Finally: Politics & Strip Clubs

Here's a mix I couldn't bring myself to make. I have a vanilla blog, a work blog, a political blog, and a sex blog. But finally, somebody has found a way to mix the politics and the sex. And blame it on the Republicans. See Fundraiser tips big, tries "whack-ass shit" for a great read. You can find the whole blog here.

Anyone care to comment on hypocrisy?

Sometimes there's a realization

I took a few minutes this afternoon to surf a couple of my favorite reads. I hadn't actually visited them in a while, and I wanted to see what they were up to. They're like old friends with whom I've lost touch.

And I came to Magdala's Submission and realized it has been quite a while since I've read her words, since I've become hot and hard, and, now, sad. Not that all things do, but that many things, many things which are (or were) good must come to an end; that love doesn't conquer all; that things in this world aren't always fair or right; that my life isn't such a bad thing afterall.

Check out Magdala's site; pine with her; send her thoughts surrounded in white light.

Seek, and ye shall find

Earlier this week, I complained (see below) about the AdSense program. Well, I wasn't actually complaining, just noting they only wanted family friendly sites as ad locations.

Seek and ye shall find. I found a ad placement service that didn't care The Sausage Factory wasn't family friendly. MarketBanker seems to have fit the bill. Hopefully, the ad to the right isn't too obtrusive and doesn't kill the loading time for the page.

Your thoughts?

Another day in paradise

I sometimes feel like the Jeff Goldblum character in The Big Chill. Perhaps you remember: he's sitting around this big ol' southern plantation house with friends of his from college; they're all getting laid... and he ain't seeing any action at all. Not that the folks I'm hanging out with this week are getting any and I'm not. But, often, this is the case.

I spent the better part of the late afternoon and evening yesterday revamping the appearance of the Sausage Factory. I hope that the result is okay with you, my loyal reader. I also re-worked a couple of vanilla blogs of mine; this blog is the more complicated with more "stuff" attached. Guess this just means that my freaky closeted life is more complicated, eh?

I wanted to take advantage of the notice on Blogger's front page that Google's AdSense is now available to the little guy like you and me. So, the other night I applied, without having read the small print. Wouldn't you know it: Alas, the sites with Google AdSense ads may not have any pornography, adult, or mature content. Said the nice folks at AdSense,

Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense.

After reviewing your application, our program specialists have found that the website currently associated with your account does not comply with our policies. Therefore, we're unable to accept you into Google AdSense at this time.

We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below. If you are able to resolve these issues, please feel free to reply to this email for reconsideration when you have made the changes.

Issues:
- Inappropriate language
- Adult content

Sure, I'll be able to go back and make this blog family friendly. I'll remove every reference to fucking Jane's brains out and watching the orgy at North Carolina Life or getting a blow job on the roof of the library.

I think not.

Guess I will not be able to make a few bucks here at the Sausage Factory.

Anyone have any ideas for a money making scheme for sex blogs?

In the mean time, guess I'll try and make cents from my vanilla blogs... ;-)

I've succumbed: Juicee's

I succumbed. Dark. Red lights. Deep shadows. A blaring base. I should'a brought the ear plugs; they're out in the car.

This place is a bit threadbare. Worn. The furniture. The accoutrements. Some of the dancers. Okay, so it's not the highest class joint I've been in for a bit. I know, like any club is high class. But you know, some clubs at least front the image.

I'm intrigued. On stage is a glass box -- about the size of a phone booth. I ask Rosie, a pouty, top heavy dancer, what it's for. She looks askance. "Shower," she says, her voice accented with Spanish.

The club's owner comes over wondering what I'm writing. Yes, once again I'm taking notes with pen and paper (I like the heft of the pen). How does a person explain a sex blog? I drop back to the ever understandable "for my website." He wants the address. "I'll give you a card," I say. "They're in the car." He seems satisfied with my responses and wanders off.

When I leave an hour later he shakes my hand & wishes me a safe journey. Now that's class.

In all my times of whipping out paper and pen, this is the first time management has ever wondered what I'm doing. Dancers, they wonder all the time. Maybe the owner thought I was a member of the health department. Yeh, here I am, undercover, checking out health code infractions. Not likely.

At the runway sit pairs of guys and one lone guy and then two guys with a woman. She could be a dancer, full breasts, very pretty face with full lips, a great smile. The dancer on stage is young, tall, straight dark hair, and tattooed. She has a tattoo on one bicep, two large ones on her back (one at the small of her back and one across her shoulder blades) and then there's one above her well trimmed muff. She dances in the nude, a dollar earning a look at her pussy. I'm tipping, but too far back to seet the details. Her breasts are all real, as is her smile which slips out every once in a while, her wide mouth looking delectable in the darkness.

