Whore Train
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One Moanman in Time All men are prepared to accomplish the incredible if their ideals are threatened. ~Maya Angelou Fumes From This Train of Thought Blows Newport Smoke, Yo [Oct 6 2004, 1:54 PM] [ Life ] Breathe Breathe, Baby Boi. I'm taking a short break from this latest joint before my brain spontaneously combusts, before the eruption of blood, pus, poems and various gray matter splatter, before a vile variety of viscera clouds my screen in a foul way. Trust-- should that shit ever happen-- it won't be pretty. Novel writing is not, repeat NOT, for sissies! It takes Will and Fortitude and Balls the Size of a Small Metropolis to do this shit with any real commitment, let alone, quasi-success. Yes, theres a primal pulse of pleasure in the productivity of creation. And yet, theres a tense and titanic tedium inherent in the process of rendering and reenacting reality. Feel me? There are far too many strings to pull, moves and motives to memorize, characters that rise vying for attention to try and speak their truth. There are way too many roles to play, balls to juggle, cooks in the kitchen, flavors to the soup, hats to wear, skins to inhabitant. I wont even get into the *multitudinous interruptions,* or the mad fits of literary insecurity , and those dark bouts with utter uncertainty. But Ive found my own sick cure for this manifestation: I tend to smoke far too many cigarettes. The nicotine careens into the traffic of my bloodstream, and like strange dreams this becomes my brain food. It seems to feed me, clarify the hazy conversations and smoky visions of What-If. I pause, I ponder, I inhale and wonder: where will this chapter, this sentence take me? I sigh, exhale and suddenly, it comes, this new dialogue, that right word, the perfect riff. Im smoking and riding on this new train of thought. I know, I know this shit sounds ridic. I just know how it works for me. And yes, I realize dependency is a bitch. Of course, Ive tried all this, without benefit of cigs. But those times, I sit in utter stagnation waiting for that Thought Train-- the one that carries my voice, my muse, my cargo, my motivation. But guess what? That damn train stalls, the passengers get bored, they begin to yawn, daydream and fidget. I hate being a junkie to anything-- but air, water, food, clothing and shelter. This junkie behavior signals a profound inner weakness, in me, a weakness of character, and I hate, Hate, HATE being weak! But the truth is I write and I smoke and the writing begins to smoke. I know, I know I depend too much on this crutch. It's mad, unhealthy, expensive and, unsteady yet Im a slave to it. The "great" writers excessively drank and caroused and stuff, or they abused their mates, or were mad promiscuous. My vice seems to be these goddamn butts. *counting the assassinated cigs in the tray* 9 mofos in one manic, if somewhat productive sitting. Im quitting I swear as soon as this manuscripts done. Im quitting. Who cares. So what if I do get fat and become this unfulfilled brutal bitch of a bastard! Maybe Ill find my new muse, my new thrill, in a stab of heroin. Maybe I'll begin to dig it deeply , madly--- and begin to see and hear and recite the ravings of some beautiful blue angel who sighs and whispers into my good ear. Maybe Ill drool and nod all my visionary epiphanys away. Nah! Im kidding. Im a kidder. I kid. Id wanna *be* here, to recall and remember it all. You have to feel pain to write pain and recite pain instead of jabbing pain in the right vein. And I aim to ignite flames and recall pain, and incite joy, and recall this tiresome strain in the birth of creation. Thus, I must thrust and keep on pushing, hoping against hope, this process doesnt become some literary still-birth. That would break my heart. That would kill my spirit for a while. And spirit-kills and spirit killas suck more than sucking on any nicotine-thrilla-butts, sucks. Trust. Ive known the taste of both these cancers. So I'm taking a short break from this latest joint, before my brain spontaneously combusts, before the eruption of blood, pus, poems and various gray matter splatter and viscera clouds my screen in a foul way. Trust-- should that shit happen-- it won't be pretty. One. Return... [ 14 comments... | Reach out and Moan ... ] [ permalink ] Categories Life Essays Poetry Prose Rants Reviews Film Music Peep My Privates about me send me a private message my interview my photo gallery my books, films and music more journals journalspace home Notable Moans At What Price, A*R*T ? Prose Piece For The Blessed Bohemians in The House: "THE MOANING AFTER" Moanman: Another Singer Without a Record Deal Kiss and Swell... 