Pittsburgh outings

[DruulEmpire]

Actually, Hoogle makes a fair point.  With Heidi and Elwell vanishing any week now -- Heidi for her native Europe, Elwell to seek her fortune (and a presumably abuse-free personal life) in California -- my already post-Murder career down there will probably get slashed even further.  I may in a pinch visit Columbia or Lourdes from time to time, or even Paige or Yolanda -- or I may even go on a new reconaissance mission, seeking a new selection now that a new batch of girls is showing up.  For the most part, though, I anticipate scaling my clubbing even further back.  So I'll try to have a nice big blowout for my 50th birthday round about New Year's Eve -- and after that, I may oblige with a retrospective.  But I have to tell you now, I've never banged a woman (since 2005, anyway) outside of that address, least of all a feature entertainer.  Elwell has been my sole skin diving expedition -- I suppose I'm weirdly monogamous that way.  Please believe me, the idea of whisking Shyla Stylez away somewhere and banging her brains out is a fine one, but nothing like that ever developed.  I couldn't even get Elwell into the Omni William Penn!

I've been slow to report on Wednesday the 1st, when I went down there seeking a supreme trifecta: Heidi (about to leave), Elwell (celebrating a birthday and also about to leave) and good old Columbia.  I got it, too.  I walked in and Heidi smiled grandly and noticed me immediately.  She claimed to have some psychic sense that Murdock was coming -- well, good for her.  We got caught up a bit and then I took her up for half an hour.  I keep bugging her -- nicely -- for pictures, and since we're communicating so well online now she promises she'll e-mail some for Christmas, so we'll see what comes of that.  It was a standard but good session: the hugging, the breasts, the culture shock.  She murmurs about being 37 and I explain the term "milf" to her.

I go back down, and truth to tell my briefcase is hiding various items: a simply shiny blue polyester robe I picked up a long time ago, some admittedly rather basic champagne, a couple of cards, and as promised from the last time, a pack of condoms -- plus some custom-orderd jewelry.  So there I am with that briefcase, and I sit alone for a few minutes at my own table, sipping my Sam Adams ...    

[DruulEmpire]

I always try to catch an Elwell movie -- even if "Sorority Row" makes me think the "ority" should have been left out of the title -- so I saw "Love and Other Drugs" with that community college English teacher friend of mine (bizarre that precisely such a Pittsburgh teacher should be the Russell Crowe character in "The Next Three Days"), and I'm more than happy to report to her that "Drugs" sucked with her clearly cut out of it -- but more on that in a bit.

So there I am in the corner, wonder how long it will take to wait for her, and it's dark, and this girl with this cute short haircut comes up behind me, and I turn and ask "Who are you?"  It's her!  Somehow the darkness plus the new cut throws me for a second.  The cut is very cute, I think fitting with the overall proportionality of her petite body very nicely.  So we sit and talk a bit.  It's clear to us that 99% that of a week's worth of shooting the "pajama party" scene (really more of a "lingerie orgy") in "Drugs" has been cut altogether -- makes one suspicious that films are started in the full knowledge that a lot of cool footage will be left lying around, maybe even to generate that footage.  No Josh Gad scene, nothing intersecting Jake Gyllenhaal, ah well.  She only counts as "gigs" her speaking roles, so there's a non-gig.

She's delighted to be taken up for ninety minutes, allowing us to blow the first twenty minutes or so on catch-up.  It's true, she's off to California soon, the upside of this that no longer do I have to sneak and hide my e-correspondence from her crazy boyfriend.  It was truly nuts -- here he was a millionaire, but because of trouble with the IRS (or so she reports) he's broke and in fact has been relying on her income.  She clears $100,000 or more a year and she's been a lifeline to this guy who ages ago splurged two fur coats on her but hasn't been able to spring for her since.  "You're too nice," I sum up for her -- not wanting to reflect too hard on how that may also be working for myself.

We order champagne, though she insists on shots, and at one point she treats me to some strong mediciny stuff lying between peppermint and vodka.  (Is this what they call schnapps?)  I show her a card and she notices I also have out a little shiny blue polyester robe I bough a long time ago for her -- very practical, for it hides her ass from the camera they have set up and masks our sex.  I'm stunned by her delight in it.  Wild that this girl rawks a simple polyester robe so cheerfully -- anyway, it's hers, if only because I'll probably never buy another one, at least for not so petite a house girl, ever again.


I tell her I had myself checked, as she asked me to, and she insists on not believing me, although at least she's playful about it.  (If I stop to think about it, I guess I can't blame her cynicism.)  But it's true, I had a battery of tests, both basic ones for various cholesterols and my thyroid and such, and several for potential STDs, and I'm clean.  She has no medical proof, but pronounces herself clean as well.  It's moot anyway, because I sneak out a couple of condoms.

Oh, but it's always good to get back in there.  I tell her my cock is in love with her.  When we get to talking about freed-up e-mail, she tells me she'll take e-mails from my cock as well as from me.  I've already left her one from "him," and a couple from me.  Will she ever get around to replying?  As of yet, still unknown.  Anyway, she warns me she may be menstruating -- but pshaw, I've been doing it in spite of menstruation since my first girlfriend in the Seventies.

So we get a nice gallop going -- we have to slow down from time to time, to make sure I'm not getting my cock sprained (like Natalya did to me -- see far above) or that we're fitting all right, and yet again  I wonder what a petite Haitian babe just turning 25 sees in a tall heavy bearded white guy turning 50.  Is it possible, especially with my knowledge or diction or simply my taking her seriously, that I am even half as exotic to her as she is to me?