Three guys play pool in the haze of cigarette smoke. Big Brother plays on the jumbo screen across the room.

The main stage dancer moves, fluid-like. Something about her features is Indian-like; she reminds me of my ex, Kathleen, as a young woman. Although, she'd never have danced. Too much trauma, too close to heart, too revealing in a way she never could.

I get a Diet Coke at the bar, rail polished deeply. The bar tender is friendly and gives me a tight smile.

The woman who was sitting at the runway is now playing with her friends. Her faded jeans hug her hips, and she wears a looped metal belt around her hips accenting her roundness, the curves.

Why is it that sometimes a woman fully clothed is more erotic than a naked, strutting woman. And how is it a little belt can put such an accent on a woman's body. I think back to Anastasia and realize she had a little belt around her hips, too. Very late 1960's -ish. I'm at home.

I sit back from the stage, nursing my Diet Coke. The tattooed dancer, a tall drink of water, leads a young guy to the lap dance area after flagging down a big bouncer. When the woman are giving lap dancers, there's always a bouncer nearby. The lap dance area is a raised part of the room, partitioned off by a half wall. Dances are $20 each (for a seven minute dance), and to get one you have to purchase a ticket. A ticket from the owner, up front. As Tiffany explains to me, it's because the house gets a cut from every dance.

I decide to see what the dances are like, and I purchase a ticket. The owner reminds me I said I'd bring him a card, so I walk out to the car to get one. I hear my phone buzzing on the front seat, and I ignore it without even looking to see who's called.

When I hand him a card, the owner smiles. "A hobby?" I laugh. We decide that if I made it a business, I could deduct the lap dance as a business expense.

Tiffany's lap dance is nice, lots of grinding, and a real smile. Seven minutes and I'm more than rock hard, but not about to get off. Tiffany has to go on stage to dance.

When I get back to the runway to see her dance, the woman who'd been sitting at the rail with two guys earlier is back. And she has her top off. And she's standing up. And Tiffany is caressing and licking her breasts. And I'm hard. And I figure every guy in the joint is in the same condition. Damn sexy. Damn sexy. Young breasts. Nice breasts. She looks a little embarrassed; flushed. She's not a dancer, but she could be.

When the other woman has had enough, she sits down, and Tiffany goes into her routine. I'm at the rail, and in the light, I can see her bare pussy, a tuft of hair above the lips. She's athletic. She swings around the pole, faster and faster.

The runway is below the rail with mirrors. When the dancer is down on the ground, we peer into the pit and have to look in the mirrors.

A dozen guys show up for a bachelor party and sit at the runway. Tiffany keeps her pace up, her athletic moves, her right hand slapping her right cheek. There are two grip bars in the ceiling. Tiffany lifts herself up and holds herself at the ceiling, legs bent back, skin glistening red with sweat, ass rounded and firm and plainly in view.

I want to touch her, slide my hands along her soft skin, gripping muscled back, slick with the wetness of her body.

She teases the boys at the rail, placing bills they've folded neatly on their body -- tucked behind an ear or in a belt, and then makes a show of claiming her pay.

Tiffany leaves the stage and Rosie takes the stage. Perhaps she's Cuban. Doesn't matter. Her boobs are huge and massively fake. I decide her lips are, too. The product of some doctor, a knife, an injection. Some people like that. Me, I'm attracted to real.

Tiffany is a respiratory therapist. Funny, she will not tell me more; I'm a stalker, my goatee a sign of mental imbalance.

I sit against the wall, another ticket in my hand. No one approaches. I'm ready. Perhaps there's a house rule that dancers can't solicit dances. Or maybe I do look like a stalker. Tiffany has disappeared, as have the other dancers. Perhaps they're readying a surprise for the soon-to-be-doomed groom.

My eyes are crusted from the smoke, and I consider bugging out. But, I'm committed to one more foray into the lap dance area. Yes, the bump and grind awaits.

I want to go to the beach

Well, clearly, we should all head to the beach.

Damn

Posts from two of my favorite blogs... Here and here... all I can say is "Damn!" I can hardly wait to get home... ;-)

Legs Apart

Jane and I hooked up this past weekend. She went north and I went south, and we hooked up in the middle, spending the night together in a hotel. That evening I had to go out and run a few errands. When I got back to the room, the lights were out and the TV casting a glow. Miller was in his carrier, asleep in the corner of the room. I turned the TV off and stumbled to the bed, stripping my clothes off on the way.

