Thursday, July 18, 2013

Interview with a Vampire

It’s New Year’s Eve.

The vampire and I sit in a smoky bar overlooking the Himalayas.

It’s colder inside than it is outside.

The vampire’s wearing only combat boots, an undershirt, and tightie whities. He’s got a Welsh Dragon tattooed on his muscular right deltoid.

He says he’s 43, but in the right lighting he looks mid-30s, even though both his fangs are chipped and his hairline is receding.

The vampire says he’s traveled to 85 countries and that he once fingered a Korean chick on a flight to Seoul.

He goes on about how his worst travel experience was getting giardia in Egypt and that he loves Cricket but hates American Football.

The vampire leans in closer to me, getting only two or so inches from my ear, then whispers over warm, gin soaked breath:

“The things people say when they’re mad or drunk, those are the things they really think. If you ever want to know what a person truly thinks about you, just get them mad or drunk.”

Then the vampire slugs down the rest of his drink, smashes his glass on the counter, spins around and punches me in the face.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013


Shēnghuó shì yī jiàn jiǔdiàn

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 3)

Part One

Part Two

He ventured next to a more upscale establishment, The Jasmine Touch.
Sippy was met upon entering by a fetching young Asian girl, her jet
black hair in a Louise Brooks cut, her slim figure sheathed in a red
cheongsam as warm with gold dragons stitched into the silk garment, its
thigh slit revealing a slender, yet shapely, leg. She gathered him by
the arm, led him down a hallway to a massage room where he undressed
and donned a white terry cloth bathrobe before heading to the steam
room. While taking the steam, Sippy enjoyed some hydration as the
girl brought him a pot of ginseng tea on a tray with a small bowl from
which to drink. He showered and dried. When he returned, the massage
room was filled with a subtle scent of lavender and the ambient
strains of Chinese music, more “new age” than authentic.

“You want banana or cherry?” asked the girl after the flipover.

“No understand,” said Sippy, hoping that she meant that Slurpees were
included in the amenities.

“Banana,” said the girl and she made a circle of her thumb and
forefinger, pumping them up and down in front of her mouth, a
pantomime of fellatio.

“Cherry,” said the girl and through the circle of her thumb and
forefinger she plunged in and out the forefinger of her other hand, a
pantomime of coitus.

“I would like both banana and cherry,” said Sippy. The girl smiled.
She slipped out of the dress. Sippy noted that she wore Hello Kitty
panties. There ought to be a joke somewhere in there, he thought.
Her dress and undies neatly stacked upon a chair in the corner, Lily
expertly wrangled his erection and lowering her face, placed her lips
ever so gingerly on the glans and then rolled down the condom that had
been hidden in her mouth so swiftly that his penis was enveloped
before he even realized what she had done. Then she set to work. She
moved up and down Sippy’s lower body, her breasts caressing his
thighs, as she tongued his shaft and finally began sucking him off
with real conviction.

“Ohhhhhhh, sweeeeeetheart,” moaned Sippy for the only thing he could
think of as the animal stormed and raged was the proverbial golf ball
through the garden hose. Crescendo. The condom shot forth like a
champagne cork.

“You asshole!” yelled the girl wiping the bright scarlet splooge from
her eyes, “[something in Mandarin]! Shit, shit shit! [something
derogatory in Mandarin]! You are disgusting! Oh, I must get this out
of my hair!
[something unspeakably vulgar in Mandarin]!”

Lily fled the room, sheathed in a very different red. On his way out,
Sippy snagged the abandoned Hello Kitty panties as a trophy.

* * *

Oh! He was crowing! Such victories he’d won which now he saw fit to disclose.

“Sippy,” I said. “You’ve really stepped over the line!”

“Doc, how can say that? Isn’t that what you do here all day long in
this dang card room? How many times have you boasted to me of all the
suckers you’d fleeced?”

“There’s a big difference,” I began, “between the sheep who come here
willingly, knowing in advance that there’s a damn good chance they’ll
lose their wad and those women who make their living providing a
service, doing honest work for an honest dollar. And I’ll tell you
something else, Sippy Cullen. These are women are mostly new to this
country and because they may not have sufficient English to call the
police, they are most vulnerable to predators. Predators like you,

“Oh, it’s not like that, Doc. I’m not doing any real harm.”

“You’re cheating them, Sip, pure and simple. And I’ll tell you
something else. Because they can’t rely on the police, they have
other ways of protecting themselves. Not always legal, not always
pretty. Get me?”

“Jiminy Christmas,” said Sippy, “You mean like ninjas or those Yakuza dudes?”

“Wrong culture but gangsters of some sort, usually dime-a-dozen
thick-necked goons with gaudy tattoos. Many of these places are
‘connected’ to shady organizations.”

