Tuesday, January 27, 2009



My name is Easy Lover and I'm a Cockoholic. The below is just one of multiple testimonies as to why.

My co-worker has one of the biggest, tastiest looking dick bulge's I've seen in a loooooong time.

It's large, curvy and, well, large. It's all I care about these days. Sometimes I go home after work and sit in the darkness clicking my floor lamp on and off while I listen to Madame Butterfly because it's all I live for lately and, yet, we're still not together. I'm slowly beginning to resemble Smeagol, my shoulders are slouching and I wring my hands in a maniacal way whenever D.B., my "preeeecious," is within reach. My obsession, or, um, disease, has begun to hinder my job performance, which was satisfactory at best to begin with.

I realize dicks are everywhere. The grocery store, museums, zoos, schools, malls, the dentist office (mine is hot, hot, hot), church, old folks homes - if you're into that kind of thing. I should have a better handle on this. This isn’t the first one I’ve seen, or played with, or sat on. In fact, I even make sure to get laid on a regular basis, but this is no help. I tell you, this is the bulgiest bulge in all of Bulgeville. It’s simple stunning. I have no choice but to stare. None. It’s beyond my capabilities. For my disease there is no cure. No dick is not a cure for dick lovers. Alcoholics can stay out of the liquor store, druggies can stay out the back alley, hookers can stay off the street corner, but everywhere you go, without fail, there are dicks. Morning, noon and night – dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I mean there are entire stores and industries based around the dick. And I am only getting worse. Significantly worse. The other day, it grew quiet at work and the slow ticking of the clock began ridiculing me, Dick… Dick… Dick… I thought my ears were going to bleed. It wasn’t until I noticed everyone staring at me that I realized I was clicking my pen incessantly like it was some dick morphine drip inserted into my arm.

First of all, to make matters unbearable, D.B. is constantly being flaunted around the office. Someone in my condition can't be in the CONSTANT presence of such a gloriously abundant meat stick. I mean, there is no reason co-worker can't wear a nice roomy pair of Hammer pants or possibly a kilt - he is Irish after all. But no, instead he accentuates the shit out of D.B., wearing designer jeans that 'pull' in all the right places and in some that simply baffle me. I am, therefore, forced against my will to check it out non-stop and from various angles. I know when it's leanin' to the right and I know when it's leanin' to the left. I have 12-hour surveillance on D.B. at all times. It's my equivalent to too much cleavage. I stare. I foam. I drool. I'm fucking obsessed.

Co-worker sits four feet six inches from me at work and I swear that is the exact length of his dick when it's unrolled. His desk faces mine and when he gets up to do... whatever (he always tells me, but I can't hear him over Handel Messiah's "Hallelujah Chorus," which blares in my head every time I'm in the presence of D.B.), I peek over my computer screen and blatantly ogle. There is no way he doesn't see me do this and yet he still continues to get up from his desk on a daily basis. I mean stay seated for Christ's sake. For extra fun, when co-worker comes to talk to me at my desk, he's juuust the right height, so D.B. floats perfectly above the horizon of my desk like a genie waiting to grant me my one true wish, which in this case would be a shiny new pearl necklace. I can feel that cunt monster with his one-eye on me taunting, harassing and laughing as I'm trying to look at everything but the gigantic hovering cock inches away from my face. I look like I constantly have something in my eye. It's like a train wreck; you're drawn to it like there are magnets in your pupils. You know you shouldn't look, but dammit you have to.

Wait. D.B. is on the move. There he goes. Jigglin' by like a "joey" bouncin' around in his mama's pouch. He winked as he passed by my desk. I saw him twitch under the zipper, like he was waving. I want to suck his sweet nectar. I lose concentration sometimes, sorry.

On top of the constant harassment from D.B., I've been forced to masturbate in the bathroom at work. On the bright side, I work in a fucking sausage factory so the chances of one of the four chicks in the office walking in are slim to not gonna fucking happen. I could never masturbate with just my hand before I got this job. Never. Now I'm in and out in the time it takes to piss. I start pulsating at my desk like the mother ALIEN. The walk to the bathroom warms her up and then all it takes is a flick or two of the bean, I bear down and To the Moon Alice! That's a vital fucking job quality mastered if you ask me.

Not surprisingly, D.B. has wrecked my, already fragile, concentration. I doodle Mrs. D.B. when I'm supopsed to be taking notes and I can't hear people talking to me anymore. I'm simply too wrapped up in my fantasies of D.B. and I holding hands and running along the sand at the beach, or having a snowball fight in the mountains, or making love under the stars. Just me and D.B. D.B. and me. Until I finally realize that constant, annoying sound ringing in my ears is my boss asking me a question.

