It's all in the URL.

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Purpillsaurus ROXXX!

Our Pal sez...

Show Me The Magic!!! (Part 2) - February 16, 2007

Tripping my brains out, I managed to rip my gaze from the horrified faces of my three also tripping band mates and I looked at the source of their terror... my armpits.

They were the deepest, darkest purple anyone had ever seen. And the purple spread out almost as far as my tit and up onto my shoulder. It was the same on both sides. The purple death virus was spreading!

As we smoked the joint, sick Panama Red I had stolen from my dad's not so secret stash, we calmed down a bit and tried to wrap our minds around this conundrum. We traced the events of the entire day ending with the moment I had found the purple on me.

"We set up for the gig. Dropped the acid. Drank the rum. Smoked some joints. I changed into my outfit backstage and it definitely wasn't there then. We played. I made out with Hope Stillwell..."

Dude - NOTHING says "date bate" like 45-year-old dude trotting out his glory days of yore stories of ballz-out teenage trippery. It is interesting, and no one has every covered that territory before, and the chicks? Oh they will DIG IT. Especially if you were In a Band.

Rock out with your yoga block out.

Crows' feet.

Notes from Our Pal's Pal's blog:

First of all, let's be clear. The man I'm seeing is nineteen and a half years older than I am, not twenty.

Aw hon - it’s not that you’re 25 and dating a 45-year old. It’s that you’re any age and dating that particular 45-year-old. Didn’t you read the Nader screed on him - “Unsafe At Any Age”?

Thirdly, he doesn't like me just because I'm twenty five. This talk is beginning to hurt my feelings.

I’m thinkin’ there must be some part of you that’s enjoying the kerfuffle and comment that’s an essential and inevitable element to a life lived in the public eye. If you don’t wish to inspire comment and contact, then don’t post the details for public consumption. But besides that, of course he likes you. You're intelligent and pretty, and thus he feels wicked fuggin' righteous about his own attractiveness. That's not to take anything away from you - just that Our Pal's blinded by the shiny objects that hold his reflection.

I've already taken custody of a minor, been orphaned, been around the world, been engaged, been published, been sued, and already have wee crow's feet. I don't have shit but myself to rely on - I am my only, only home and safety net, and I'm good at it - and not even very many thirty-six year olds can say that.

That's good. You'll be fine - after. Him - he couldn't play the violin before he broke his arm. No reason he'll start after the cast comes off. You know - metaphorically speaking and all.


Have some chicken soup and a nap. Life will seem nicer.

By hooker by crook.

From Our Pal’s rant du jour - this time decrying Rebecca Traister’s eeeeevil interview tactics.

(And while we’re at it, dude - you’re ostensibly a filmmaker/actor/writer, no? Never encountered one of them thar “journalists”? You have? Then you don’t get to play dumb. You may be tagged with many a term, but I’d never go with that one.)

I clarified to Beckster that 8 visits to whores in 40 years of sexual activity was the opposite of "habit" and actually constituted a "rare" behavior pattern.

He’s 45, talking about “40 years of sexual activity”. Perhaps might we assume that the bulk of said pro sessions weren’t brokered between the ages of 5 and, oh, say, 17? That’d leave 28 years at the outside. May seem like a minor difference, but that changes the frequency from the implied one pro-schtupp every 5 years to one every 3.5 years. Add in the Domme visits (10) and Special massages (10), and that’s - well lookee here! 28 sex workers in 28 (or fewer) years. Once (or slightly more) a year. I have a birthday once a year. Having a birthday once a year isn’t rare. In fact, it’s purty darned regular. In terms of the general population, that’s pretty irregular. As a mostly-retired Pro-Domme, I’d certainly consider someone who sessioned with me once a year as a “regular”.

I’m not judging, and it’s certainly not as if I have any particular moral high ground. I’m just saying you can’t have it both ways.

(Unless you’re willing to pay the extra $40.)

Craig-ing him on.

Might we, just for a moment, divert our attention from Our Pal to another high-profile denizen of the NYC dating scene? The gent below has been posting the same crop of ads en masse since...well, I've no idea, really. For a month or two before I met my husband in early 2005, I stuck my toe into the murky waters of Craigslist's M4W section. Said digit was swiftly withdrawn and boiled, but I noticed that one extremely avid gent was posting the same crop of ads overandoverandoverandover, sometimes a dozen or more entries a day. Goodness knows how long he's been doing it, but pop on over there and search for the term "forties" and there he be.