We are America -- we are so different, and yet we fit together so nicely.

Strangely, we're a little too selfless when it comes to the sex.  She appears to get off, and then declares "That was nice."  I'm concerned for her neurology.  I've been able to make women yell their lungs out before, and I'd like that back -- of course, doing it seated on a couch with the threat of zipper teeth riding up against your erection puts a damper on it.  So now she's intent on making me cum, so I confess to her that if she tells me I'm -- it's -- "he's" big (sad to say, it's only standard caliber), maybe that'll do it.  But I don't, even though I'd like to, and she'd like it too -- but it's still a sweet session, and so we break up and she freshens up.

During the remainder of our time, I give her the brithday gift that's also a going away present.  It's a silver and red paua shell version of the bracelet for the Witchblade from that silly live-action TV show on TNT ten years ago.  I give her a card telling the legend of the Witchblade, that it has lived thousands of years, that it attaches itself to women because they're more elemental, more attuned to the earth, and perhaps Joan of Arc wielded it.  It deflects bullets (I know, I know, Wonder Woman's bracelets did that first) and deals with enemies.  I tell he it means that she doesn't have to take anyone's crap.  After what she's been through with the last boyfriend, it seems fitting.

She's very sweet, and urges me to write -- not just her, but for myself.  We get out of there and that may be the last time, at least for a long whiole, I see her again -- she may pop back in a couiple of months, or maybe she's lost to Cali for good, it's hard to say.  And that was just about my whole visit -- except for Columbia, and a couple other girls ...

[DruulEmpire]

I'm going to keep Hoogle at bay till mid-February, by which time I may semi-retire from this scene.

What do you do, when you're embarking upon a whole new decade of your life, and the most wonderful day of all may be the very first day? In my case it was the fourth, but you get the idea.  My early December visit, circa Elwell's 25th birthday, got rounded out at the end by my getting hit up by an aggressive blonde, let's call her Holly, but that was about it.  Afterwards I started plotting via e-mail with Brandi Morgan.

What I decided was this: in honor of the 50th birthday, five girls, one for each decade.  I would have Elwell all to myself on the side, leaving four: Brandi, Columbia, Yolanda, and one more.  However, while Brandi and I could occasionally reach Columbia via e-mail, it turned out that at the last minute she scored tickets to the Winter Classic that New Year's Day, so she would not be available.  (You would think the Penguins could have bothered to win just for her, but oh well.)  So I decided Columbia was there in spirit, and promised I'd set aside a fund of money I would have spent on her to be used booth dances throughout the new year.  So I considered her there in spirit, and was prepared for four.

In a supreme stroke of luck, I walked in and bam, Elwell was on stage naked and she grinned and stopped dancing and crouched by me while I greeted her and gave her some idea what was what -- basically, I wanted to save her for last, which was cool by her.  I almost immediately spotted Yolanda, wearing some cute fur-trimmed gold lame around her ass, and got her attention, telling her I'd be calling on her shortly.  Overall mission pretty well accomplished, I then went out into the hotel lobby with my good old Sam Adams (as a kind of bar ID) and asked that the desk call Brandi, for she had asked I do just that.  They were of split minds, though; some new guy named Mike couldn't get this past the protocol in his cerebral computer.

Luckily, another guy at the desk bothered to make the call.  I'll call him Todd, because the shape of his face and the cut of his hair and beard reminds me a little of MSNBC political analyst Chuck Todd.  Todd asked if I was Murdock, and he confirmed that Brandi would come down to me.  Going up and down was a little awkward that day, as the main elevator was out and you could either go up and down stairs or use the (even more) cramped freight elevator.  In due course Brandi came down, complete with some special Playboy Vixens magazines which she appears in, and I told her my master plan was to snag one more girl.  I told her we seem to have the same taste in women, and she agreed, so I wondered if we could scout the girls in club and spontaneuously pick one out.  She went one further, and said she would make sure that the girl was also to Yolanda's liking, that way all three of them would be sure to get along.  Brandi was VERY gracious that evening, a full trouper, for not only was she handing out free magazines and pulling a private little event right between official shows for the club, but she even took my little pencil flashlight and went into the club alone to fetch the new girl.  And she did well, too ...

[DruulEmpire]

(I must wrap this up, if only because I'll be checking out a newly-returned-to-America Heidi this Saturday. )

Brandi waded out into the busy bar and picked out a rather new girl, let's call her Margaret.  She's very petite, dark-haired, no breasts to speak of, but she has a vaguely Katy Perry prettiness about her and a huge elaborately artistic tattoo draped all across her back and she exudes positive energy, so it was a good call.  Brandi got me back in and it turned out Margaret was finishing off her stage dance.  So Brandi and I chatted with her while she was still on stage and then we brought Yolanda over to us.  Minor revelation: get Yolanda with a girl or two and this Russian can TALK, just on and on, even about particularly bad drive-in-style sci-fi movies that the rest of civilization has already forgotten -- which, come to think of it, I just made sound far more fascinating than it actually was.  Anyhow, Margaret joined us, and Yolanda did indeed like her, so after waiting a couple of minutes for Yolanda to quit gabbing we left as one throng, and we got to use the extra-cramped ( ) freight elevator.