I've never had a problem boning any co-worker, in fact, besides the paycheck it's my favorite thing about work. D.B. is certainly a top-notch candidate. But I went ahead and made good friend's with D.B.'s best friend, co-worker. We even write together. So, I don't know, maybe its old age that's causing me to care about shit I never would before, like common sense, but whatever it is I wish it would stop and let me be the fun, irresponsible slut I’ve always been. Why does sex have to change things, dammit? It's simply hand shaking with different body parts, just a little bit stickier. Why if D.B. and I get together do things have to change for co-worker and me? These are the daily issues that surround a cockoholic like me.

But, please, don't think for one second this means it won't happen. Like a small, cute little mouse parading around a python in its tank, just because I'm full and content now doesn't mean I won't strike. In fact, I still have yet to christen this job, so no one is safe and packing a Kielbasa in your shorts certainly ain't gonna help matters.

To top all of this off, co-worker has the audacity to order a pair of size 13 shoes and ask my opinion of them. I mean, really? Now he's just teasing the animal, which is never a nice thing to do. Let me just parade in front of your desk in my new size 13 shoes - which look like every other pair of shoes I own - with my huge dick bulge bouncing around everywhere acting like I don't know just how huge my cock is down to the centimeter. Reeeal cool, buddy.

So, it's pretty clear cut... or maybe it's not cut - that's one thing I can't tell from outside the pants. I am weak, I suffer from a disease. A disease which haunts me everywhere I go and is now threatening my job security. If it's a crime to look, then it should be a crime to make me look. I don’t ask for D.B. to be there, he’s just… there. All the fucking time. Every day. All day. Forever.

The moral of THIS story: Don't blog about how big your co-worker’s dick bulge is on your work computer... unless, of course, you suffer from cockoholism like me and don't even realize you did.




dick hunter

My adventures in dick hunting have led me on some wild journeys. Some good, some bad, but always bat shit crazy. Now, while I would never recommend anyone venture out into the wild in search of dick, it has certainly left me with quite the collection of sordid tales and notches on the ‘ol bedpost. Every once in a while nature mixes itself in with pleasure. This is why, in certain circles, I am known as The Dick Hunter. My experience, up until now, in nature's kingdom has solely been with snake charming. And while I’ve charmed a considerable amount of pink snakes(Pinkus Snakus), from Gardener-size to the impressively ample Anaconda, nothing quite compares to this.

This is the story of #20, who was filled with surprises aplenty. (Rhyming is cool.)

The river in Parker, AZ. – my Graceland, my paradise, my people - a little gift from Heaven for all us male and female whores… but with water, and boats and tattoos (I just *creamed* my work chair… literally. I was wearing a skirt with tights earlier, and what you may or may not know is that sitting in a pair of tights for too long makes you itch like you’ve bathed in Poison Oak for ten hours, then dried off and dressed yourself in it, so I ditched the fuckers, and the v-string I’m wearing is all stretched out and shit – hate that.). I’ve conquered and divided my fair share of river cock and never walked away - in some cases bowlegged - disappointed. But there’s one defeat that just simply seems to stand out a skosh more than the rest.

The ragin’ nightlife in Parker consists of the Indian Casino, The Bluewater or the riverfront bar, The Roadrunner – compound words rock! You can only get to the latter by way of one desolate road that parallels the river and is more commonly known as DUI Drive aka You Ain’t Fucking Getting Me to Go Down It Avenue. No sir. Johnny Law is one dick I don’t like to fuck with. Been there, done that - story for another time.

This is why I found myself standing on the casino floor watching blue hairs feed their Social Security into the Wheel of Fortune slots. In addition to the stale cigarette-soaked Game Room off the Main Floor, the casino has a really sweet cover band on the weekends and by sweet I mean absolutely shitty. No matter, this is where the dudes hang and look for bitches to bang. I call it the Hang ‘n Bang… the rooms are right upstairs and come in quite handy. Trust.

River people are a certain type of folk and they even tend to live in the same areas. This is why it didn’t surprise me to find a whole pack of fresh young bucks in matching racing singlet’s from the South Bay, or as some locals refer to it Mouth Bay, which happens to be my home sweet home. I’m usually too drunk to recognize, well, anyone. My roommate, however, has a freaky, photographic I-saw-you-four-years-ago-in-Vons memory and recognized every last one of them. These were our types of ho’s fo sho, so I knew I was gettin’ laid.

