christian. And that my friends, is the simplest way to tell someone is closeted, their overwhelming need to simplify, codify and parse the truly complex into neat little interlocking blocks as if we’re all just fucking different colored Legos (no offense to Legos – I understand they’re rainbow-woke). These men and women who suppress their non-Lego fluidity are often the most dangerous, acting out their inner rage and frustrations on the most vulnerable: women, African Americans, Latinos, the LBGTQ community, the impoverished, the powerless, other minorities, and on and on. A bitter aging Trumper-woman in my dog run said she appreciated it when real men showed their attraction by touching a woman the way a woman should be touched. “You mean groping,” I said. “That’s what you Liberals call it… I danced with Balanchine and back then real men knew how to show their attraction to women.” I walked away in disgust, failing to point out that whether it was Balanchine or some other “real man” in her company that assaulted her, it wasn’t done in a state of attraction or appreciation, but in self-rage, a reaching out and grabbing of what may have actually repulsed the predator (the feminine form a constant reminder that he wasn’t remotely attracted to it) or taunted him (aggravating his inner desire to feel feminine, dress in women’s clothing or live in his true gender.) And of course, the irony is that it’s these very closeted gender and sexually-fluid men and women in power who make life miserable for those brave and emotionally strong enough to come out in a society that views them as abnormal or disgusting or worse. Why is it so obvious to me, but not yet obvious to the world that every man or woman, celebrity, politician or otherwise who speaks out against the transgender or homosexual is him or herself, a homosexual or transgender person, only closeted, self-denying and really fucking self-angry. I had to laugh at pundits describing Trump’s “grab em by the pussies” behavior as masculine…or even “toxic masculinity”. The irony, of course, is that Trump and so many “masculine men” who grab women are anything but “masculine”. Trump’s explosive anger and childlike taunts are attempts to masculinize his true self, brash brushstrokes to cover the feminine sashays from his little hands, the ladylike way he lounges in his terrycloth robe, the dainty whispers and spits you don’t catch issuing from his soft voice, because he covers everything with scorn and temper – excellent masks over his true feminine identity. As if I give a fuck that Trump is feminine. I don’t. The problem, of course, is that Trump (like every Right Wing Supreme Court Justice, and nearly every Republican congressperson I can think of) can’t stand his own fluidity, he is (and they are) indeed at war with the true self, the hardwired one none of us can truly escape, try as we may. This is not to say there’s not a good many Democrats who are waging similar inner battles, the difference is in the need for Fundamentalists and Conservatives to proselytize and offload their demons onto others, punishing gay men because it strikes too close to the bone, punishing women because inside some are struggling with their own feelings of femininity. Some people believe we were born to be straight…these people, of course, are struggling with their own sexual identity. I’ve never met or seen a homophobe who wasn’t struggling with same-sex attraction or gender fluidity and I never will. We may happen to be straight or gay, but just as likely we’re somewhere in the middle. I’ve often read that sexual violence is not about sex, but control, and I’m sure that’s true to a point, but it’s more about lack of control, the predator’s inability to control his inner conflict of the self – often combined with narcissism or sociopathy. One day the world will wake up and realize that there are men attracted to women who are not straight and women attracted to men who are queer too. If you have to ask how this is possible you’re simply not aware at how complex our sexual and gender realities are. A man can actually be a woman trapped inside a man’s body yet also be attracted to women, as a lesbian. The same goes for women too, although women tend to be far more sexually fluid whereas men are far more gender fluid. These closeted people often pair up in marriages and it works for a great many, the man who can’t quite come out as gay settles for a more masculine woman who can’t come out as a lesbian but settles for the feminine man. Like many a closeted predator, Trump is not attracted to women, he’s attracted to their accouterments, their high heels, their hair, the way they fill a dress…not because he’s attracted to their bodies so much as he would like to fill a dress himself. He lives out his own feminine fantasies in his overt “toxically masculine” gibes about their pussies. He is gender-conflicted. Massively. His inability to express his feelings of femininity have turned him sour, giving him the patented