“Really?” he said, quietly.

“Sippy, you have got to give up this game. It can only end badly for you.”

“Okay, Doc.” said Sippy, “I know you’re right.”

I had misgivings. Sippy Cullen had proven himself not always a
forthright fellow and there was something in his eyes that said that
the boy’s gotta have it.

* * *

Much like a gambler, Sippy knew his luck would have to run out sooner
or later and, as the animal seemed unsated, the urge to assail just
one more spa was so compelling that Sippy rationalized that another
outing would incur minimal risk, but no one could possibly have
foreseen the terrible exactions of his comeuppance. As it happened,
The Paradise Health Spa, nestled unassumingly between the Formosa Nail
salon and Poppa John’s Pizza would become his Waterloo. He was
greeted by a woman in a blue smock who introduced herself as Lily.

“Would you be interested in the four hand special?” she asked, “Most
beneficial for relaxing muscle and will promote healthful blood flow
through your body.”

“Four hands?” asked Sippy, “that mean two ladies?”

“Yes,” said Lily, “two therapists will perform deep tissue massage on
your body. This special would also include a table shower before the

“I don’t know what that is,” said Sippy, “but I will give it a try.”

Sweeeeeeeeeeet! two-on-one and that’s a dream come through! he
thought, as, Cleo and a second woman in a pink smock, both protected
by clear plastic lab coats, lathered his body with rich suds and
rinsed using shower heads which extended from the wall just above his
body as he stretched out on a padded vinyl-covered table. They
scrubbed diligently every inch, literally, from head to sole, and if a
client entertained the notion that there were certain taboo locations
on the body which they would avoid, he would be mistaken. The two
attended the sensitive and secret places with unswerving zeal. Three
times they washed completely Ol’ Sippy who afterward felt exuberantly
tingly, freshly minted. Now the animal was revving up.

On the massage table the women plied with warmed lotion his back and
legs, their hands, petite yet applying steady pressure, crisscrossing
in a subtle choreography. He could not discern which hand belonged to
which woman and gradually he felt as though there must have been more
than two pairs of hands working him. This is really paradise, he
thought. Suddenly, he was flipped over and pinned to the massage
table, rendered immobile, before he even realized what they had done.
Just as swiftly, he was gagged with a small towel. He could count at
least six Chinese women holding him down, most in blue smocks and some
in pink, and there may have been more women beyond his limited field
of vision.

“Mei-Mei,” said a woman with long light brown hair as she reached
behind her and opened the door. An elderly Chinese woman entered,
padding softly in fuzzy pink bedroom slippers, a pink bathrobe wrapped
around her small gaunt form. Next came a young girl, not quite of
high school age, bearing a tray that held something which Sippy could
not make out.

“You have been a very bad man,” spoke the old woman into his ear. The
animal still purred, his cock remained hard and one of the women held
his erection at the base so it rose perpendicular from his supine
form. The old woman now began taking ultrathin acupuncture needles of
varying sizes from the tray and inserted them with great precision
into Sippy’s lower abdomen. Even though he could barely feel a
pinprick as each needle penetrated his skin, his anxiety level rose
and soared. Finally, from the tray she took a sounding probe about
twelve inches in length, which to Sippy looked like the largest needle
he’d ever seen, and she brandished it above the head of his penis so
that he could comprehend with ever increasing terror what she was
about to do. A few dabs of lubrication and she inserted, slowly,
slowly, the sounding probe into his urethra He started feeling woozy,
his mind slipping into absurdity. Jiminy Christmas, he thought, a
penis kebab. Halfway in, she removed several of the acupuncture
needles, then plunged the probe to its limit. A sudden scorching
white light leaped across his brain pan and his mind went black.

* * *

“Okay. Well,” I said. “In a way it makes sense. If acupuncture can
cure, then it can also harm ...”

“Dang you, Doc! You’re not listening!” shouted Sippy. He stood in
front of my booth where I worked at draining the ale from a semi-clean
glass. It’d been five days since his ordeal. Upon regaining
consciousness he’d found himself slumped in a heap in front of his
apartment door. Still naked, his clothes had been dumped next to him.
Only a few hours had elapsed and no neighbors had noticed the inert
Sippy Cullen displayed au naturel in their communal hallway.

“Sorry, Sip. I was ...” I began. I had been deflecting as now it
hit me that I’d been too sanguine, too lackadaisical, in dealing with
the man and failed to foresee these repercussions. I needed, somewhat,
to back up, regroup my thinking. “That was a message - they were
telling you they know where you live.”

“How ...?” he asked.

“Oh, I imagine it was a simple as looking in your wallet for your home
address.” I said, “You had it with you, right?”