One could assume from the frequency and longevity of his efforts that it's either working really, really well for him, or he's still searching quite fervently for his honeyschnookumspie. Can anyone offer any insight/anecdotes/suggestions?

Danke schoen.

Feb- 2 Only YOU can save me from. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .JDATE!!!

Feb- 2 SEEKING A GROWN-UP (which on this site seems to be asking a lot)

Feb- 2 With Strings Attached. The Better to Play Love's Sweet Music.

Feb- 1 ONCE YOU GO JEW, YOU'LL NEVER FEEL BLUE!

Feb- 1 YOU HAVE A DATE WITH DESTINY! Too bad Destiny's such a lousy kisser!

Feb- 1 A Jewish Guy seeking a Jewish woman. Is that so wrong?

Feb- 1 THIS POST GUARANTEED PERV FREE

Feb- 1 HOOKUP WITHOUT GETTING SHOOK UP! (THE ONLY SURPISES SHOULD BE PLEASANT!)

Feb- 1 ONCE YOU CLICK, WE'LL CLICK! (CONGRATS! YOU FOUND ME!)

Jan-31 1 4 1 2 1 (NOT A ZIP CODE. READ WITH CARE.)

Jan-31 "Yes, I want to date on Craig's List forever." Say it aint so!

Jan-31 CATCH OF THE DAY! (HOOK, SINKER, NO LINE!)

Jan-31 LET'S MAKE OUR FIRST CRAIGSLIST DATE OUR LAST CRAIGSLIST DATE!

Jan-31 IS "NICE" NOT SO NICE?

Jan-31 IS PASSION OUT OF FASHION?

Jan-31 WHY SHIVER WHEN YOU CAN QUIVER?

Jan-31 LET'S HAVE A SUN!

Jan-31 YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR THIS!

Liza with a wheeee!

Am I the only person in the universe who didn't know that Our Pal's Über-Ex "Liza" (she of the ring-spurning and tremendous sense) went on to marry and procreate with Conan O'Brien?


Pfffwwwaaaaahhhh!

(Just had to share.)

Subjectively speaking.

A snippet from Our Pal's account of his first Pro Domme session:

Whether by sitting in front of an alter meditating or being beaten and ass raped by a hot dirty blonde... anyway you can get there.

I looked up at her as she toweled off her hands above me. "You wanna go to dinner?"

"I have a girlfriend."

"You don't like boys?"

"I like them fine."

"You like me."

"You keep saying I do."

"You keep smiling at me like you do."

"You were fun to play with." And with that and a sly smile, she left the bathroom.

She was back in Madison Avenue Advertising, waiting politely for me to open the front door, like after regular old first date. The only difference being, I didn't need to walk her down stairs and put her in a cab.

Dollface - lemme 'splain something to you. As a mostly-retired Pro Domme, I can say with a rock-hard certainty that NO, despite her polite deameanor and kindly smile, the Domme did not FEEL anything for you. If given the choice between dinner with you and Pap smear, we'd be begging our GYN to slather up the speculum.

While we may develop personal friendships with regular clients after an extended period of time, it is never after a first session, and always of our own choosing. We don't LIKE you. You may scratch our itch or pay our bills, but the moment after your usefulness has been wrung from you, and we have done our aftercare, we want our lives back, and you mayn't have any more. CERTAINLY not outside the dungeon walls.

You are not a date. You are a job. If it ever is to be more, it's OUR decision, and don't you dare ever ask. You'll only get contempt or pity.

Taking Stock(holm).

Sez Our Pal's Pal's blog:

I believe that I am falling in love with a vast person. To do so is to take a deep breath at the edge of something heavy and specious. He is the sort of man who gives everything he can; he extends himself to the edge of his own borders, the way some people do not. Narcissists are locked in the center of their own increasingly small worlds; all Narcissus could see in the water was himself. I truly believe that I am falling in love with someone who sees and works to see beyond his own line of vision year after year, and is honest and forgiving about the times he fails, as we all fail.