We ordered some Korbel champagne, and then I explained my story idea, having to advise Yolanda to put her top back on (yes, I'm TRULY perverse).  The idea was: I was juggling the girls, each had special qualities -- Brandi was all-American beauty, Yolanda was an exotic James Bond fantasy girl, Margaret was just plain wild (you could just tell she really was, too) -- and suddenly they were all aware of each other and were vying to be #1.  This story ended instantly, as they decided Brandi was inviting two friends of hers.  Okay, so that worked too -- but it did leave me feeling from time to time like someone spying on the ultimate sorority, as they checked each other out and murmured "Women are so beautiful."  Brandi splayed her fingertips over the small of Margaret's tattoed back and said "Women know how to touch each other."  Yolanda was mysterious, continuing to gab, but breaking to either speak Russian (untranslated, argh) at length into my ear or poke fun at porn, choosing a slightly nasal thin high register as she faux-dry-humped me and declared "Oh, baby, it's so good!"  Evidently they weren't that impressed by the earlier visiting feature (offhand I'm not even sure who she was -- Jenna Haze?)  But they all took turns alternately smothering me (Margaret, eh, not so much) and dry-humping me, and all in all it was a good hour.

That left Elwell -- which was a bit involved, in part because my throng was probably noticed as it left, and now I was back I was getting hit on extra hard and heavy by the remaining club girls ...

[DruulEmpire]

You never know when you're going to make a new friend.  Take Louise.  Who's Louise?  Well, Elwell was down at the bar, but she was talking at length with some young sharp fellow and not budging, so I was left vulnerable to come-ons, and one came from a nice-enough-looking blonde named Louise.  Turned out I was able to chat at fair length with Luise, even about the distinct differences between the movie Blade Runner and the actual novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?  My mind was fairly blown, as I happened to discover possibly the most sci-fi-literate girl in my career there.  She still didn't do much for me aesthetically, but I'll have to get her in a booth for a dance or two someday just to honor her body of knowledge.

I got to putting on my coat and gloves, and Elwell finally got away from the guy.  She said he was involved in baseball, though I pressed her for a name and she said something like Gary Mitchell.  Gary Mitchell?  Any Star Trek buff will tell you that Gary Mitchell was the Gary Lockwood character in an early episode, an old friend of Kirk's who gets godlike powers at the energy barrier at the edge of our galaxy.  So somehow I suspect she got the name wrong.  But she was apologetic and got me upstairs ... and the funny thing is, as we finished off, she said "Tell no one."  In one sense it's awfully late to honor that in this thread, but I'll try it anyway.  We got along as we have in the past, and that was plenty, that was everything.  Turns out she's still headed for Cali but will be just a little while longer yet.  Near the end I mentioned I had turned fifty and that seemed to catch her by surprise, so she held my face and fussed and said she couldn't believe it.  In a subsequent e-mail she repeated she couldn't believe it and told me it was a great time.

And thus the next decade of my life begins.  It was quite a night and would be hard to top -- but I am determined to do so, if not with girls and champagne, then achievement and success.  I went there seeking diversion and met the eighth woman in my life, and now I dare believe the ninth or tenth may yet be out there in the world.  It makes for one hell of a prescription against depression.

[DruulEmpire]

To someone reading out there this thread may seem like it turned into The Elwell Show, but I paid a quick two-hour visit last night when Elwell wasn't there, and I'm going to tell this non-chronologically, since the first thing to happen was the best, but the rest wasn't bad either.

So anyhow, it was the night of that Steelers-Ravens game and a big TV was on, but the club itself remained highly active.  (Wonder if they would have bothered with Miss America?  Didn't stick around for that -- wild that Nebraska won, I think that's the first time in history.)  Shyla Stylez was doing late shows, I'd caught her once before (somewhere way up this thread must be a report on that), but I didn't much care.  I was waiting around for Columbia, who I'd missed for my 50th birthday blowout two weeks before (see directly above) and was vulnerable to come-ons and got approached by this rather solidly built and awfully sweet Asian (somehow Inuit-seeming) girl with mostly blonde hair, let's call her Toffee.  Weird, the success I've had lately daring to broach science fiction (must be my undying Keisha Evans fandom), because I confessed I was trying to write and that led to her confessing to loving fantasy and Stephen King.  She asked if I believed in life on other planets and seemed relieved when I said that sheer arithmetic says there has to be -- in fact, it looks like there's respiration going on in the Martian atmosphere.  Well, it's kind of a personal code of mine that any stripper who understands the Drake equation is probably good for a dance, so I got her in a booth and she alternated between a headstand and nibbling on and breathing into my ear, like I said she was rather solidly built but clearly limber.

That was fun, and then I noticed Yolanda from two weeks ago -- but it's funny, there's never been any serious spark between us.  DAMN, but she loves wrapping that fur-trimmed gold lame around her ass, third time now I've caught her in that, a stripper usally rotates more.  But she can get away with it.  Round about then I also noticed Margaret, also from two weeks ago, in a clingy pink slip, and she got all cheery and round-eyed when she recognized me.  So we had some nice booth time, a little extra debriefing from New Year's Day, and you have to admire a girl with no breasts to speak of who still tries to smother you anyway.  So that too was fun.