“Yeah. I checked it and nothing was taken. Except ...”

“So take it to heart. They could have done much worse.”

“... and the woman, “ he said, “she called me a bad man ...”

“I won’t sugarcoat this, Sip,” I said. “You made some bad decisions,
some incredibly reckless decisions, without a shred of regard for some
of your fellow human beings. Surely even you knew that body fluids
are considered biohazard. You weren’t just unethical - you put them
at risk.”

“But dang it Doc,” he said, “sure, I skipped out on paying for
services but that blood could just be wiped off or cleaned up. I
don’t fucking deserve what they did to me. You say they could have
hurt me much worse but you don’t know. They took away my life as I
knew it.

“Sippy,” I said, “you’re alive and intact. Just make amends and get
on with your life.”

“That blood vessel blowout should have bummed me out.” Sippy said,
“but here I thought ‘Mr. Cullen you just take positive steps and get
your act together.’ Dang it, when life hands you lemonade then make
lemon cake! And that’s what I was doing - boosting myself with my
bootstraps and just for a few moments in my life I felt in the game,
riding the crest of the wave ... like I was someone ... like I was
really someone ... it was like I stepped out of that old life - the
life where I schlepped the equipment for the players ... those guys who
were actually in the game ...and where I was constantly bombarded
with the sex boasting and the jock jabber in the locker room ...
taunted by the sort of life I could never have ... and all of a sudden
I could be this new person ... a normal person with a normal life ...
or something more ... I wanted to attack life and chew it up in
man-size portions ... to drink up the whole dang world in big gulps
... to really leave a footprint ... my life should have been so much
more ... but it never was ...”

He swallowed, suppressing a sob.

“And in your eyes, Doc,” he continued, “ ... in your eyes I was always
that no-moxie munchkin ... the snuffler in the backroom ... the guy
what missed the gravy boat ... and now fuck it all! I may be
sidelined for the rest of my life. In the game for a few plays and
then sidelined, benched like a chump in a slump.”

He was trembling, noticeably.

“And you know what they took, Doc?” he continued, “they took away my
drive. They killed the animal. I can’t get it up anymore and I’ve
tried everything. Looking at any image no matter how extreme don’t
juice my fella. Talking to Barb at the 7-11 don’t give me any kind of
buzz no more. I tried little blue pills I borrowed from Old Man
Bigelow up the hall and nothing happened. I can’t even fantasize and
my dreams are dullsville. I never had much before, but I had porn and
now porn is a closed door. There’s a hella big sucky black hole
that’s was my life. Did I really deserve that from them women? I
just want what everyone seems to have. Doc, I ask you. Am I so much
less deserving than anyone else?”

Ah, Sippy, I thought, you wretched man, you were never the one and
never going to be the one to paint the town red. And maybe it’s just
your lot in life to be sidelined from the game which in the end is
just a trifling thing. But, you’ll learn that eventually. We’ve all
had setbacks, especially you, Sippy Cullen, but you always had porn to
fall back on. Now you don’t have the one thing that made tolerable
your sad sack existence.

All the things that I could possibly tell Sippy would be of no comfort
to him at this moment. He swayed, emotionally exhausted, unsteady on
his feet, his rant spent.

“Sippy, there are times I don’t know anything at all,” I said. “Sit
down and I’ll buy you a pint. A big pint.”

He tottered, collapsing into the seat like a dead weight.

* * *

Now you’ve heard the story of Sippy Cullen. I’ve told it straight, no
digressions, no trick endings, a direct and unvarying trajectory with
only one possible outcome. Several days afterward, I made my way to
the Hong Kong Palace restaurant. Inside I asked for May and was shown
the back office where sat an old Chinese woman wearing a black tunic
and slacks and fuzzy pink bedroom slippers. Thank you, she said, for
helping us stop this problem. He has made a first payment of
compensation. I asked if he would recover. Possible, she said, but I
hope not. My girls were so shook up, they will not come back to work.
They must be tested. Tested again in six months. The rooms
rehabbed. I said he had become unhinged. All his life a harmless
midge and just the slightest injury derailed his sense of what is
right. She spat on the floor and gave me the cold eye. Do not tell
me your troubles, Doc Sigerson. I have my own.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013



Featuring words and art from:

Michele McDannold, Seth Elkins, Mark Hartenbach, CL Bledsoe, Aurora Killpoet, John Swain, Lilly Pennhall, Jesse Mitchell, Holly Jaffe, RL Raymond, Maria Gornell, RJ Looney, Ben Nardolilli, Matt Sradeja, Jeremy Hight, Newamba Flamingo, frankie metro, Dustin Holland, April Michelle Bratten, jason neese, William Seaward Bonnie, Tom Legge, Stephanie Bryant Anderson, J.D. Nelson, Jerard Hutchinson, James H. Duncan, Tim Murray, Gabriel Richard, Howie Good, Youssef Alaoui-Fdili, Andrew McIntyre, Lindsey Thomas, Bud Smith, and Bill West...