Sigh. I can only imagine that the way I feel for Our Pal's Pal is how so many of my friends felt for me when I was 25 and devil-may-care, thinking it was somehow wicked adult to move into a barely-heated industrial loft in the middle of no-man's land by way of Hades and be, ya, know, all artistic and whatnot. What I got was bronchitis from the constant chill, no art made, as I could barely leave my futon, and mugged on my doorstep by seven young gents who made off with the seven dollars I had left in the world. Those who loved me begged and pleaded, so clearly envisioning the inevitable, yet I could not be dissuaded.

We can only hope that Miss F. emerges with her dignity and psyche intact. Eventually.

Sounding board.

From the MySpace blog of Our Pal's pal:

I bristle when people send me emails saying, "Watch out, little girl, he did dirty stuff with a Dominatrix!" I'm sorry that some people, to this day, find others' harmless sexual proclivities disgusting. That mode of thought strikes me as a little too conservative to agree with. I'm surprised, as a southerner - a "yokelette," as one blog called me - that this sort of attitude is trickling down from New York.

M’dear, I’d be that blogger, and as it happens, I’m a mostly-retired Dominatrix who just last night sat in the same chair your beloved snickerdoodlepie did the night before in the Maxim Radio studio, and told the listening public all about “sounds” - the practice he’d written about in his account of his session with the Mistress. I’ve performed that on a decent handful of men, and there ain’t a fetish on earth that I’d sit in judgement of, so long as it was Safe, Sane & Consensual.

I am not objecting to his sexual practices in the slightest, and even if I did, what bearing would it have on anyone who wished to engage in them? Baal knows I’ve weathered my share of criticism and learned quite quickly to toss it aside for the sake of my own well-being.

And why would I object to that when there is sooooooo much more to work with?

Taxonomy of Assholitry: Part 1

Taxonomy of Assholitry - a work in progress

Douchebag

The douchebag is thoroughly and mistakenly convinced of his own importance / talent / brilliance / general level of attractiveness and is adamant that everyone else be as well. His assumed superiority is exercised upon anyone he feels could benefit from his counsel and influence (that’d be about 98% of the general population), and to the remaining 2% from whom he feels he could benefit, he’s grossly, pathetically ass-kissy or overfamiliar. Doesn’t help much, though ‘cause they think he’s a douchebag, too. But lucky him - he’s blissfully unaware.

Prick

The prick has something you want - money, hiring power, workplace authority, a deciding vote, the key to the freight elevator, the approval of your rescue dog adoption application. He wants you to know it, and he wants you to grovel to get it. This person takes pleasure in tormenting those who want what he has to offer, and he’s not shy about degrading that person, making him or her jump through hoops, sweat, wait or suffer - just because he CAN. Some social or economic structure combined with your desire allows him to get away with it, and he loves nothing more than watching you squirm.

Coming soon, Assholes, Dicks, Wankers and Tools

Adjourned.

The lovely Ali D, gets right to the heart of the matter in this boil-down of the Salon interview:

This world is so fucked up, so fractured, but you look like a nice
person. You'll understand that Gawker only published the negative
letters. See, there are thousands of people who love me, are my
fans, but Gawker didn't publish those letters. The only people who
read Gawker are people who love other people's pain.

All I want is a wife. I'm just like any other guy. I'm the
Everyman. But I'm different because I don't drink or do drugs. I'm
open to any kind of woman. As long as she doesn't have a
republican job. Or drinks. Or has been a victim of sexual abuse.
Or doesn't call me back in 1 day. Or is over the age of 37. But
hey! When I was six, I fucked my cousins. No big deal, they were
all kids too, ages 5-7. Yeah, sure. There was penetration. All
kids fuck each other. If you're a parent and don't know this,
you're clueless. No big deal. She cried to her mother but she's
fine. She's fine, she's fine. Then I fucked my other friends too.
That was fun. We'd get under the covers and pretty soon there
would be dicks in asses. Imagine that?! Good times.