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Dear Universe: A Brotha's Got Dreams, Yo Methodical Moans < January > S M T W T F S 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 << 2006 View the latest entries Methodical Moans 2005: January : 8th - 14th: 5 entries 15th - 21st: 9 entries 22nd - 31st: 11 entries February : 1st - 7th: 7 entries 8th - 14th: 8 entries 15th - 21st: 8 entries 22nd - 28th: 7 entries March : 1st - 7th: 8 entries 8th - 14th: 4 entries 15th - 21st: 6 entries 22nd - 31st: 9 entries April : 1st - 7th: 5 entries 8th - 14th: 6 entries 15th - 21st: 7 entries 22nd - 30th: 9 entries May : 1st - 7th: 6 entries 8th - 14th: 4 entries 15th - 21st: 6 entries 22nd - 31st: 8 entries June : 1st - 7th: 5 entries 8th - 14th: 8 entries 15th - 21st: 7 entries 22nd - 30th: 7 entries July : 1st - 7th: 4 entries 8th - 14th: 7 entries 15th - 21st: 7 entries 22nd - 31st: 10 entries August : 1st - 7th: 8 entries 8th - 14th: 6 entries 15th - 21st: 6 entries 22nd - 31st: 6 entries September : 1st - 7th: 8 entries 8th - 14th: 5 entries 15th - 21st: 4 entries 22nd - 30th: 6 entries October : 1st - 7th: 5 entries 8th - 14th: 6 entries 15th - 21st: 4 entries 22nd - 31st: 5 entries November : 1st - 7th: 6 entries 8th - 14th: 6 entries 15th - 21st: 8 entries 22nd - 30th: 8 entries December : 1st - 7th: 6 entries 8th - 14th: 8 entries 15th - 21st: 6 entries 22nd - 31st: 8 entries 2006: January : 1st - 7th: 6 entries 8th - 14th: 3 entries View latest entries Groove Glossary Copesetic Clicks Good Vibes RateYourMusic.com Drudge Report Rickie Lee Jones Jimmy Scott Nina Simone NY Hotties unclutter Christopher Cypher Lizz Wright FREEDOM IN THIS VILLAGE Th Long Blue Moan Jimmy Scott at His Coolest Fitzgerald's Poetry Blog Dopest Opuses 12b12 Aangel Allen amnesiacsmemoirs AndreWiggin AndromedaSleeps anonymousgrl antono AshleySky becomingkate BentCandy bitchslap blackgypsy blackshadow blaquerhymes breakfast bronzedancer Capucine Christinart cyberpsycho Dawny diotrephus Dirty-Spike draculvanhelsing DylansWorld emberkat erksome ethnoeos fijufic Fitzgerald GoGo hellion798 Hephastian herohalo instantkarma junipersniffer kamai40 Kentonist kittywoman lamington lapaienne legend1121 lifemakeoverat30 likewise Lituolone lolaphilologist LTM LyricalPrincess macgrl08 michele5 Monet Oculus passion4rockin pmaha prettytrini puppyshark Q-Magoo quietstorm Ravaged redolent-thrush riceweevel rondo1957 runsun RythmicBoi SaintMortality SanelyLethargic SexAddict41 ShriekingViolet Skooter SoulOfSilence stepcorrect sungoddess sunthruawindow sweet-jane-says tamale timothy tortilla TtotheB TuesdayPillow Two-Jam vaxmeter Viddy wagner Whitehawkspirit Wizardress yosparky Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott (David Ritz) The Long Blue Moan (L. 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Ross) Jazz (Vintage International) (Toni Morrison) In the Tradition: An Anthology of Young Black Writers (Kevin Powell, Ras Baraka) I'm on My Way (Christopher David) Not Without Laughter (Langston Hughes) The Dream Keeper and Other Poems (Langston Hughes) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes (Vintage Classics) (Langston Hughes, Arnold Rampersad) The Best Short Stories by Black Writers : 1899 - 1967 (Langston Hughes) Globe Illustrated Shakespeare : Complete Works (William Shakespeare) Contact e-mail bluemoaner Credit 2005 moaningmanblues
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Whore Train