This is where I met Rio. Always thought Rio was some chick dancing on the sand somewhere, but in this case Rio was a tall, thick-shouldered sexy beast who was doing “The Worm” across the dance floor in a cheesy Indian casino in Arizona – I mean what’s sexier than the Worm? I cruise over and instantly start worming right above him - NOT my smoothest move - and we *smack* chin to skull. Felt great after drinking all day in the 113-degree Arizona desert sun. Fortunately for me he was pretty lit and had a head as hard as sheet rock (God willing the other one was, too) and he appreciated my enthusiasm in joining in on one of the most celebrated moves in dance history. After our “accident” we needed some booze to ease the pain and headed to the bar to “get to know each other”… or just make out.

Like I said I have a shit memory, no thanks to Mary Jane, but I just knew I knew this kid. By some weird twist of fate, this is when he tried to run some game on me and pulled out a Paramount Studios ID, which is where I worked at the time. Yes! That's it. We work together. I must have seen him around the studio... but where? Talk about small fucking world, to Worm with someone 400 hundred miles away from home that is not only from the same town, your exact age, went to your rival high school, but also works at the same fucking place! Shit was gettin’ freaky.

He asked me a few questions about work: What do you do? Who do you work for? What building do you work in? When I tried to get the same info out of him he pretty much dodged it and pulled me onto the dance floor. I probably would have pressed the issue had I not been forced into the Electric Slide with all the Parker Tweakers and part of the band, The Salty Needles (not fucking kidding). Later, as we Macarena’d (haven’t had the displeasure since Spring Break), busted out the Kid ‘n Play and grinded to PYT, I couldn’t stop racking my brain. It’s like when you’re watching a movie and recognize an actor, but can’t remember their name or where you've seen them before. Frustrating shit, man.

The nights end relatively early in Arizona and as this one was drawing to a close Rio informs me that he’s staying at his buddy’s house in Blythe, a good 50 miles away from Parker, where I am staying with family and friends at my brother’s house. He assures me he’ll drive me back the next day, and that they are planning on launching in Parker early in the morning anyway. He's hot. I'm ready to bone. Sold. There’s just one tiiiiiiiny problem.


Doug is my unofficial bodyguard, but mainly my brother’s middle-aged friend who is 250 lbs. on a skinny day and drunk seven days out of the week. He thinks a 12-pack after work is perfectly normal, I disagree, and that’s a bold statement seeing as I drink like fucking Moby Dick. But I also don’t have to crack a bloody beer just to ease the hangover so I can rise out of bed to go to work… that’s only on Sunday’s… and there is no work to get to. Anyway, Doug lets me know as often as I’ll listen that he would do anything for me, except of course not be my shadow when I’m trying to pick some unsuspecting prey off a herd. When I smacked Rio’s head he pushed him out of the way to see if I was alright and the whole thing was my fucking fault. He’s sweet, but I’m just not attracted to a man that looks like he's most possibly related to the Walrus family. So I asked my roommate to cover me, she’s used to my whorish tendencies and could clearly pick these guys out of a line up if need be, and made my escape when Doug hit the head.

The running start really helped me get into the truck, which was raised nearly 50ft. off the ground. I sardined myself in the back with what felt like a clown car of bros.

Note: These are South Bay bros, not to be confused with O.C. bros - who I still have love for - but while some S.B. bros do drive the raised truck they lack that New Jersey Guido feel that O.C. bros seem to channel (spiked hair, “hard core” buddy pics, sign throwing, etc.). Thankfully the sun over the Pacific is unable to produce that signature neon orange tan the Jersey shore so effortlessly provides.

Lying across them, I could feel boners pokin’ me from neck to ankle, like some fucked up bed of nails. It was kinda cool actually, except for the one jammed into my neck causing a serious kink.

The road back to Blythe can be found in any standard horror movie. It’s lit only by moonlight, no other cars ever seem to be coming from the opposite direction nor is there ever any driving behind you. You can only see as far as your headlights and as they illuminate each shrub and cactus you pass you swear a psycho with a chainsaw is going to jump out from behind it, causing the car to swerve, flip and kill us all. I like horror movies, can you tell? At any rate, here we are at 12:30a.m. driving through the vast, never-ending, can’t-see-shit desert. You know what that means right? Of course you do. The truck breaks down. Oh, yes, yes it does. It never has before, but it went ahead and decided now would be a good first time. Never fear, these are racing dudes, grease monkeys, steel jockeys. They can fix anything. WRONG. Being the only bitch at the cock fest I called for a tow truck, as I’m being told I’m going to have to cancel it because “they fucking got this.” Being in the dead center of Butt Fuck Egypt, I’m told – no joke – that a tow truck wouldn’t be able to get out to us for another three hours. Come again? You’d think we’d be higher on the rescue list, our survival being a little more at risk and all, but no, oh no, we had to wait for them to phone Bubba, the no doubt 300lbs. local tow truck driver, whose probably been passed out for hours from the pint of Thunderbird and18-pack of Pabst he polished off earlier.