I slipped into bed and snuggled next to Jane, my hands slowly moving, caressing her skin. I pulled at her nipples, making them hard between my thumb and fingers. Slowly, she pushed back toward me. My right hand drifted down and pulled at her panties, forcing the fabric into her moistening slit. She came on my fingers. Slowly, we ground into each other, weeks of apartness coming together, boiling. We kissed, mouths we and open. She rolled onto her back and slid off her panties. Her wetness was open to me.

A good little slut, Jane kept her legs spread wide, knowing I wanted access, full and moist. Slowly my fingers prodded and teased; my hardness bursting. Soon I was atop her, her legs splayed and then trying to wrap around me. "Keep them spread," I said. I like her legs apart, her attempt at thrusting upward off the mattress to meet me, and her heat.

Vanilla, certainly, but fun.

We slept nestled together, touching throughout the night. A constant touch.

In the morning, I was hard as the light came through the windows. My hands wandered over Jane's skin. They wandered south finding a slight wetness. Probing, my fingers slid into her, skin surrounding wet and moist. Soon my hardness was bursting and Jane said, "You want me on my knees?" Of course I did. She moved to the side of the bed, on her knees, head bent down on the pillow. I slipped in behind her and gently started to move, my cock sliding in and out. Soon I was pounding against her, my thighs slapping against her, the sound reverberating in the room. Quick and enthusiastic, my cock wet and hot from Jane, I thrust and rethrust, spending myself in the cool of the morning.

Fame

Years ago, I carried a camera almost everywhere, snapping pictures of sights and people. I had one friend, Bev, who -- whenever the camera came up to my eyes -- would shy away. She'd feign she didn't want her picture taken. "Don't take my picture," she'd say.

As soon as the shuttered snapped, she'd scream, "Can I have a copy?"

We all want to be immortalized. We all crave a moment of some fame. What's the saying? There's only one thing worse than being talked about: not being talked about.

Am I excited more than eleven thousand people have stumbled onto this blog and at least read a bit? Damn right I am.

I was going through my papers from this past week, and I found a piece of notebook paper from the other night at the casino. I'd written Anastasia's name at the top so I could remember her name. Next to her name -- the handwriting rounder than my own -- it says, "Write about me!"

Even the anonymous want to be talked about...

There once was a man from Nantucket

I write poetry – generally lyric in nature. Here’s my first attempt at a limerick:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who ate hot wings by the bucket;
‘Cause the waitress wore tight little shorts,
He figured she’d made many ports.

I know. I know. Stick to prose.

More than 11,000 readers to the Sausage Factory!!

Well, if the counter supplied by BlogPatrol is accurate, more than 11,000 folks have visited this little blog of a closet sex freak (see the bottom of the blog). Please pass the link to Northern European Sausage Factory along; I'd love to have the counter swing past 20,000 sometime this fall.

And, yes, I'll work to post on a regular basis... ;-)

If you don't want someone reading your blog

Don't give them the URL and, as I've discovered, don't even let them find it. Here's another story of the ramifications of read blogs.

The morning after

A fitful night's sleep. The hotel room was way too chilly last night (couldn't adjust the fuck'n thermostat) and my night burrowed under the blankets was enveloped by dreams -- dreams of Indian casinos, young women with long straight hair, dancers swaying naked on stage, and one young woman (earnest in her beliefs) sloshing red wine around in a goblet-sized wine glass. And this morning I'm paying for it: my body aches, my mouth hurts, my brain is foggy, and nothing feels right.

Like a siren calling

So, I’m sitting my hotel room & the air conditioner is running full bore. I’m in a frigg’n meat locker. My mind wanders. Are there any strip clubs around here? Can I find flesh and attention? Can I find a hot touch and a fantasy?

I click on the web to find local clubs. I find four within 25 miles. The reviews aren’t all that promising, but often reality isn’t matched by words on the web. Some guys can’t find the diamonds ‘cause they’re spending too much time trying to avoid the shit. The night is dark and I remain huddled at the desk, my computer casting a pale hue throughout the room. I contemplate the list; I contemplate bugging out and jumping in the company car and finding companionship.

But I don’t. The siren’s call isn’t strong enough, isn’t loud enough, isn’t clear enough. I remain rooted to my seat, and my mind wanders. Hot red lights. Deep shadows. A sensitive hot touch. A swaying hip. A smile and a sparkle in the eyes. All imagination.

The confluence of money, alcohol, and sex

I'm at a huge casino in the middle of nowhere. We drove for what seemed like hours (it wasn't) into the woods -- the dark forests encroaching on the roads as we went deeper into the mist.

I'm awestruck. It's as large -- or bigger, likely -- than a Vegas strip casino; and, it's packed with people.