But really folks. If a chick doesn't do what I want, it's because
she can't embrace her true feelings. That's why I wanted to choke
that one girl to death and smash her head with a rock. Boy, those
white girls send mixed signals. It's understandable, though,
because they carry the collective burden of womenhood. It's so
hard being a boy. So I'll pay for sex. No, not often. 8 times.
Well that was just prostitutes. Okay, there were 10 dominatrixes
too. Oh yeah - all those happy endings. So what? See, the girls
don't expect that I want to fuck on the first date. What's a gent
to do?

And no - I'm not narcissistic. You're the only person in the world
who thinks a narcissist is someone for whom everything is in some
way a reflection of themselves. Stupid journalist. I constantly
act out of generosity. I am a healthy, generous soul.

Blow out!

From Our Pal today:

For such a smart girl, she has a little Alabama Whirley in her. It's what I like about her but the downside is she doesn't know Benidryl will knock you out.

"You have enough energy to give me little half comatose blow job before you pass out again, baby?" She grinned and started crawling over towards me.

'Cause there ain't NOTHING hotter than a semi-sentient gumjob from a slack-jawed 'n sniffling yokelette too weak to stand up unassisted. That's the reason the "Aller-G*Spot Suck-Off IV" DVD took top honors at the AVN Awards this year.

Gamey.

I need to go and boil myself in Smirnoff before I comment, but for the moment, I'll share some highlights...


http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2007/02/08/eric_schaeffer/

You've written that you had sex with your girl cousins when you were 6. Is that true?

Yeah. They were 5, 6, and 7, and I was 6 and we would play little games and some involved playing Mommy and Daddy and sleeping together.

And penetration occurred?

Yes.

But you don't consider that a sexually damaging experience?

Not at all. All kids who are 6 are rubbing it somewhere. If you as a parent don't think yours are, you are in abject denial.

But actual sex with family members is a big leap from rubbing it somewhere.

You mean actually sticking it in for two seconds and having her run and tell her mother that this isn't a good game anymore?

Whoa, that's a whole other level...

We were both 6, so it wasn't like that. We played Mommy and Daddy. We were both kissing. And then it got stuck in and then ... you know, I fucked my little guy friends when I was 6!


I read that you peed on your guy friends at 6, but did you have sex with them too?

Yes.

Were you the top?

I was both top and bottom. These were friends! We would crawl under the covers and play bat cave and somehow a dick would end up in someone's ass. [Laughter] And then the boys went away and I started liking girls. You know in many cultures, the Greek culture, it is happening. Equestrian class, girls are rubbing it on horseback, guys are climbing up the rope.

There's a difference between equestrian class and sex with your cousin at 6. But you don't think these experiences fucked you up?

Not at all. Because it wasn't anybody perpetrating a crime against me.

No, but your cousin running to her mother doesn't sound too happy.

Yeah, she was a little flustered by it, and then the rule was, I wasn't allowed to hug her hello or goodbye. But this is ancient; it did not start with Eric Schaeffer in 1969. Do I have intimacy issues around sex? Sure. I had to work on that. My point is, Rebecca, I've done all that work.

Namaste away from me.

From Our Pal's site re: the Gawker coverage:

It's a motherfucker. It's gonna fuck your shit up big time.

Ready? Really ready? Here it is.

I am you.

OH SHIT!!!! THAT'S RIGHT!! NO WAY!!!!

I... am... you.

In every way. All the time. Without fail.

Anything you think, feel, say about me... is how you think, feel and speak about yourself. I know it's a little confusing so let me break it down and make it reeeeeeeeeeeeally simple.

If you were to say, something like, oh I don't know, "Eric Schaeffer is an asshole." What you're really saying is, "I'm an asshole."

If you were to saying something like, "Eric Schaeffer is talentless." What you're really saying is "I'm talentless." Getting the hang of it now? No? Still confused? Maybe if I give you an example in the positive, your mind will be able to grasp it. If you were to say something like, "Eric Schaeffer is awesome!" What you're really saying is, "I'm awesome!" If you were to say, "Eric Schaeffer is really talented. I love him." You would really be saying "I'm really talented. I love myself."

Snookypants? I'm pretty sure you're all conviced that you've made a Deep, Important, Philosophical Statement of which only the Exceptionally Enlightened and Stoned Liberal Arts Majors will fully grasp the awesome intensity, but you just sound like a ninny. Our experiences, motivations, assessments, actions and reactions are wholly individual, and huzzah for that! Yes, we as humans act in community, and as such we are all affected by each others' choices, but dude - seriously, just OWN your behavior, take responsibility, and don't let it spray all over the rest of us. What you've posted is essentially the long-winded version of "I'm rubber, and you're glue."