After an hour of failed repair attempts, and run around calls from local police this was getting less and less fun by the millisecond. Since we were just a little over 5 miles from town Rio decides we could crawl back faster at the rate we’re going, and that the tow truck could pick us up on the way into town should it come before we make it back ourselves. Seeing as its one long isolated stretch of hell they can’t miss us. Hmm, lemme think, walk through the middle of the desert to a destination I’ve never been, alone with a guy I just met at roughly 1:30 in the morning? Sounds like a plan to me. I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I sure know a good time when I hear one. So off we went. First, I changed into one of the dudes flip flops which were 2-3 sizes too big because my Jessica Simpsons weren’t going to cut it for a desert nature walk.

Even though it’s only 5 miles and was nighttime, it’s the middle of August so it’s still about 90 degrees out. After the second mile I started to feel like Clark Griswald in Vacation. So Rio and I decide to take a break, which of course, means make out which, of course, means fuck. Who can make out and not have sex these days? If you can, my hat’s off to you. Not sure why you’d want to, but, hey, to each his own. So, we move off the main road I’d say about a hundred or so feet using the moonlight and his lighter as our only source of light. We find a suitable rock since he’s about a foot taller than I am, especially now that I'm rockin' the Rainbow flats, and prepare for a little Howl at the Moon session.

On the rock I go, and we’re off. I must say I was impressed with my balance as I’m being pumped from behind at an alarming rate of speed and taking some serious thrusting action – thank you gymnastics for not only balance but endurance. I’m gettin' all into it, moaning, screaming, panting. The stars above us were just magical and there’s something extra special about outdoor sex, kinda like outdoor cooking, that makes it super juicy and it was really makin' this bitch hot. The outdoors, unfortunately, also possess other things, wild things and this was definitely their house we were fucking in.

At first I thought it was Rio making the noise. A sort of weird kind of hissing – hey, I ain’t judgin’ some people do some weird shit when they’re gettin’ off. It grew louder and then a *rattle* began to ring out. Rio and I froze just as quickly as we had started pumping. I couldn’t remember if you’re supposed to freeze around a snake or take off like hell fire, but we both froze so I went with it. I heard him moan, probably because he was still in me and I instantly tightened up. I mean I was trying to balance and remain completely motionless while teetering on a rock in a fucking yoga pose. We then heard movement of a sort, like dirt and small rocks shifting on the ground. In a light, silent breath Rio barely squeaks out, “Don’t move.” It’s somewhere behind him.

In the dead still desert it is deafeningly silent, so the sound of the rattling filled my head like I was standing next to the amp at a heavy metal concert. It was so LOUD I could barely think. The only thing constantly going through my mind, like on one big continuous loop, was the words “difficulty breathing, paralysis, drooling, massive hemorrhaging and eventual death are common symptoms.” Thanks to my shit luck in the third grade during a zoo field trip I drew California Rattlesnake (not anything cute like a Polar Bear or Cheetah, no, a fucking nasty snake) for my animal to study. The above phrase was all that stuck with me from my ingeniously thorough report. I, of course, couldn’t recall anything useful, like what to do when you encounter one or what to do when you’re bit by one, nope, just that the cold hard inevitability of death would come to us if this thing got a piece.

At this point, neither of us knows exactly where it is and if we move we have to do so at the exact same time, so the fucker doesn’t bite one of us. Dude is still in me. What I’m now picturing is him pulling out, the snake striking, and all of a sudden I’m sucking a whole different kind of juice out of his dick. No thanks… but, you know, I’d probably do it. Right now though, I’m trying not to slip off a rock wearing flip flops that are more like flippers. I've got one tit flopped out of my bra, which Rio's hand is firmly gripping, slightly for pleasure but mainly for support at this juncture. He's behind me, pants around his ankles, dick in, but pretty much limp at this point, trying not to breathe.