Read this magazine, bitch, and don't be a fucking toothbrush.

Word is bond.


Monday, March 11, 2013

RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 2)

Part One

The last thing I should have done was proffer any notions that might
inspire a harebrained stunt, least of all to Mr. Keith “Sippy” Cullen,
that mook. At first it seemed out of character. The man practiced a
pathological frugality, pinched his pennies until they squealed like
pigs. His porn sessions were his version of a cheap date. Sure, he
was a natural introvert, but it was parsimony mostly that prevented
him from pairing up. Now, The Red Splooge Boogie had him
high-stepping to a different tune as he betook himself to The Joy Luck
Rub, a tidy emporium of tug jobs tucked into a strip mall not too far
from his favorite 7-11 store.

Middle-aged Chinese women, originally from Hong Kong, operated the
massage parlor. Though they possessed but a smattering of English,
they moved him from lobby to massage room in a manner businesslike and
brisk. The women wore plain blue hospital scrubs and though far from
matronly frumps, they were certainly not the China doll ingenues of
desire’s imagination.

Mother naked, he stretched out on the massage table, his arms dangling
rubbery and loose off the sides of the table, his face firmly in the
cradle allowing him but a hemmed view of the floor and sometimes a
glimpse of a sensible workshoe. The masseuse set to manhandling
whatever muscles he had achieved through a regimen of role player
video games and internet porn. She directed him to turn over onto his
back and as he turned, she placed deftly a small pillow beneath his
head before he even realized what she had done.

“Little Brother need massage?” she asked.

“What brother?” he started, “I don’t have a ...”

“Little Brother.” and she pointed.

“Oh ... oh, yes, please,” said Sippy. “Please, take good care of him.”

The woman stationed the bottle of lotion between Sippy’s knees,
applying liberal amounts to her hand and began slathering Sippy’s
loins. She proceeded in circular motions on his abdomen, sweeping
lower, lower, and then working the inside of his thighs. The circle
was closing in. Then running tentatively her fingers along his shaft,
with the other hand she kneaded the scrotum. Grasping his balls with
increasing pressure, she started stroking his penis. Sippy felt the
grumbling and flexing gland exert its power. A sudden inner
convulsing,and like a damburst, the woman was drenched. Sippy moaned
and the woman gasped.

“Aieeeeeeeeee!” she cried, “Ugh! Ugh! Oh, no! [something in Mandarin]!
You ugly defective white man! [something more in Mandarin]! I might
be contaminated and die of a horrible disease!
[something-something-something in Mandarin]!”

She wiped frantically the blood from her face and jetted from the
room, down the hall. Sippy heard doors slam and could discern several
excited voices but could not understand the words in Mandarin. Then
more slamming of doors. He toweled himself dry, then dressed and made
his way to the front desk. Seeing no one there, he slipped out the
door, hastening homeward with many a backward glance. The woman had
not collected money before the massage and Sippy had failed to leave
payment on the desk. When it became apparent no one pursued, he
slowed, breaking into a saunter and a shit-eating grin.

* * *

As if no one wanted to play cards with a man called Doc, pigeons were
scarce in the card room that next day when Sippy showed up, a spark in
his eye, a spring in his step. I motioned him over and asked how he

“I took your advice, Doc,” he said, “been trying things out, seeing
what’s exactly my new normal.”

“Your hemospermia condition - still erupting red?”

“Yeah, Doc. It’s a dang mess.”

“Vesuvius, Krakatoa, Sippy Cullen.”

“Doc, sometime I don’t get you at all,” he said. “So it’s funny. I
thought this brouhaha with the burst blood vessel would check my
action but just the opposite - it’s jumpstarted and turbo-charged my
whole sex drive. I’m in full-on horndog mode. All the time.”

“Well, that’s surprising,” I said. “I ‘d have guessed it would have
let the air out of your balloon.”

“It’s like I have an animal down there below my gut” Sippy said,
“purring away all the time, then when I get going, the animal is
roaring like that talking tiger on the cereal commercial. I’m about
to shoot my wad and the animal feels like it’s trying to explode out
of my body. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve felt before.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a good thing going there,” I said.

“It’s like when you absorb a power booster capsule, you up your energy
and your firepower increases tenfold.”

“Sippy, for the sake of my reputation, I’m going to pretend that I did
not understand what you just said.”

“Hardy-har-har,” he said, “You just like to pretend that you don’t
know as much as you really do. So let me ask you about something
that’s come up.”