One "pimp" pointed Columbia out to me, she had just come in and was still in street clothes, watching the game.  At that point the Steelers got a field goal and finally tied with the Ravens, having played catch-up all night.  As the third quarter ran out of time we slipped back and got in some dance.  I was a little concerned for her, she had a bit of a cough, but the woman is indefatigable, always up, always glam, always athletic.  Later I flung singles at her while she was on stage and trying to surreptitiously glance back at the TV in mid-dance.  What can I say, in Pittsburgh it's so easy for a woman to be a bigger sports fan than I am.  (She's not that into baseball, though.)  We stood together as the Steelers got their great final touchdown and nothing really gelled for the Ravens thereafter.  What can I tell you -- nevermore, Ravens, nevermore.

So that was my evening -- but wait, now what happened first of all.  I caught sight of Heidi almost immediately, she was momentarily TV-hypnotized but she gave me the biggest smile and hug and we pretty directly went upstairs.  Not much dancing, more of a nude conversation with fondling, but it was unusual conversation.  She appealed to my inner geographer as she told me how her extended family hailed from Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan and she was ultimately Circassian.  This blew my mind, as to this day I recall a Merriam-Webster dictionary whose definition states as a bald fact that Circassians are beautiful.  Ever see that famous National Geographic cover photo of the slightly swarthy handsome-featured girl with the startling green eyes?  That's what we're talking about (even though Heidi is dark-eyed).  Anyhow, the club patronage continues to mysteriously and cruelly undervalue her, but she got a gig as a classy hostess of a charity pool tournament sponsored by no less than the Duquesne Club.  This is a pretty big deal.  I remember when one local cartoonist, Tim Menees, would show some rich old farts sitting around in Ye Olde Steele Clubbe -- well, of course that's got to be the Duquesne Club.  To live in Pittsburgh is to live in the shadow of Old Money, the names Carnegie and Mellon and Frick and Hillman all over the place, and in some places it's a bit more than just a shadow.  So anyhow, they got Heidi in a low-cut high-slit blue cocktail dress, racking the balls ( ! ) and all that, and an obsessive photographer took a ton of pictures of her -- which she says she'll send me sometime soon, so win all around.  But when we broke up, she thanked me for being a friend and told me "You are better than Duquesne Club."

Wow.  Damn.  "You are better than Duquesne Club."  Now those are words to keep a Pittsburgher's heart warm during the winter -- especially from the lips of a latter-day Uschi Digard.

2011 ... you may now proceed.      

[DruulEmpire]

Uh-oh, views-to-posts has exceeded 239, plutonium level, time to knock it back down lol.  Still haven't received photos from Heidi, ah well.

Put in a couple of evenings as a kind of belated Valentine trip.  The first was primarily to see my Red Queen Columbia, hoped to also catch Fortune from my "murder" of April 2008 (see way above) but she was flitting about with other guys and we never connected.  Lourdes had been scheduled but she never showed.  So I got to meet others along the way.  A lean hard-bodied athlete of a dancer, let's call her Kay, was truly exotic, having tattoos all over her body from all over the world (or so the story goes).  She lived in Japan awhile (she's Caucasian herself) and is rather steeped in the culture.  As with Louise from a few visits ago, not that much of a sexual spark but someone good to hang and converse with.  Another dancer, black and cute in a vaguely Holly Robinson Peete way, turned up, let's call her Christian (no irony of any sort intended), and I was taken with the neatly tailored floweriness of her dress and even the cute black-and-white tailoring of her underwear.  Our booth dance heated up very nicely, enough to consider taking her upstairs sometime, she bunny-hopped atop me quite savagely.

After that, Columbia is usually my "cool-down" girl, but it felt different that night.  She strode in and perked up and cheered to see me, she didn't need any drinks, so to the booth we went.  She's been opening up more, evidently she's a landlord in the process of getting sued by her soon-to-be-ex-husband  -- yikes!  And she's been needing a massage, I tried gamely at that but am no expert.  How does she bear up?  She says she's simply a happy person, it's as if her DNA wires her that way.  It was strange, we had our usual slow cool session, but I wanted her worse than ever before and I told her so.  Afterwards we hugged and talked and I wished her the best, and that rounded out an evening that did not shape up at all as I had hoped but was still very nice.

The next evening I came for Elwell, and surprisingly enough it only took 100 minutes this time for her to arrive at her shift, and in the meantime I met others.  I bumped into Christian again, who in a light and sassy way made no bones about how I ought to be spending on her, and she challenged me while she was dancing in the side cage.  I'm only your number three girl tonight, huh?  So who are the other two?  I said #2 was Yolanda -- she was there in some car-racing-themed bodysuit, I was tempted to try her but never got to her.  #1 of course was Elwell.  Christian happily conceded to both women, my answer got me off the hook.  A little later, Fortune flitted by once more, she was happy to recognize me but she was already running half an hour late to leave and get home.  Fortune was not with me, hawr hawr.

But I did well by three others ...

[DruulEmpire]

I had the weirdest feeling I'd met Angie before, a short curly brunette with just a wisp of Kate Beckinsale prettiness, but I've been up and down this thread and nothing has sparked a memory, so Angie she now is.  Very accessible, very fun, a bit talkative, certainly more than the downright near-silent OTHER curly brunette of that evening who I'll call Navajo because she was, that's right, a Navajo.  Then I reunited with Margaret, the petite blackhaired girl picked out for me by Brandi Morgan for my 50th birthdays bash (directly above), and that was very sweet, she looked into my eyes very mischievously a lot of times as we got it on in the booth.