eXile - Issue #185 - Whore-R Stories - The Coal Miner's Daughter - By Mark Ames Moscow-based alternativenewspaper Search the eXile All Issues This Issue This Author This Column | Advanced Search... Email thousands of beautiful Russian Ladies! Home | Archive | Club Guide | Restaurant Guide | Songs | Field Guide To Moscow | Political Trading Cards | About Us Browse Column (19) Previous (12) Next (6) The Coal Miner's Daughter By Mark Ames ( editor at exile ru ) Browse Author (147) Previous (101) Next (44) I went to two parties and two nightclubs over the weekend, and the whole time I don't think I talked to a single woman. Or if I did, I don't remember it. That's because I had about as much lust in me as a box of fax paper. As Sunday night wore on and I was supposed to get started on this issue, I started to feel the first little jolts of lust shocking my loins. It always happens this way when I have a lot of work to do, and I've let that work fester without treating it. So rather than write, I hooked onto www.vipdosug.ru and found myself a whore. Her name was listed as "Lara," and she appeared to have a thin, taut young body, long red hair and nice small breasts that I could cup in my hands. She claimed that she was 20 years old, though by her picture she appeared to be 18. And she charged $100 for a two hour visit. When I called and gave her my address, it was clear she was an out-of-towner. I had to explain where I live a few times. She promised to be over in an hour, but since she "lived" (to the extent that a whore lives somewhere) only two metro stops away, she was at my podezd within 40 minutes. The dezhurnaya downstairs called my home phone. "Mark! A dyevushka's here to see you!" she barked, disapprovingly as always. It's strange, you pay those old babushka a quarterly stipend to "protect" you, and all they do is make you feel self-conscious every time you order a whore delivered to your door. Where's the logic in that, I ask. When she arrived at the door, I could see why the dezhurnaya was a little more gruff than normal. My whore was accompanied by a thug who looked like something right out of a Dorozhny Patrul jail line-up: he was thick, about six feet tall, in a black leather coat, black pants, and one of those black leather ski caps with the black cloth rim, and thick flat-toed shoes. I caught it all in one glance because I've seen these "collectors" join their whores about 20% of the time, and they all look and dress alike. As per their orders, I paid the "courier," the guy whose job it was to collect the cash. I closed the door and he left. Lara didn't look a whole lot like her photo, but as I've said many times, we're talking about used cars here, folks. They always look a lot cleaner and shinier in the photo than they do in person. Lara had dyed her hair black, and that made her face seem much harsher than in the photo. The features were more chiseled and broad and square rather than soft and angled and young. Her teeth had large gaps. She wore a black t-shirt with the word "Love" written in pink and gold sparkles, and black pants laced on the calf. She entered my kitchen then stared out of the window down onto the Moscow river. "Klass," she said. "This is the nicest view of any apartment I've been to in Moscow, and I've been to a lot. Oh, I could really imagine spending time here. Yes. Just sitting here in the summer, watching the barges go up the river. That would be so nice. Yeah, I could live here." "Where are you from?" I asked. "From Ukraine," she said. Thank God for Ukraine, I thought. Some day, I'm going to have to give something back to that country for all it's given me. Buy Ukrainian Savings Bonds or something. "Where in Ukraine?" "You know Ukraine?" she asked in disbelief. "Some of it, yeah. I've been there a few times." "I'm from the Donbass region. The coal mines near Donetsk. I'm from Lugansk myself." "I know Lugansk, but I haven't been there." "There's nothing in Lugansk," she said. "It's dead. We have miners. They don't get paid. They work. They die. The state steals everything from them. But they keep working and keep dying. It's an awful place. Everything in Ukraine is awful. It's the worst governed state in the world." "Are there a lot of beautiful girls like you there?" I asked, flattering her. She wasn't beautiful, although she did have energy and that softened her hard face somewhat. "No, all the beautiful girls left Lugansk. Like me -- we're all gone!" "How did you get to Moscow?" "I took a train. See -- let me go back. I was a student. Well, I never studied. I was a bad student. I wanted to become a hair stylist, but I didn't do it. I was too wild, I couldn't sit still! I was also a sportsman. I did kickboxing until two years ago. I still know it." "Have you ever had to use kickboxing?" "For this...job?" she asked. Her face grew suddenly dour. "Yes, it's...let's say it helped