“Tell me what’s itching your brain,” I said.

“I’m thinking of going to one of them massage places I see around
town. Seems to be new ones popping up every month and I don’t know
which one would be really right for me, if you get my drift.”

I gave him the eye and thought oh ho, once more he’s the man of gelded
dreams and stillborn schemes.

”Well, Sippy,” I said, “there’s legit ones and then there’s not so
legit ones where you can exercise your animal, if that’s what we’re
talking about. But seriously, you need to take care of your problem

“It’s getting better, actually,” he said, “should be cleared up in a few days.”

“Just like finding the right plumber or barber shop, it’s trial and
error, or you rely on word of mouth. You might try doing some
searches on the internet. I understand there’s chatrooms and websites
where the ‘patrons’ discuss and rate the different establishments.
I’ve heard that if you’re interested in a superb by-the-book working
over, then steer yourself to the Asian joints.”

“Really?” he asked. “Why’s that?”

“Regular massage has been a part of their culture for centuries and
unlike run-of-the-mill American-operated massage parlors, those run by
Asians make a practice of rendering service before receiving payment,
leaving the amount of the gratuity, if any, to the gentleman patron,
which is one their ways of sidestepping the snares of Uncle Leo.”

“You mean the crazy uncle from Seinfeld?”

“That character’s name has been hijacked by the criminal subculture so
that here LEO stands for Law Enforcement Officer.”

“Jiminy Christmas! No kidding!”

“And try to avoid anyplace that advertises ‘hot stones’ therapy,” I
said. “According to my sources, that’s the piss-poor substitute
provided by sleazy incompetent joints that don’t have trained massage
therapists and any extra services they might offer are usually
substandard, as well. So you think you want to sample the skills of
one of our local service providers?”

“Nah,” he said, “probably not.”

“I didn’t think so for a moment, Sip. We are who we are.”

“Guess so,” he said.

In hindsight, he’d laid enough cards on the table for me to suss out
the situation but, you see, I had never taken Ol’ Sippy seriously, not
even halfway, and so my mind skated over what otherwise would have
been evident.

* * *

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 1)

by Doc Sigerson

Sunday morning, porn session in progress, and Sippy Cullen was never
more alive, his synapses percolating merrily along as he mouse-clicked
from image to image, pausing at certain almost familiar faces as if
there were a faint possibility that she and he could have met sometime
in Sippy’s mostly uneventful life, leading to an even more implausible
fantasy of an intimate encounter. Progressing from merely teasing his
prick to a full-fisted grasp, he fell into a rhythmic pumping. He
leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed, the pressure mounting, and
visualized first that zaftig middle-aged dyed-blonde woman at the 7-11
store where he buys his banana-flavored Slurpee each afternoon and who
often seemed interested in his small talk, then that Asian newsbabe on
Channel 6 with the flashy smile and infectious laugh and whose
signature cleavage was always sweetly center screen, and finally that
slim fresh-limbed blonde cheerleader on whom he suffered a forlorn
crush in high school. The urgency was burgeoning, building and
building, a potent pressure aching to burst free. He released into
his left hand. He took a long breath. He opened his eyes. His heart

His surroundings were spattered and scumbled with a surfeit of fluid,
not just the modest amount of jizz contained easily within the palm of
one hand, not just a skosh of overflow, not just the scattershot of
erratic aim, but an inundation of King Kong proportions, and lest you
think I exaggerate, a Jackson Pollack pattern covered the computer
screen, random shots had scored the wall and speckled the ceiling,
larger drops had begun sliding or dripping downward, obeisant to
gravity, moving toward the growing puddles on the floor between and
around his feet. Only it wasn’t jizz. It wasn’t semen. It was
blood, dark red and thick and gloppy.

“...eee ...” he squeaked. And he sat there a long while trying
desperately to make his brain work harder, to think faster, to wrap
his mind around what just happened. Sippy Cullen decided finally that
the blood was real. He wiped clean his hands with the tissue he had
set out and then examined systematically his private parts,
ascertaining that there was no external injury or wound. His relief
lasted only a moment as he realized that no external problem could
only mean that an internal problem existed. He mulled over the

“Jiminy Christmas ... now what?” he muttered.