I'm watching the blackjack tables and am struck by the confluence of money, alcohol, and sex. Should I be surprised? Likely not; this is the American way, after all. And who better to lavish it, to create it, to feed off it, than the first Americans. Yes, this is a Native American casino...

I'm struck most, perhaps, by the women here. Not Vegas showgirl quality, but wholesome, cute, girl-next-door quality. Over at one table a young woman stands behind her man. She can't be a day over twenty-one or twenty-two. He's older. He is intent on the game, watching the cards cross the table. She stands behind him in tight jeans and an even tighter off-the-shoulders blouse. Plenty of skin, including the requisite swath between jeans and blouse. Later, when she bends over, I see the tattoo in the small of her back: some Chinese cast of characters.

She wanders off, leaving her beau at the table. I'll bet if he paid attention, he could still feel her hands on his shoulders, her heat against his back. But he doesn't pay attention, a drink at his elbow, his head resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes watching the cards played out on the green felt.

Were I him, I'd leave the table and drag her -- complete with her little paunch of a belly -- upstairs to one of the hotel rooms. I'd throw her to the bed, wrestle her jeans off (discarding them in a heap on the floor), spread her legs wide, and dive in to her muff, licking the pinkness, a wetness pervading all.

As I just conclude this little day dream, she reappears, red wine in a large glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She approaches; I'm standing leaning with my notepad on a marble ledge, my back to a pebbled ash tray. I say "hi," and she smiles at me.

I melt.

But you likely would have guessed that. Somehow we end up in conversation. In polite company we're told to never talk about, what, religion, sex, and politics. We missed only religion.

Her name, or so she claims, is Anastasia. She says it's her "stage name." In my wishful thinking I think perhaps she's a dancer. Later in the conversation I decide if any of what she's said is truth, likely not.

A staunch lover of all that is conservative -- including our beloved President -- Anastasia regails me with reasons the Iraqi War is just and right. I also learn she's the mother of a nearly one-year-old girl, the father isn't all that involved in her life or the life of his daughter, her own father is a conservative real estate broker, and she's reading progressive Senator Clinton's book, Living History. While she nearly leaves me abruptly after asking who I plan on voting for in the upcoming November elections, she continues to talk with me; we agree that America's greatness lies in her diversity.

Her dark eyes sparkle as she talks, animated, the glass in her hand swinging around. (Later, I'll see her leaving the casino, wine glass still in hand; her shirt is stained from wine, a red stain splashed across each heavy breast and another splash of red on her stomach. I wonder, silently, if she'd let me suck the wine from her shirt.) Several times she touches me, once on my arm, another -- as she's leaving me -- time on the small of my back. Hours later, I can imagine the warmth of her touch.

Another night in America where money, alcohol, and sex all slide together in a mixing bowl of immense proportions.

A Cry for Help

Jane and I have been having problems... if you're reading her blog, you've been keeping up with things in our house, at least from her point of view.

Yesterday evening, after a particularly gruesome argument, which was fueled by a bottle of Southern Comfort and Jane's part (and, I'm not sure it provided any Southern comfort), I took Miller out so we could find new nipples for his bottles. He only likes Enfamile orthodontic nipples; anything else and he refuses to eat, no matter how hungry he is.

So, we're headed back home after our little outing; I'm coming from over Durham way when my wireless email pinged. And this is what it said:

I know we are at odds with what we want in life. I am sorry that I am holding you back from whatever it is that you are looking for. I don't think that I can apologize enough. I'm not quite sure what to do to make it up to you. Please accept this as my suicide note. Kind of like a resignation from life. I can't function anymore. Please let Miller know that I love him. I know that this is the selfish way out, but I can't take this kind of hurt. I DO love him. I want him to know that. Please kiss him good-bye for me. Make sure that he grows up happy. I hope that you find happiness. Thank Beth for me.

Shit. I didn't know what do to. I called home; the line was busy. I didn't have numbers of any neighbors, and I'm thinking this reads remarkably like a suicide note.

I called the cops.

I race home, ignoring all speed limit signs, Miller asleep in the back of the car.

I get home before the police; I bolt inside and Jane is at the computer, surfing through her tears. No, she said, she wasn't going to kill herself.

I race back downstairs; two police cars are running in park outside; the cops can't find the address. "In here," I said.

They ended up taking her to the hospital for a psych eval. I think the counsel she was provided there was that I'm an asshole.

I guess I am, although not as large or in the ways she thinks I am.

And this is my life...

At least my Zoloft is working, having removed the lows. Of course, it's also removed the highs, my creative energy, and my libido. But, hey, so be it, huh?

It's like a swingers' party...

Only there's no swinging... er, sure...