I love it when a girl just sort of grins and goes crazy and rushes over to you.  Columbia did that a little the previous night, and as Elwell was on stage and noticed me she grinned and rushed over and we talked and conspired in mid-show.  It''s always a cool feeling to get that.

When I got her upstairs, there was some catching up to do.  Seems she'll be a girl of two cities, still stationed in Pittsburgh but heading out Santa Barbara way a lot.  (She's due at the Playboy mansion in March, I hope she knows about the water lol.)  I also know she now has a serious boyfriend, the kind of guy who cries at being separated from her.  She's a determinedly not-so-romantic person but I have to say, I know where that guy is coming from.  Yet here we still are, if she ever wanted to quit the secret sex thing I'd be cool with that, but damn it, we seem to have this persistent mutual magnetism, we each seem to need it in our own mysterious way.  If my code of honor was worth a damn I'd insist she be true to this guy, but my code cracks apart as we collide.  It's brutal but true that betrayal is a turn-on, the fact she's keeping me secret from the main man in her life makes me feel like quite the catnip.  At least this new kid is fun and can hang with her and treats her right, I haven't even met him and already I think I like him.  She admits to feeling odd about our sessions -- in fact I thought this time would be the big break.  Yet that's how this thing is, it's never very intimate because she leaves a lot of e-mails unanswered, she's more into Twitter, and yet it never breaks either, she's never definitively off to Cali or definitively faithful, it just keeps squeaking by like this, and I know someday I should trade her in, find a ninth woman who could really share my life, barring the miracle that Elwell could ever become that.  But the ninth woman is Penelope, and Elewell is Calypso on Ogygia, and Odysseus while away one hell of a long time there, and had Calypso been anything like Elwell, could I have blamed him?

The Odyssey is very much on my mind, as TCM will show "2001" any minute lol, upcoming Oscars and all that.  But I sent her a silly note and she wrote back that she found it beautiful.  It's a strange friendship, a kind of micro-marriage, all the boredom and disillsusionment sliced away leaving just the happiness and touching.  It can't hold, yet I can't break it.  I so wanted this installment to be definitive, but this is going to drag on a little more yet.

[Hoogleboogle]

Hi, Druul.

This Friday, A stunningly beautiful and busty porn star, Audrey Bitoni, will be a featured dancer at a club in your city (Cheerleaders.)

She's a favorite of mine -- I just sent an email to the clubs in my area which book features suggesting they bring her in. I'd love to meet her, but if I can't I'd be especially interested to read about you meeting her.

[DruulEmpire]

Hoog (may I call you Hoog?), thank you for your patience overall.  It so happens I'm hitting Blush this very evening (rare that I try to squeeze in something before a work night) for what may be my last rendezvous with what I consider the exotic latter-day Germano-Turkish Uschi Digard that is "Heidi" (code name not to be confused with any actual dancers named Heidi), who promises to at long last bring photos of herself.  Two weeks from now I'll try to combine a reunion with a fave of mine, Brandi Morgan, with a belated celebration of three years of a crazy friendship with Elwell, who right now is in Miami.

It's funny, but the feature dancers barely register on me anymore.  Right now Blush has a reasonably busty gal named Jaded Dawn, but I'm going to pass on her.  I've been aware of Ms. Bitoni but I'm going to pass on her too.  Only time anyone talked me into checking a feature out, that was when fellow Pittsburgher motivated me to see Teri Weigel, and she looked nice and was dedicated to trying to handjob me, but somehow that was not a make-or-break experience.  Weirdly enough, the time Lisa Lipps simply held my face and stared into my eyes, or the one time Sofia Staks stopped by, are the kind of celebrity moments I've come to treasure, and that era is pretty well past, at least for Blush.

Best way to get me to Cheerleaders is hitch me with a local ride.  Berkovw and I once chatted about once making an outing together but that never came through; he had to take a long hiatus from here but I think he may be lurking once more.  Shimmerin's a Pittsburgher but I haven't seen him around in an age.  (Zorro used to hail from around here but I think he has pretty much had it with Pittsburgh and this area.    Besides, he sounds like he has enough to worry about lately.    )

But who knows, if you keep track of Cheerleaders maybe someone will show up over there who will convince me to finally try it.  (So far, Blush has been able to hang on to Shyla Stylez.    )  I correspond with someone who works for Blush but frequents Cheerleaders, maybe he could help me with that.  However, beyond finding a woman who seriously does it for me, or finding me a Pittsburgh partner in crime ... the only way left to motivate me?  Send cash.    

[DruulEmpire]

Some boring computer news is a necessary preamble to this update.  I was clobbered a week ago by a really huge stupid malware calling itself WindowsRepair, which instead of just sneaking in and using you dominates your screen and makes your computer useless.  A computer-savvy friend kicked it out, but my computer has been feeling weirdly crippled ever since.  If I simply click Google search options, for example, I get bushwhacked by shopping sites; to see a Google option I actually have to retype the line of code shown.  Nor can I check the club website now, because it relies on Adobe Flash Player 10,2, which I've reloaded but it still does not recognize.

So I was flying blind, with no sense of the dancer schedule (and no idea how I'll ever get it back) -- but not too blind, for I was able to swap e-messages with Columbia, as well as this week's feature dancer, veteran favorite Brandi Morgan.  Also, the club is finally, finally, beginning to acknowledge the usefulness of my existence -- I now receive invitations from it, and the other night I was slipped a free admission pass good through June.  Anyhow, I was informed that Brandi would have a show at 11 Tuesday night, and I have some days off from my crazy overnight job, so I figured, go for it.