* * *

“Damn it, Sip,” I said, “I’m a poker player, not a doctor.” He had
found me laired up at Whisperin’ Lanes Bowling Center where, in the
cocktail lounge and card room, one is isolated from the din of the
alleys, the whoops and banter of bowlers, the clatter of colliding
pins, the jarring clunk and rolling schadenfreude of other people’s
balls in the gutter. We go way back, Sippy Cullen and I, back to our
early days, grade school, then high school where we both were involved
in sports. I ran cross-country and track, while Sippy was the team
manager for whatever sport was in season. I ‘m one of the few to know
that his legal name is Keith and perhaps the only soul to remember
that he acquired the nickname of Sippy because his family came from
Mississippi before relocating to the Northwest. He’d always been
weedy and scraggly, his mouth hung open in perpetual disbelief, his
eyeglasses in constant need of adjustment, and somewhere over the
unkind decades he had acquired a strange compulsion to unburden
himself to me.

“They tested me at the free clinic,” Sippy said after a prelimanary
explanation. “Told me no infection, probably a blood vessel that had

“Ain’t that a kick in the pants? ” I said, “It’s called hemospermia.
So you had a little blood in the semen?” By the time a man gets to a
certain age he’s apt to have more than a nodding acquaintance with the
hazards and mishaps of the male plumbing.

“No, Doc,” he said, “it was a hell of a lot more than just a little!”

“Was it,” I asked, “like a little ketchup mixed in tartar sauce?”

“Jeez, Doc,” he said, “I said a lot. More like a murder on CSI:
Miami. Everything covered in blood.”

“A crime scene and you got caught redhanded!” I chortled.

“Doc, you a real A-hole sometime,” he sniffed. “gotta look for the
joke in everything. But dang it, why? What was I doing wrong?”

“Could happen to anyone,” I shrugged. “Even a brand new Goodyear can
have a blowout.”

“The clinic P.A. said it was common problem but dang if I ever hear of
it anywhere.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve heard that about a lot of various conditions and
maybe it’s because guys are embarrassed to talk up their shortcomings.
And you have to remember, Sippy, those medical professionals only
come in contact with luckless souls afflicted with problems and
looking for help. Their view of the world is necessarily skewed.”

“There was one thing he didn’t tell me and I was too mushmouthed to
ask. And this is the real question. Do I stop for a while or can I
go back to ... you know ... normal activities?”

“I don’t know, Sippy,” I said, thinking for a moment. “There are two
possibilities, it seems. One, the injury will be aggravated every
time you ejaculate and there will always be a copious amount of blood
in your spew. If so, this will be your new normal.”

“Jiminy Christmas! I hope not!”

“The second possibility,” I continued, “the injury was a one-time only
affair and that by ejaculating you are actually flushing out your
system. Tell me, Sippy, was there any pain?”

“No, Doc,” he said, “nothing at all.”

“Well, you ought be able to take the little fella out and show him a
swell time. See how it goes and if you aggravate the injury, then
take a break for a few days and try again,” And I added. “You know,
it ‘s a damn fine thing you weren’t with some actual gal. She’d been
thoroughly freaked out.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “totally freaked out.”

* * *

Monday, February 18, 2013

Tingle In The Netherlands

Tingle In The Netherlands' debut album 'Why Can't You Write Something Nice For A Change?' is now available as CD or download!

Read what one motherfucker said:

"I am listening to and loving ...Tingle in the Netherlands 'PROSTITUTE's HANDBAG' remixed by Atomizer !!!! Best line of the Decade .. 'made in China ..paid for by Vagina ' I promise to play it Twice at REHAB Tomorrow Night !!!!"
Goo Bee - DJ at REHAB Bangkok

And another:

"Listening to Tingle In The Netherlands is better than putting tin foil into the microwave and doing a weird yoga position."

And another:

"Shagging the milkman is a six o'clock Saturday buzz on a Monday morning ...marvelous."
Miserable Old Bastard - Fan and muse

Check it out here!

Friday, February 8, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 5)

Her earnings increased exponentially and she now had enough money to move into her own apartment.

Though she could have afforded a decent one bedroom, she instead rented a suitable studio. That way she was able to send more money home to her family, save more for the future, and even give a little to her cousin for the baby.

With the amount she was making, she figured she only needed to work another two to five years. Then she planned to return to her hometown and start her own small business, probably a little shop or restaurant.

She also began to chat on QQ with a cousin of one of her old friends from high school, a boy only a couple years older than her, by the name of Huang Mo Zhe. Mo Zhe was working on his family’s farm, which was turning a respectable profit.

The more they talked, the more she envisioned returning to her village and marrying him, starting a family, and forgetting all about her current life.


Ying only worked nights, so most of her days were spent sleeping, watching Thai soap operas, and playing on QQ.

But mostly she went shopping, since for the first in her life she had disposable cash, and she liked to use it to buy all sorts of clothes, shoes, and make-up, especially the Korean style stuff her favorite K-Pop singers wore.

She and Di often met up in the afternoons or early evenings before work and would wander arm in arm around any number of different shopping malls in Guangzhou or Shenzhen, buying whatever they felt like, sitting next to each other in restaurants, playing on their cell phones, and talking about anything other than work.