A brilliant paraphrasing by a dear friend of mine:

I will not get that last half-hour of my life back. I do not want
that to happen to you. So, to sum up his lengthy post...

Oh, there was a spike in traffic to my website. Hosting company
says it's Gawker. What is this Gawker thing? They must be great,
helping "fans" find my site. Gee. But maybe it's not all good.
Friends are alluding to that fact. What's a gent to do? I went to
yoga and got the answer. We all want to be happy and free. I want
to be happy and free and I want to help all people attain this. So
this is how I will respond: we are all one. Anything you think
about me reflects your own state of mind. So if you think I'm
great, that means you're great. If you think I'm an asshole,
you're the asshole. Oh, so Gawker sucks. The writers suck. They
couldn't get jobs anywhere else. It's like 7th grade. They're
anti-gay. All the girls who wrote in about me lied. Yes - all of
the lied and they all know it. And they're all pathetic, and the
fact that We Are All One is a hard pill to swallow so I will
compare this to sucking cock. Something about cesspools and
anguish, too. So read this quote by Mother Theresa and if you see
me on the stree or in yoga, please come say hi. Namaste.

Grotesqueries.

From the comments:

darkstar said...
Is it possible this whole thing is some kind of attempt at creating a literary persona--a character for a movie or book? How can anyone be 45 and this immature about relationships, much less un-humiliated to tell that they thought and acted like this? Is it possible this is someone's idea (Eric's) of a literary venture? Please? I'm Southern and I cringe when I think about that scene in "Tobacco Road" where the woman with the cleft palate or whatever is edging closer and closer to some man who has possession of some turnips, in order to offer sexual favors in exchange for some turnips...and yet, this is a popular literary device, the "grotesque." There have been some "grotesques" on the web in recent years that have turned out to be fake, such as 10K4awife, Psychoexgirlfriend, Peter Pan guy, Mahir, and Mary Romantic. These are (in my opinion) made up in order to get lots of clicks. Now I know Eric Schaeffer is a real person who probably does seem to act like these stories, but is he bumping it up a notch in order to riff on it as a literary character in some way? In other words, can any human of any age, be this grotesque and this unaware? I mean, I have had some pretty stupid reactions and feelings in the romance dept. but I told NO one, not even my friends! I was embarrassed that I felt that way, plus I was 19!

Personally, I'm inclined to believe that he's repellently, tragically real, but that's mostly borne of having had a tenure or two of online dating before meeting my husband (uh, online, actually), and having encountered my share of these narcissistic Peters-Pan. Your thoughts?

I Got My Feelings Hurt Because She Didn't Want To Cuddle

Yes, there are T-shirts, bibs, and more.

http://www.cafepress.com/stillsingle

Reeking havoc.

From ES's latest prose-wank about his forni-cation to America.

"They could smell the north on me and hated me for it."


No, honey. It was the CK-One. And the desperation. And the rotting hollow where a soul was supposed to be.


And it's cute that he thinks his Northernness was the primary reason to hate him. That's 'round about reason 5,467, so far as I'm tallying.

Subjectively speaking.

I'm trying to parse exactly what about Our Pal is driving so many of us to such feverish levels of observation. I suppose it's rare that the public is granted such unfettered access to the inner machinations of a lifeform just *barely* masquerading as a member of our species. His un-self-awareness is raw and unspoiled - a protozoic Id that's discovered locomotion, and drags and humps itself along from one warm and fertile cove to the next.


Sniff...paw. Sniff...grope. Sniff...paw...love meeeeeeeee!!! You no love meeeeee? Whyyy??? Baaad yoooouuuu! You wrong. Hate yooouuuuuuu!!!


Woe (and, natch, highly defective) is the woman who does not Pavlovionically slaver at his offers of seed and the associated succor. How dare she lead him on, so clearly indicating her interest in him by occupying the same public space as him, and not either actively vomiting upon him or being mid-coitus with another man? How dare she possess a vagina, knowing full well he has a penis, and not allow these accoutrement to interact? Why, she is gollydarned lucky that he's gentleman enough not to lumber in and physically claim what is so rightfully his!