It is tempting, sorely tempting, to blow money some time on more "reconnaissance" trips, like I did years ago.  The "stable" of girls is changing all the time, and some of them even look good and intriguing.  Anyhow, I check the listing at the door, I see Elwell was scheduled for the noon-to-seven shift -- but then she waves to me from the bar.  Turns out she's working that whole day.  So she takes care of a couple of guys while I deal out singles at the stage, the dancers slowly improving in look as the songs go by.  Before I know it it's just ten minutes to 11 and Elwell is finally free, so I figure, catch Brandi another time (I'm planning on Friday, that's tomorrow) and do the Elwell thing tonight.

Tonight I finally glimpse what a savage this girl is.  Sorry, not in a sexual way -- well, not mostly.  All this time I've been wondering: does she want to be true to this new guy in her life?  It was beginning to sound like that last time.  It's wild, that this hot girl strips naked and eagerly gives me a lotion handjob while talking with a straight face about her boyfriend feeling insecure.  Gee, you think?  It's finally dawning on me that none of my old definitions of anything truly apply to her.  She tells me "I love making you happy" -- this is sexy coming from the voice of any date, but from her, oh my God.  So my brain begins to wonder, Jesus, Druul, why aren't you hustling to seriously get this woman into your life?  So I ask her "Would you ever marry?"  But it's out of the question for her, because she enjoys being single, unable to choose one guy and stick with him.  Fidelity may simply not be in her, and that would be a factor for any prospective groom to seriously consider.  But she goes on to say that she would marry her dog.  No, no **15**, nothing like that -- it's just that she's so high on all the unconditional affection.  And maybe there's an insight at long last into how and why she ever picked me in the first place -- because I'm the kind of man who comes pre-trained, the one housebroken enough to try to be discreet, and from me too comes the unconditional affection.  But for her, issues like literal puppy love or fidelity or marriage are all hazy and unmapped, overlapping and interchangeable.  Add to that an attention span shot to shit by our Twitter age and I simply have to take the past three years as its own proof of any sense of loyalty.  Although she never said "I love making you happy" before.  So it goes on being both sweet and tough.

I confess I passed up Brandi Morgan for her, so she tells one of the security to pass the word to Brandi that Murdock wants to see her after the show -- and sure enough, less than half an hour after 11, Brandi Morgan walks in on us in a furry leopard print bikini, which I always appreciate.  Now at this point you may be wondering "Brandi AND Elwell -- THEN what!?!?", and they did discuss that a bit, but it would have cost a fortune, and Brandi was sweet enough to figure that out and explain it to Elwell.  (Something else for any Mr. Elwell to worry about -- has she any grasp of frugality?)  But we all sat and gabbed awhile, the two girls really dig each other (they don't really really REALLY dig each other but you can't have everything) and then Brandi went, I e-mailed her later, and Elwell and I wrapped up our hour.

People may be starting to suspect that we've had whookita-whookita-whookita.  One (earlier) time a man came in and told Elwell the room smelled like sex, and I think Brandi caught on this time as well.  Elwell recommends I seek out a Gucci fragrance.  Eh, I'll check it.  So long as I never quite become Emil Janning to her Marlene Dietrich, I find her worth listening to.

Still to come: Brandi Morgan performs, and perhaps more of Columbia.  

[DruulEmpire]

It's wild, how easy it is to forget some of this.  I did get to see Brandi dance for the "businessman's lunch" shift, but that was about that.

The three main temptations down there have been Columbia, Heidi and Elwell -- more on them in a bit.  Yet there have come new temptations, though none of Elwell intensity.  I got Margaret in a booth and I joked that I liked being taken advantage of and the next thing I knew she was French kissing me.  Somewhat similarly I met a sweet curly brunette, let's call her Sweetie, and I wouldn't mind getting a full half-hour from her.  So some are intriguing that way.  One, I'll call her Eden, looked great, a glamorous blonde wearing a nice sort of bustier, but I swiftly found her not nearly as chesty as her costuming suggested, and her body just a little too bony, but most of all she didn't seem that into the whole thing.  So there's scenery, and some true seductresses amidst the scenery, and the talent marches on.

Now, Columbia and I have a very remote, cool, yet groovy relationship with.  But after all this angst?  And all this promising of photos?  It finally, finally happened for Heidi.  Yes, you thought it might be just a perpetual running gag, but she finally gave up on America to reside permanently in Europe.  Her family is there, and her heart is there, and she's really into this Czech summer camp for kids.  So I got to see her on her very last day at Blush, which meant something to her.  She was very quiet about it, not wanting to alarm the management or anyone -- but I got to see her off AND SHE GAVE ME SOME PICTURES, believe it or not.  They were from a time when she was down in Miami in a very short-lived marriage.  Back then she kept her hair blonde.  She's on the beach, in a conservatively (by today's standards anyway) black bikini strongly resembling lingerie, and she shows off her bod and at one point hoists her rack.  What's wild is that she gained some weight since the pictures, and it all seemed to go in the right places, making her bosom fuller, rounder, softer, more pendulous.  The pictures are nice but I think the stark sunlight cancels out the some of the beautiful shape of her face, and I hope she'll be able to send another picture with more shading.  Anyhow, I keep saying it and I stand by it: she's my Uschi Digard.  I plan to send her an e-note at least once a month, taking a pulse of Europe.