FOX News upside down frown. His failure to act on his femininity causes him to act out instead, blurting sexualized commentary, pinching an ass or grabbing a pussy. The conservative among you are screaming “see, it is the gays’ fault, they’re the pedophiles and reprobates” and I say to you, “I’m sorry you’re not able to come out to yourselves, truly, because you and your inner-hatred (which you can never quite keep to yourselves) will be the end of us one day.” Don’t misread what I’m saying. There are far more of us living in between that “straight or gay” duality the Church and patriarchy have been feeding us since time immemorial. Sexual attraction and gender identities exist on highly complex continuums. When I hear Christians and Fundamentalists compare gay and trans people to pedophiles I can only think of the pediatrician affiliated with St. James Catholic Church back in Omaha, Dr. Daniel Schrein, and how he jerked me off every time I saw him. If I had children I would make sure to hire an out gay, transgender, bisexual or crossdressing babysitter–but never, ever-ever a turbo-Catholic or an evangelical. Repression is the issue, not whether someone identifies as gay, trans, etc. Repression of our true gender/sexual selves plays out every day in maniacal policies of madmen whose hatred for themselves morphs into hatred for gays. Repression fuels Trump’s loathing of women because every beautiful woman he sees is a reflection of the fluid gender he cannot acknowledge. It’s no accident that so many repugnant people attain positions of extreme authority. When you’re Mike Pence or Ted Cruise or Rick Santorum or Stephen Miller and you can’t fucking bear your same-sex attraction or gender fluidity you feel such a profound disgust that self-recrimination isn’t enough, you need a megaphone to destroy those that would normalize the LGBTQ identity. Maybe you go into politics, or maybe you become a Supreme Court Justice like Clarence Thomas, and the rest of that Right Wing closeted band of jokers who can’t fucking stand themselves so every decision is forged in the crucible of their own self-life, their moralizing windbaggery a sleight-of-hand distraction from their sad truths…they’re molten with rage because they feel feminine, or they experience same-sex attraction or they don’t inwardly conform to what they believe good and Christian and godly. God fucking help us. Gender-repressed and sexually repressed individuals often latch onto some righteous cause they pursue with fiery vigor because the successful flee from the self-demands it. Our old-brain, hardwired impulses of attraction and self-identity are unrelenting, like a never-ending game of Whack-a-Mole, the inner truth keeps popping up in a man’s drunken caress of his buddy’s back during a football game, a woman’s drunken caress of her girlfriend’s breast while dancing. I’ve been groped by so many supposedly straight men I’ve lost count, and the count hasn’t ceased, even in my fifties. Out gay men never touch me inappropriately. The ferociously repressed, those whose repression is so painful they must castigate the courageous “out” among us require not just any righteous cause to distract them from their true nature, they scream for the blessedly innocent, pillow angels, brain-dead spouses on life support and of course the unborn. The boiling scorn with which militant pro-life women regard pro-choice women is really just self-hatred, hatred for the part of them attracted to women, so teaming up with closeted men who hate women, indeed even marrying them or consistently voting for these misogynists is hardly surprising – it makes perfect awful sense. The real tragedy, of course, is that Dump will elect a closeted woman for the Supreme Court so he can claim inclusion while he feeds the evangelical sharks their bloody chum. This woman who hates women (because she’s actually attracted to them) will have a queer (closeted) husband who spearheads some Christian group that denounces non-traditional marriage; together they’ll have half a dozen children proving their hetero lineage. They both attend Church on Sundays to keep their straying attractions at bay. Our new Lady Justice will have climbed higher than her peers for the same reason closeted men do, repression is a powerful fuel. Hatred for the true self is toxic and virulent but this flight from the self can be rocket-propelled, focusing the drives and goals of these mean-spirited individuals whose self-loathing is so strong that it escapes in hot gases, boosting them into atmospheres of greater influence where they can spread their scorched views among the also-angry, also-repressed masses. If we’re lucky, one or more of Lady Justice’s hallowed offspring, conceived by missionary sex and intentional insemination (not four beers), will come out as gay or trans – early enough to renounce the Conservative indoctrination they’ve suffered through, perhaps inching our world back from the brink–one out at a time. But will there be enough time?  