me. I'd rather not remember it, okay? Do you mind if I smoke?" "Go ahead. So when did you lose your virginity?" "I was sixteen. I heard that if you waited longer, it would only hurt more and more. So I got it out of the way. I was stupid. Well, anyway I met a guy. We fell in love -- I did anyway. He said all sorts of things to me. Then I had a baby. And he went into the army. Left me. Never came back. Bastard. I'll never trust a man again. They're all traitors, you know." "So are women," I said. "Everyone's a traitor," she said, but without bitterness, in fact almost cheerfully. "They're all bastards and traitors, what can you do? So anyway, I had my child. I worked different jobs. I took a job at a carwash. That was my last big job in Lugansk. Some dyadya there, a client, told me I could do...this kind of work there. I didn't, but I came here on a train and it was easy to find this type of work. I didn't come here expecting it. I was hoping to get a job selling cosmetics, anything, but that didn't work so a girl I met told me about this agency, and well, this is what I'm doing for now. But my contract ends in a few weeks." "You have to sign a contract?" I asked. "That's how it works. Three months at a time. I've been doing it for, well, this will be four months. Then I'll quit. I send money back to my family in Lugansk." "You have family?" "I have an older sister and a younger brother. He's eleven. And my baby of course. My mother died. She died last year of cancer. It was horrible, and now we really need the money." "Your father?" I asked. It usually comes down to the father. "He's alive. He lives with a woman. He has another family." "How do you send the cash to Lugansk?" "I give cash to the train conductor here in Moscow, give him a cut, and he takes it down, and someone meets him in Lugansk and takes the cash. Otherwise it'd take forever, if I used Sberbank." "Aren't you afraid the conductor will steal the cash?" I asked. She laughed. "Hasn't happened yet. But I guess it could happen. You know, it's so nice to just talk with you. Usually I show up to a client's, and right away, he wants to...he just takes me and we have sex, then he throws me out. But with you I'm much more comfortable, just talking. I like this! What about you? Where are you from?" "California." "Oh, California! California! Why are you here? Everyone wants to get out of here and go to California!" "It's more interesting here." "Yes, ekstremalno," she said. "Extreme in Moscow. Terrorism in the metro. Terrorism at concerts. That's what you like?" "We have terrorism too, if you remember," I noted. She laughed. "Yes, I remember. The sad thing is that there's no terrorism in Ukraine. Nobody cares about Ukraine. It's not even worthy of a terror act because there's nothing anyone wants from Ukraine." She laughed and shook her head. As we talked, we drank tequila with grapefruit juice. I made hers strong, and she enjoyed each cocktail, drinking more than most whores drink. "I like three things. Fruit, cigarettes and alcohol," she told me, stealing a banana. After getting half-undressed in my kitchen, we took our act to my bedroom. She didn't shower -- I guess she was getting too drunk. But that was a shame because her vagina had that end-of-the-tour-of-duty odor to it, the butt grease odor that worn-in whores get. It spoiled an otherwise cheerful night. Her breasts were small and not too squishy. Her ass was also small, and though squishy, it fit into my hand. She rolled some kind of super-small, ridiculous Soviet condom onto my unit and started to blow me, but we had to take the thing off and put on a Durex. I was kind of hoping I'd get a condomless blowjob, but I wasn't forceful with her. I'd enjoyed her company, and the power I had over her time with me, too much to spoil it with a change in the tempo. She wanted to fuck. "I can't wait," she said. She rolled onto her back, but I pulled her on top of me and told her to sit on me. Her vagina was wet and tight enough that I didn't feel like I was getting the old "hot dog in a hallway" snapper that every john dreads. She didn't need to lube with a whore swipe. Lara was really enjoying herself on top of me, or at least faking pretty convincingly that she was. Her pleasure was rooted in believing that I was interested in her stories about herself, which I was, slightly. I