So Heidi's out.  And Elwell?  As of this writing, I went down just the other day and wham, she was right there in a wonderful red dress strapped diagonally all across her body.  So, OF COURSE, because I instantly met with Elwell and she made me promise to wait for her while she vanished to make a phone call, Margaret hit on me, and Sweetie hit on me, and even Yolanda hit on me.  Now that's wild -- Yolanda is such a self-assured man-eater that she usually doesn't bother with me, but she was probably having a slow patch for all of ten minutes, so she decided to hit on me -- and I wanted her back later but could never have her, natch.  Anyhow, I turned girls down, and then Elwell came back for me and we had another hour.

I will never understand this relationship.  For some perverse impossible reason we simply dig the hell out of each other.  She has her main squeeze, and she has her little career (she's excited about a company of hers making clothes for dogs, which is all very entrepreneurial and everything but eesh, I keep my true feelings silent), and then there's me.  She's in a bad way that day, having lived on little more than water and vegetables and a lot of margaritas, so she ducks into the bathroom for some dry retching -- there's nothing left in her to come out -- and she's having her period besides, yet I can't see any of that fazing her, magnificent in her long curly hair, and I am in fact happy to be a sixty-plus-minute break for her while she takes it easy and begins to feel better.

We talk -- and I think we've exhausted the territory we can talk about.  We'll always be happy to play Magnet and Steel, but here's the thing: I've already made my impression on her, in all the simple mindless ways.  I've done the non-haggling, the bracelet, the unconditional adoration, the e-poetry, all that.  But if I am to be ever more than simply an accessory in her life, I must achieve.  I've got to lose thirty pounds, and /or complete a damn manuscript, and/or finally get my website up.  I tell her the site will feature poems to Lady 8, that being her.

This of course begs the concept of a Lady 9.  It would be too much work, too much square peg and round hole (so to speak) to make us a working couple.  I worry that if we ever met for more than two hours we would drive each other crazy, and not in the good way.  So there's got to be a Lady 9, I've got to make that happen.  But if I find her, I owe so much to my Lady 8, for her miraculously rescuing me from eleven years of sexlessness, for enhancing my sense of self-worth severalfold.  I've got to work to be worthy of Lady 8, and Lady 9.

So I may not be back down till October -- and that will be plenty of time to cool off, sit back, and oblige Hoog with a retrospective.  But first, my place in the Addventure to secure, and the rest of my crazy Atlas Shrank thread.  I love shoving my irons into various fires.

PS: there's an interesting extra detail to this.  After our hour, I still wanted more time with Elwell, so I got her in a booth and showed her what I had forgotten to show her before: a bottle of Gucci by Gucci "pour hommes."  Rather awkwardly, this turned her on -- once our most intimate time was past us.  I asked for shpritzing advice, and she said: (arm)pits, chest, back of the neck.  Back of the neck?  Hey, I'll take her word for it.  I'm indebted to Michael Crichton for first introducing me to the term "rhinencephalon," literally "nose-head," that core of the brain inherited from a time when sight and hearing were not as strong a sense as smell.  Seriously, men, I kid you not: take care of your woman's rhinencephalon.  It's obscenely expensive, but for the tiny bit you need to shpritz you'll get a big reaction, it's long-term cost-effective.

[DruulEmpire]

Right now it's all burning out, the Elwell thing and with it the Blush thing.  She got into trouble with a new bouncer and has been -- suspended?  Or fired outright?  Suddenly she has to make an "honest" living.  Meanwhile it sounds like Yolanda got into trouble of her own -- which is shocking, because Yolanda brings so much business she deserves a percentage.  Now she's at Cheerleaders, and perhaps can give Elwell an entree there.  Everything sounds very up in the air -- her calendar, going back to dancing or not.  I telephoned her just now, and she sounds like a sniffling hungover shadow of her better self.  I'm finding this in general in my life -- no one close to me seems to have a really strong grasp of life, we're all just scrambling.  It's sillier in Elwell's case because she has blown through so much money like it's nothing, money which could be making her life a little easier right now.

At this point all she really needs me for is my money.  Which is a laugh, because I continue to be just a working class schlub.  She needs to use me and yet gives back less and less.  She's under constraints, like the jealous boyfriend who doesn't want her to dance, but even so I'm just not feeling as valuable to her anymore.

There's a corny old song: "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."  I still wouldn't have.  But I think I've about had it, especially with all my favorite girls except Columbia gone and my checking in on Heidi out in the Czech Republic once every month or so.  It was a good run.  Was it worth it?  Ultimately, yes.  I'll see if I can get a half hour upstairs with Columbia tomorrow before work, I've taken her upstairs only once before.  And then -- that may well be it.  It's all up to Elwell.

For a while now I've known I'll have to look for a woman beyond Elwell, and have even wondered "How will I top her?"  Today, she seems toppable.  This misadventure has very nearly run its course, and I dare to believe that the ninth woman in my life may yet be truly extraordinary.    

[DruulEmpire]

On Wednesday evening before work I squeezed in thirty minutes with Columbia.  I've taken her upstairs only once before, ages ago, and I've been skipping her from months out of an obsession with Elwell, and it was such a relief to be with her.  I was catching her just as her divorce was finally being concluded, and it sounds like she has the world's best tenant.  A man breathes easier around her, and I like to think she's closer to my Lady 9, whoever that may be, than my current Lady 8.