The post Conservatism, Sexual Repression and Their Combined Threat to Life Itself appeared first on Heat and Stir Publishing.

Forgive Me, LBGTQ Community

  My first pride march I wore a “breeder” T-shirt…as in I quite literally painted the word “breeder” on a fucking white undershirt and donned that fucking thing while accompanying my bisexual girlfriend down 5th Avenue on the 25th Anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising. I walked down 5th Avenue, proud of my latest artistic creation, as no one gave the fucking thing a second glance, staring instead at my girlfriends’ naked tits…I mean they were lovely tits. She said she felt empowered, which makes me wonder what the fuck I felt, having to label my fragile hetero-ness for some fucking reason. Now don’t get me wrong, that fucking T-shirt was a work of fucking art, but Jesus, what a douchebag. Forgive me LBGTQ community I think a bit of perspective might be in order, you see, I grew up in Nebraska. As much as it pains me to admit it, I voted for fucking Ronald Reagan and the first Shrub before coming to my senses–although truth be told in comparison to the current state of the GOP those idiotic votes against-the-self strike me as mere misdemeanors in retrospect. Anyway, what I’m getting at is I was a conservative little shit from Omaha, somehow bamboozled by fake patriotism, moralizing hypocrisy and god knows what, probably my Belfast-born old man’s penchant for the American marching band. I never thought of myself as a Republican, and I certainly didn’t espouse their homophobia, misogyny or racist rhetoric. I don’t know when the indoctrination started or even took hold, that I should vote for “America” – as if voting Democrat was anti-American because let’s face it that’s their strength in the heartland where I grew up…fundamentalists are experts at making you feel ashamed of any idea that would challenge America’s superior capitalism, assumed morality and military strength. While I don’t remember the exact origins of my Republican voting spree, I remember the day the wall finally cracked. When I graduated from NYU I thought of joining the Peace Corps, and that probably would have been cool and life-changing, but I wasn’t ready to leave Manhattan, not having made any mark, creatively pissed on my tree as it were. I answered an ad for caseworker from the City of New York, counseling people with AIDS. It was the late 1980’s, and we still didn’t know all the transmission avenues at the time. The creative heart of New York was being decimated. I thought that was as close as I’d come to the Peace Corps while still living in NYC. I guess my interest in the gig proves that I still had a big heart, even if my voting record suggested I was a little prick. One of my clients, let’s call him “Bill”, lived on 9th Avenue, very close to where I live now, only this was the pre-gentrification, crack epidemic 9th Avenue, and he lived in a slumlord’s dream, a disaster of an apartment with roaches that raced from the furniture as you sat down. Like all my clients in the pre-cocktail early era, Bill was dying, and his lover was near death, a ballet dancer whose beautiful body was now ravaged by wasting syndrome and horrific Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. For some reason, both men took a liking to me, so much so that they decided to make it their mission to challenge my conservative leanings. Flag burning was the big fake patriotism issue of the day, the kneeling black athlete of its time, and Bill quietly said to me, “Frank, do you want to live in a country where burning the flag is a crime.” I must admit I was immediately taken aback and had no answer ready, how unlike me really. In the pregnant silence, he continued, “I’ve been to those countries, several of them, and don’t get me wrong, the people are lovely, but you wouldn’t want to live there.” It would take me decades before I really traveled, but only a couple of years to start reading alternate points of view and begin realizing that my common decency, my inability to give a fuck who you slept with or what color your skin happened to be, or how you defined or expressed your gender made me a Democrat, not a Republican. When I transferred out of the AIDS division into foster care, believing somehow that ripping children away from parents would be less depressing than people dying (it wasn’t) I saw how little conservatism cared for real children, poor black and brown and white ones living on the brink, compared to their supposed support for the unborn. I began to honestly hate my former politics, and despise all those closeted “Christian” zealots decrying the sins of homosexuality and gender fluidity, the Chuck Norris’ who cling to their marriages as proof of their heterosexuality, seeing marriage equality as a threat to their carefully constructed self-lies, the slapdash facial hair attempting to masculinize their soft features, because you know, god forbid. I’m guessing I wore the damn breeder shirt because I was still clinging to the last vestiges of conservatism, worrying people might think I’m gay, again, god forbid. Well as I’ve matured, I’ve come to realize that god forbids a lot of my favorite shit, which is one of the many reasons I never believed in that sanctimonious, judgmental wanker. Why would anyone believe in someone or something whose sole purpose is to make us feel bad about ourselves? I can do that shit all by my lonesome. I keep the damn shirt, maybe because it reminds me of my artistic dabbling, perhaps as a token of my former self, knowing very well that our selves can never really be former. The shirt represents something inside me, something that understands the adolescent attraction to mock righteousness, an adolescence I see on display throughout the Republican party and their platform, and oh how I despise it, knowing it as well as I do.