We’re standing paralyzed, facing the road, a good distance away, when we hear a car slowly approaching. Then oh-so-quietly, voices ring out followed by honking and a set of lights that are most definitely attached to a tow truck... which is driving right fucking by us. Right on. We need to get the feck out of here, now. The rocks kick up again, to our left this time and the rattling gets more erratic, fading in and out. As if linked by our overwhelming desire to not be struck by a rattlesnake and left behind for dead we both take off to the right in one swift synchronized motion. Had there been an Olympic sport for rock jumping while fucking we would have scored a perfect 10 across the board. Rio shuffles along with his pants around his ankles until he can get them up and I’m taking long ridiculous strides trying not to eat shit over my flippers like some goose-stepping Korean/Nazi soldier or something. Seeing as we were trying to get the hell out of dodge and also trying to chase down a truck we weren’t really taking our time or using our only light source to avoid all the cactus and tumbleweed thorn debris along the awesome desert terrain. I could feel how wet my legs were from the blood and my feet were numb from pain five minutes ago. Sa-weet. I figured a snake bite would hurt worse, so I buckled down.

We make it to the road and it’s the chase-down-the-train-or-get-the-conductor-to-hear-you-and-stop scene. Rio and I are booking it like Jackie Joyner-Kersey and Steve Prefontaine. I’m screaming “STOP” at the top of my lungs since I know no one’s name in the damn truck while Rio is calling out all of his buddy’s nicknames like Santa announcing some fucked up reindeer lineup, BOOMER! BULL! TACO! G-MONEY! The headlights seemed to be pulling away from us and while we hadn’t run that far we were running like our asses were on fire… and it was still about 90 degrees out. Rio’s desperately trying not to slow down while checking his pockets for his phone, which is nowhere to be found. It’s probably going through the slow digestion process of a rattlesnake. Aw, damn! Rattlesnake fact number 2, right there. On top of that, he didn’t have any of their numbers memorized; thank you modern technology for speed dialing. I checked my phone - a free upgrade when I renewed my plan, so, you know, it was pretty top-notch - which had no signal. This was evident by the NO SIGNAL text that appeared in place of my bars. In fact, I don't know what is more useless in an emergency situaiton than a cell phone, which never fucking works in places where serious emergencies tend to happen, like high in the mountains, or in the middle of the ocean, or, say, I don't know, deep in the MOJAVE FUCKING DESERT where there are snakes and serial killers, perhaps! Eventually, we saw the lights dim to blackness far down the road and we were fucked. And not in the way either of us wanted to be. We probably had only about three miles to go, but with our feet looking and feeling like ground hamburger meat it might as well have been twenty.

I’m about to start doing something dramatic, like screaming at the sky, asking why God why, when a pair of headlights appear in the distance. Radical. Our serial killer is right on schedule. As the car nears, I see that it’s a small beat up work truck. In other words, Doug! This was officially the first time I was glad he was stalking me. He always told me I’d thank him for it one day, and each time I thought it was totally creepy; as it turns out he’s right. I never told him that though. At first he tried to deny Rio a ride to which I laughed at and responded, “Move over” and we squeezed into his tiny one bench truck. So here I am, sandwiched in this munchkin truck between my evening’s booty call and my brother’s crazy friend who loves me. With Doug looking over to give Rio hard looks every 7 seconds this was already the longest car ride of my life. He refused to take me and Rio to his buddy’s place so we had to make the nearly 50 mile trek back to Parker, which we did in complete silence. That is until Rio and I had a complete crack up, the evening’s events finally sinking in. Doug just drove on, staring straight ahead, wearing his best scowl.

When I got home I didn’t hear from Rio for over a week. I was a little bummed, but not surprised. It’s standard to fuck a guy and not hear from him; in fact it’s usually protocol. Also, to quote SPEED, the bad ass Keanu Reeves action flick, which I watched on Encore last night, “Relationships that start under intense circumstances never last.” I think our little desert exploit would certainly fall under intense. I’d look for him around the studio, but could never find him. I would wonder about him. What the hell does he do? What building is he in? Or who’s office? One day I came to work, like I do any other day, dragging my still cut up, injured feet along in the employee line to get through the Paramount gates when who should I see sitting behind the Security Desk in uniform sportin’ a nametag with his real name on it? That’s right, my Rio in the sand. I knew I knew him. I should have been looking at uniforms not suits. We boned for a few months after that but it eventually fizzled out. I think we blew the provincial wad of our relationship in the desert that night and there was no getting it back. Who knew Speed was so intuitive?

The moral of THIS story: Damn, it’s a small world. Ain't it?