What a magical speciman Our Pal is! We are truly fortunate to have this vantage point from which to observe, and I wriggle in anticipation of what he will gift us with next.

Kidding around.

From his MySpace blog entitled, "can you f$cked up fathers please stop molesting your daughters so I can get married!"

"She knew she was in dealbraker territory."
"Who are you asking these kind of questions inside the first hour of our first date."
"I'm old. We're all gonna be dead very soon. There's no time left. Do you wanna have babies? DO you drink a lot? DO you believe in God? If we like each other I'm gonna want to kiss you and I'm a germaphobe and need to know if I can, okay? Answer the questions."

"The last three girls I dated, two Nervettes and one civilian, all have been sexually abused by close members of their family and subsequently want to pull me close so they can anihilate me. I'm getting kinda tired of it. My heart can only take so much, so could you f$cked up fathers please stop sexually abusing your daughters so I might have a chance at getting married?"

Yes, by all means, criminally twisted psychovillains of the world, paws off the kiddiewinks. It makes life inconvenient for Our Hero.

Taking the cake.

From the comments:

January 26, 2007 11:03 AM
unfun said...
Seriously people, enter the archives of the douche's blog at your own risk (of severe indigestion).

"This leads to the LIGHT BULB ABOVE THE HEAD IDEA. A sign to everyone else in the world that reads "Turn and run away!" but I see as the margin of my brilliance. The idea is... "If I throw the cake in the trash I won't eat it because it's garbage now." Mensa, baby! I know if I'm going to eat the cake out of the trash before my feet hit the floor. And if I've spoiled it with detergent, I eat around the detergent. If believing it isn't safe in my internal apartment trash, I throw it in the communal trash in the hallway, I still eat it. Once, the service elevator door opened and the porter, looking to steal away my trash bounty, caught me in full bite, chocolate smeared on my face when I didn't want to waste the time to go back inside and eat it. He just looked at me with a steely stare, "You done?" Pointing to the stinking industrial can of the seventeenth floor's waste, more affectionately known as my evening dessert. I made sure I got all my cake out. "Take it. And then just the check please." I didn't say that last part."

I mean honestly, has their ever, in the history of mankind, lived a person as repulsive? HE WRITES ABOUT EATING CAKE OUT OF COMMUNAL APARTMENT GARBAGE CANS! And then WONDERS WHY HE IS STILL SINGLE! Listen Eric, some things are better left unsaid. Like, pretty much anything that crosses your mind. Just, try not talking. Or writing. At all. Ever again.

January 26, 2007 1:31 PM

Choose your ES adventure...

From the comments:

Doug said...
Okay, here's how the latest installment of "It came to Charleston ends:

"After teasing her for a while over hers clothes with my hands and lips and breath, I jammed my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbed a handful of her. She had said in her profile that any man that didn't enjoy that should pass her by. I wanted her to know I had been listening to what she thought was important too. She groaned. I went for her button in the front and she grabbed my hand and said...

To be continued..."

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I now invite you to answer the burning (more than likely) question: What did she say?

Mediahohoho

January 26, 2007 8:59 AM


Doug said...
"...oh god."

"What's your problem?" I asked because I can be sensitive like that.

She threw up a little bit in her mouth.

"I promised myself I would never do this again."

I searched her eyes, which were darting around the room, looking for the nearest exit.

"I have these episodes where sort of black out and when I come to, I'm usually with some totally inappropriate, um, person."

It was then that she noticed my hand down the back of her jeans, my palmful of ass.

"Hey, whatthe..." she stammered, wrenching away from me and snapping my spindly, anorectic wrist like a twig.

It was then that she projectile vomited, all over me, my tiny hotel room, my yoga mat and my precious bottle of CKOne.

Unfortunately, later that night I had to tell her that it wouldn't be a love connection for us. I can't stand chicks who throw up.

January 26, 2007 9:06 AM

Post 'em.

Got an ES encounter to share?

iknowwhyyourestillsingle at G mail dot com

I believe we all know why we're here.

http://www.icantbelieveimstillsingle.com/

Share your ES war stories.