The post Forgive Me, LBGTQ Community appeared first on Heat and Stir Publishing.

How to talk to your dog about sex

Click here for Updates 07.01.18 Do you have a dog? Have you had sex? Then please, for the love of dog, check your best friend for signs of DOOFUS (Dogs Oversensitive to Owners Fu*king Unabashedly Syndrome). Does Buddy look at you in that “I could use another treat” way? Does Princess only sit reluctantly, on the third or fourth command? Does Bailey still chase his tail before crapping? If you answered yes, no, sometimes or “what the fu*k business is it of yours?” toany of these critical criteria, then I hate to break it to you, but your beloved dog has DOOFUS, a debilitating, godawful syndrome and it’s all because you had sex within eye or earshot of your best friend. Thank god there’s a top-secret cure.    

The post How to talk to your dog about sex appeared first on Heat and Stir Publishing.

So Long, Anthony Bourdain, You Fucker.

Maybe it should have been obvious, the ever-expanding eye bags, distending and contorting his corrugated, leathery skin. The sleepless, workaholic lifestyle that despite his incredible success seemed to thunder away from the self rather than toward something, as if there was too little solace in the now to stay for very long. Too much fucking pain to pause. The sad smiles that seemed gross embellishments, Kinkade-like attempts to render a maudlin pastel bridge over a treacherous, demon-filled moat.   Knowing his dark past I feared it would be nearly impossible for Anthony to truly turn the corner on his addiction when every show he made depended on him sampling not only the local food, but the wine, beer and booze as well. I found irony in his visits to the shooting galleries in Massachusetts, speaking of his past addictions, as if they were mercifully dead and buried – when nearly every episode of Parts Unknown revealed his glassy eyes, or a hungover brunch, his penchant for excessive indulgence in alcohol always on display.   Of course, all this is a shitload of Monday-morning quarterbacking, so easy to sit on this side of the abyss and make grand pronouncements on someone else’s game. And it ignores just how much I admired the damn guy, trudging unapologetically through his own shit to deliver people from every walk of life and the myriad of foods that defined them into our homes, opening our minds to their daily struggles and simple joys.   And that being said I’d sure like to punch the fucker in the face – well really, I’d like to go back in time and punch the living version of himself anyway. How could you be so fucking selfish, to abandon your 11-year-old daughter over a broken heart I’m guessing. What’re you fucking 14 years old? Fuck! Surely if Anthony Bourdain can’t get through a rough patch despite having what he regularly admitted was the greatest job in the world, how are the rest of us poor schmucks supposed to keep trudging through the bleak hatred.   But then me being mad at Anthony Bourdain is merely a visit to my own 14-year old self, an adolescent response to a death that was decades in the making by his own accord. Maybe I could send a nice letter back in time to John Kennedy Toole and tell him not to kill himself, that genius farce you wrote will win the Pulitzer one day – as if that might keep him around. You’ll be rich and famous, and therefore happy, right?   We get so fucking angry at people we admire offing themselves probably because we’ve toyed with the idea of an easier way out ourselves and let’s be honest if we’re still here we feel justified in saying a big “fuck you” to those who took the shortcut. I’ve never made any plans, but I’ve sure said the words “I should just fucking kill myself” in response to some brutal chronic pain, and in response to being dumped at a very impressionable time. I don’t know how decent people get through these tough days sometimes. And I guess the obvious answer is, some of us don’t, and maybe that’s all there is to it. The real fucker of all this, of course, how elusive happiness can be, particularly in a world where an admitted pedophile is running for congress, another gun-toting one nearly got elected, white supremacists proudly walk unmasked and half the US is cheering on the separation of children from their families at our southern border… and that’s just a drop in the shit bucket of hopelessness. But it’s a backdrop undoubtedly adding fuel to the dramatic rise in suicide over the last 20 years, the unmasking of the stewing, rancid hate bubbling beneath all that Moral Majority bullshit we’ve choked down for decades. I knew Anthony Bourdain was deep in the shit when he started posting how Asia made him “happy in the ways he had not been in memory” and she “made him forget himself.” It sounded very much like a man leaning on someone else for not only his happiness, but his reason for living. As if someone else can provide that. They can’t. The same people who are so shocked that a man claiming to be the happiest he’s ever been suddenly takes his own life must be related to the neighbors of that serial killer “He was a good guy, kind of quiet… said “hi” to me.” What do we really fucking know about our fellow human beings. Not a fucking thing. But it’s sure easy to write a bunch of analysis bullshit after another one of us offs him or herself. Fuck you, Anthony. Sure will miss you, damn it.  