Sometimes Ying went to the mall by herself, just to walk around and window shop or sit in a café, where she’d sip coffee and surf Weibo or QQ on her cellphone...

When shopping one balmy afternoon, Ying came across a sale for the newest iPhone.

Excitedly, she purchased it, and remembered the long hours she’d spent in that hot and sticky factory and those berating Cantonese shrieks that spewed from her old boss. Ying couldn’t help but wonder if maybe one of her old colleagues had assembled the phone she now held in her freshly manicured hands.

She rushed it back to her apartment, tore open its packaging, powered it on and began to fiddle with its features.

She’d been so ecstatic to see it in the store and to buy it, but as she played around with it and clutched its cool, shiny silver body, she didn’t really feel anything at all.





Monday, February 4, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 4)

The man got up and Ying reluctantly followed him into a room at the end of the hallway. The room looked like a hotel suite. There was a queen sized bed, small bathroom, mirror on the ceiling and TV atop a small dresser.

Ying’s heart began to pound. Her boss then entered the room and produced a syringe and quickly stuck it into her arm, saying to her it’d prevent “any infections.”

The boss then left and the man undid his suit and undressed. Ying tried not to look at him and slid off her miniskirt, bra, and panties, and joined the man on the bed.

Her heart beat faster, and she lay flat on the bed, spread her legs, gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

The weight of the man hovered over top of her and she smelled the stench of his strong, musty body odor and awful breath. Then she felt the prick of his warm, short and thin penis as it entered her. He only pushed into her a handful times before pulling out and ejaculating onto her stomach.

The man got up and hurriedly dressed and left the room without saying a word. She then got up herself, went into the bathroom and took an especially hot shower.

She’d been terrified at the start, but now, as she got dressed, she didn’t really feel anything. It had happened so fast that she’d gone kind of numb.

Though she didn’t have much emotion, she definitely knew she didn’t feel like seeing that man again, ever.

Fortunately for her, when she got back to the singing room, neither the man nor any of his colleagues were there.


Following the first night she’d slept with a customer, Ying no longer was mere scenery at the KTV. Every night she’d be whisked to the room down the hall, on occasion two or three times.

There the same routine would always take place. She’d get an injection (before the first customer), then would disrobe and have sex.

The men were usually in their 40’s, though sometimes 50’s and occasionally 30’s or late 20’s. Mostly the sex was missionary and fast.

Some used condoms. Some didn’t. Some paid for her to come back to their hotel rooms. Sometimes she’d even spend the night with them…

The sex to her was completely without feeling. It was simply an action, and she derived no pleasure at all from it- however convincing she eventually became at faking it…

Most of her customers were Chinese, but there were a few foreigners. She liked the Western ones most because they treated her kindest and tipped her handsomely, which the Asians never did. They never tipped at all.

She did refuse certain requests, though, mostly made by foreigners, especially for French kissing or those for non-standard sex. And she flat out refused to be with any dark-skinned foreign clientele. No matter how much they offered.




Saturday, February 2, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 3)

Her first night on the job and next three weeks were pretty much the same. She’d doll herself up, slip on a skin tight, shiny silver one piece miniskirt and matching 10cm heels, and basically just sit there looking pretty for groups of businessmen who’d belt out song after song and down beer after beer.

Occasionally one of the men made small talk with her, but not too often. Mostly the men just talked business and got filthy drunk. By end of the night many would be passed out.

Ying wasn't making the money she thought but still was making far more than at the factory. Plus, all she had to do was sit there, look pretty and pour drinks. Other than having to breathe in copious amounts of second hand smoke, it wasn't too bad.

Finally though, after about a month on the job, a customer took a liking to her and spent most of the evening talking to her while his colleagues drank and sang Westlife songs in a mixture of Chinese and broken English.

The man was mid to late 40’s and elegantly dressed in an expensive looking, navy blue three piece suit. He appeared to be the laoban of the group.

Ying wasn't entirely pleased by the attention, though, because from the moment she first saw him, the man flat out disgusted her. He was terribly short and had a tiny head and receding hairline that crested at a peculiar angle and an ugly, pock-marked face with virtually no chin.

His teeth were rotted and crooked and he had horrible breath. Besides his looks there was an additional something, too, something intangible, that nauseated Ying.

He seemed oblivious or apathetic to her thinly disguised disdain, however, and was surprisingly candid as he spoke to her about his family, his daughter, and the stresses of his job. He didn't ask her any questions except for her age, and when she told him she was eighteen, he called for her boss.

Her boss, the same young man who’d hired her, came over to the man and whispered something into his ear. Money was then exchanged and her boss whispered to Ying that the man wished to spend some time alone with in her in an adjacent room.



Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 2)

The “Super Song Star” KTV was in an alley behind a non-descript block of stores near a busy shopping street in Guangzhou’s Panyu District.

Inside the narrow, grayish concrete building, most every room looked the same. A 50’ inch flat screen TV was mounted to the wall in the middle and there was a 17’ inch touch screen computer next to it for selecting songs.

A faux leather couch was parallel to the TV and another was perpendicular to it. A small coffee table for drinks, ashtrays, and cordless microphones sat in between the couches. All the rooms were dimly lit and always smelled strongly of cigarette smoke, even when nobody was smoking in them.

Framed posters for Chinese beer and mobile phones, featuring Jackie Chan and smiling, sleek young women adorned each room’s walls…

The shifty-eyed man who conducted the interview, a tallish, skinny fellow with a crew cut and tattoo on his neck, who wasn’t much older than them, offered the girls the job after only asking a few questions, which were: “Are you single? How old are you? Do you have kids? Can you work any evening of the week?”

Ying and Di accepted the job; quit the factory, and both moved in with Ying’s cousin, for the time being.


Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 1)

Rong Ying was the prettiest girl in Wanshan, a tiny, impoverished village, in a northern province of China.

Like so many girls in Wanshan, as soon as she turned eighteen she bought a third class train ticket to Guangdong Province, in the south of China, to search for work. Many from her village who’d gone down there had made enough to live well and also send money home to their families.

Upon arrival, Ying’s cousin, who’d gone south to Guangdong seven years prior, let Ying stay over at the cramped eighth floor one bedroom walk-up she shared with her husband, her husband’s mother, and the baby girl they didn’t have.

After a couple weeks of job hunting, Ying found work in a factory in Dongguan assembling iPhones. There she worked twelve hour shifts, with only two twenty minute breaks. All additional breaks, including toilet breaks, were timed to the second. Anyone on break too often or for too long was terminated.

Ying lived at the factory in a dorm room with five other girls. They slept in bunk beds wrapped in mosquito netting, washed their clothes by hand, and had an 11PM curfew every night of the week. At 11:30PM the factory shut off all the dorm rooms’ electricity until morning.

At the factory Ying met another pretty girl named Qwai Di. Di spoke of how her friend was working at a KTV (karaoke bar) and making ten times what the two of them made per month at the factory.

But what exactly did the work involve? Ying queried, as she and Di stabbed chopsticks into plates of spicy noodles during break.

Di said they’d provide company and drink with the KTV’s male customers, and every so often the men, usually businessmen in their 30’s and 40’s, would tip them extra for favors, Di said, hesitantly but not ashamedly.

Ying knew what this meant. She wasn’t completely naïve. She also wasn’t a virgin, having had sex with her high school boyfriend, which was part of the reason she’d left her hometown.

(The two of them had discussed marriage, but after they’d had sex, he’d quickly broken it off with her, saying that he couldn’t be with someone who’d have sex before marriage. Heartbroken, and having lost her precious commodity of virginity, she’d decided to go south for work.)

Looking down at the callouses and blisters blotting her once soft hands, and thinking of their floor boss, that fat little middle aged woman with the terrible acne who screamed in Cantonese at all the workers, especially the pretty girls, but mostly thinking of the money she could send to her family, Ying made a snap decision…

She decided to join Di on their day off and apply for a job at the KTV.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Shoplifting Bravado and Straight Kink with Cassandra Dallett


He eats me whole
foot first

No fear of dirt
or blood

I live in deodorant commercials with whistling bars of soap
and romps through wheat fields in crisp white maxi pads

He doesn’t mind grit
Washes his hands in mud puddles

he likes to leave my smell on for days

Inhale it when the shower’s water hits him
makes him hard

He says,
Is that bad?

I imagine my worst homeless funk and think


a feral love
gamey and raw.


The Dress

was too small
it ripped up the slit in the back
a straight line up my ass crack.
Red and shiny
It was all that I coveted.

Could have been worn to a prom
if my boobs weren’t falling out.
My aunt hid it with my boosted bottles of booze
when the cops brought me home.
I stole it from Macy’s.

Wore it on New Years
it was nowhere near big enough
halfway through the drunken night
my ass was out.
Larger than life
as usual.
I sometimes stuffed too small shoes
let the back of my feet hang over
Stan Smiths.
In three colors
the only colors I wore
black, white and red.

A drug dealer friend paid for the limo
told us to a choose a restaurant.
We saved him money by stealing the drink
did lines in the bathroom
my boobs and ass peekabooing on both ends.
The red shiny material useless uncomfortable
ended up in the trash
and I wished I’d worn something my size.