was trying to feel some kind of genuine interest or make some connection, or trying to feel like I should try to make a connection, but it was all fake and all internalized -- trying to conjure up genuine interest in Lara's story was contrived in a ridiculous way, like faking my own orgasm while masturbating. My aunt once said to me, while pointing to her baby grandson, "They're nothing to me until they're at least four or five years old." That's sort of how I feel about humans: they're nothing to me until I've clocked so many hours with them, a lot of hours, hours usually spaced over a matter of years. Lara pulled me on top of her and pulled her legs back. I felt like I was going to cum too quickly and I didn't want to, so I slowed it up. "Come on!" she said. "I want it. Let's go, come on!" I started to go, but all the lust that had been missing suddenly caught up with me. So I rolled over again and pulled her on top of me. This time she wouldn't wait. She started to piston-fuck me, so I figured the hell with it, I was paying, who am I trying to impress? I grabbed her small ass and used it like a giant block of sandpaper to sand down my whole pelvic region. Suddenly I exploded, and she made sounds as if she did too. I don't know -- of all the ego things, getting a whore off is just not something that makes me feel like more of a man. I'm not sure how much she faked it, both for my sake and for hers, but when she fell on top of me her heart was beating as hard and fast as a mongoose's. But the best part of our evening was to come when she rolled onto her back. After a few deep breaths she asked me what time it was. Already after two in the morning. "Oh. It's already time for me to go," she said. "I should get ready to leave." She wrote down her phone number, but as soon as she handed it to me I knew I wouldn't call her. She deserves at least a pozdravlenie on Women's Day. But I know I won't do it. Which makes me just another traitor in her life. Issue In #185 04 Mar 04 (1 year, 10 months old) Also in this Issue The Ugly Truth Feature Story byMarkAmes Moscow's girls have become uglier, and are getting increasingly ugly every year. If Moscow is no longer a haven of lust, then what is the point of living here?... In Brief In Brief US-German Thaw... Forbes List of Whores... Fradkov Mania!... Bonner for Putin?... GULAGs Re-Open, Western Investors Cheer... Viva la Resistance! byJakeRudnitsky Welcome to Warsaw, hub of the exiled Belarusian opposition movement. All twenty of 'em... Democratic Putin Voltaire de Putin (French, 18th c.)... H. Puttin Thoreau (American, 19th c.)... Putinbo Lumumba (Africa, 20th c.)... Vladimir Lincoln (American,n 19th c.)... Ksenia + Denis Club Review byDenisSalnikov By the time you read this you probably know the big news in Russia from the past week. Everyone's talking about it... A Decadent Spring Dyev's Diary byLyolyaAndrosova Spring is a marvellous season for sexually obsessed people. Really, what can be a better start for spring, than a passionate sex?... Outsourcing Thomas Friedman byTamishPhreedman Globalization is here to stay. And that's a good thing not only for Wall Street, but for Main Street too... Bardak Calendar Bardak Calendar All For Ladies. Tseppelin... Loire Culinary Festival. Panorama... Fun Loving Criminals. Tinkov Brewery... Lidia Lunch. B2... DJs Layo & Bushwacka. The Warehouse... The Monster Mash Kino Korner byMarkAmes There is a new trend I'm noticing in Hollywood - the fake independent film, the gentrification of indy movies... Haiti 2: the Rerun War Nerd byGaryBrecher Haitian history just won't stop happening. Between that last column and this one, president was booted out... Comrade Terminator Book Review byJohnDolan "Full Spectrum Disorder: The Military in the New American Century" by Stan Goff... SIC! SIC! HOLOCAUSTIC... MOTHER TUCKER... THE IDIOT... WHORE-SICA... HARDY-HAR-HARBIN... THE CONSULTANT CURSE... Death Porn Death Porn FILL HIM UP... DON'T BE A BABY... QUEER WAY TO GO... THE MOTHER-IN-LAW... Disappointments Yuri Balabin, 24... Natalya Lukina, 31... Timur Aliyev, 18... Irina Godunova, 22... Alexei Vidolov, 28... Mandela Porn Mandela Porn byNatashaMarchetti In Malvern, an 83-year old woman went to investigate the noises in her kitchen and was raped for her efforts... 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