The post So Long, Anthony Bourdain, You Fucker. appeared first on Heat and Stir Publishing.

Sex in the Middle Ages: Position 197 – The Spider Monkey Sex Position

Sure it looks simple enough, the woman does a bent-leg headstand, facing away from the man, wrapping her ankles around either side of his waist, while the man, for some fucking reason also facing away from the woman, stands on his tippy toes while thrusting his cock back between his ever-loving ass cheeks and into the upside-down woman. It makes so much fucking sense really… the perfect position for any couple in that “We can’t stand to look at each other anymore, let’s circus-act fuck ourselves into an ER visit” phase of their relationship. I know what you women are thinking… why are we always upside down or ass-backwards in these fucking Kama Sutra positions, flailing about like Cirque Du Soleil contortionists, while you men stand there like fucking idiots, putting as much effort and strain into fucking as one might waiting for the bus… and of course you’d be right. But dear women, have pity, our stout erections were not meant to bend backwards between our taut, muscular and altogether handsome thighs… the Spider Monkey proves how we nobly suffer in our attempts to please and pierce your sweltering sex in new, uncomfortable and idiotic ways. Yes, it seems as if we’re just standing there, hailing a cab perhaps, but look again… our cocks don’t face that way dear members of the fairer sex. Is it too much to ask that you wait upside down like a vampire bat, blood rushing to your head and eating floorboards as we fiddle about with our erection, cranking it about like a broken stick shifter as we vie for that perfect not so hard it won’t slip backwards between our ass cheeks, but hard enough to enter your beloved cunt state. Do you realize how hard it is to have a cock? The sacrifices we make as we will our better heads into that perfect state, malleable yet stiff. And yet you complain of dizziness and headache despite our selfless sacrifice? Women, let’s say your man has the audacity to suggest this fuck injury waiting to happen… unless your man has a Lysol can for a cock or would like to undergo penis reassignment surgery, having that fucker sewn over his asshole, might I suggest that you agree under one condition: that you go out and buy a double headed dong and shove one end up his asshole, because in the real world, that’s the only way this fucking Aero-flop plane gets off the ground.

The post Sex in the Middle Ages: Position 197 – The Spider Monkey Sex Position appeared first on Heat and Stir.

Forget Fake News, Fake Morality is the Problem

                Walmart, that beacon of corporate immorality, just took Cosmopolitan off their shelves, because apparently scantily clad women and hot sex tips now count as pornography and of course pornography is the new fake public health crisis. Congress just passed the FOSTA (Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act) which…

The post Forget Fake News, Fake Morality is the Problem appeared first on Heat and Stir.