And now I get to hijack this thread, and perhaps the very tone of this website, and talk about a peeve of mine.  I have a heavy heart. I have always had a heavy heart.  But only just now did I bother to look up the phrase.  Turns out a heavy heart is considered nothing but a mood or an affliction.  In that one sense, Aldous Huxley's Brave New World has already arrived.  "Why the heavy heart?"  Health is considered to be lightheartedness.  The trouble being, Elwell is lighthearted, and frankly that can suck.  Columbia is a naturally happy person, and smart besides, items she volunteered to the conversation ranged from Amerigo Vespucci to triglycerides, so she can get away with lightheartedness, that's the way to do it, she's the closest thing I have to Holly Golightly.  But the heart relies a lot on the mind, and Elwell would rather blast her mind on margaritas.  She's not dumb, but I worry about how smoothly unwrinkled her brain may be as it resists any depth of learning.  She can read and write, and yet is sometimes functionally illiterate by virtue of her simply hating and resenting and flinging aside the very act of reading (anything longer than Twitter) or writing (anything longer than some long joke she once heard).  This Jobsian age pampers and trumpets the superficial more than it has ever been pampered and trumpeted before.  A man with a heavy heart can find no home with Elwell, there is no there there.

I will go on having a heavy heart, for the simple reason that this century may well make or break our species.  Certainly the last century could have, as the Cuban missile crisis demonstrated, but this time the crisis may be even bigger and more inescapable.  From my standpoint, I am heavyhearted because there are too fucking many people placing such a sacred imperative upon being lighthearted.  Have you earned your lightheartedness?  I would be lighthearted myself, if only I knew that more of you out there were doing your share of the heavy lifting.  But it's gossip this and sports that and gambling this and drugs that and midlife crisis this and middle class aspirations that -- oh, for fucking out loud, people!  This may well be the most magnificent planet to be found for at least a hundred light-years around -- and I didn't pull that number out of a hat either, I've dedicated my whole life to trying to pin down precisely such speculative statistics -- so please, enough about our little selves.  Fuck yeah, I have a heavy heart -- and I will go on having a heavy heart, because I am resolved to remain strong enough to lift it.  In a perverse way, Beshine or Chelsea Charms symbolize this.  (Finally got your attention back, huh?)  It takes a proper attitude, an inner strength as well as obvious outer strength, to carry all that with wit and grace and business savvy.  One need only consider cases ranging from Lolo Ferrari to Sheyla Hershey to appreciate the alternative.  So this place has provided a perverse metaphor for a much deeper and more universal condition, which happens to be my own.

This is the century of the heavy heart.  We need more uplifting women.

Addendum: thank you very much, bignats.  (I like thinking of you as bignats, sounds like Ignatz, the German form of Ignatius.)  Honestly, I would love to AVERT an apocalypse.  But I'm glad you're "getting" this thread.  

[bignatslover]

I love reading this thread.  Tales of lust, philosophy and the apocalypse.

[pedonbio]

I love reading this thread.  Tales of lust, philosophy and the apocalypse.

And the sense of smell. As we get older I think we come to rely on it more and more.

[DruulEmpire]

And at last this thread becomes fun again.

At some point in the next couple of months I hope to have the final Elwell chapter, and I'm hoping it can be a sweet one, but just yesterday, Friday, Christmas Eve Eve so to speak, I tried to figure out how to squeeze in any club time with all the perfectly sweet and nice friends and family time that gets spent over a Christmas weekend, so I not only hit the club, but I revived Project Perversity.  That's right, the false phallus that I haven't shoved down my pants since early 2008, just before Elwell REALLY made my fantasies come true.  I figured, all my favorites are away, Columbia was momentarily away -- time to have fun wowing a new stable of girls with the old experiment.  As I say, its effects were never terribly dynamic first time, apart from sweet comments from a girl from down South.  Last night it paid off.

Without really planning to, I got there just before a show by Miss Nude World 2011 Krystle Cummings, your basic fine-looking big-busted pec-flexing luscious athletic blonde.  It was a good basic show, and I hoped she would eventually turn up down off the stage but she never materialized, so far as I could see.  Her loss.

Good old Lockley (if I recall her code name correctly) grinned and came directly over to me, and we got in a couple of booth dances.  I suspect she knows I was funning around, to the extent that she may have noticed Perversity at all, but we had a really nice fast intense whirlwind session over a couple of songs, she really rode me -- but maybe she would have done that anyway, which is nice to know.

Now the last time, I took Columbia on a rare upstairs dance and while up there I flirted briefly with a new girl, let's call her Vela.  Not a particularly BEA class girl (Columbia isn't either) but a good enough body and, I think, a great look, black curly hair and dark eyes and a sweet smile.  She has big tattoos of lilacs and tiger lilies down her right back and my sexual radar was saying, Maybe she's a bit freaky (even for a dancer).  So I get her into a booth for what I always call a "test drive."  She very nicely strips right down and starts dancing even though she says she won't charge till the next song.  It takes only moments of being up against me before she says "I'm sure you've heard it all before, Murdock, but -- damn!"  And I figure that might be all about that, but two minutes later she asks "Seriously, how big is your dick?"  That's a bit tricky, because the prop is simply eight inches but I think what really creates a tactile illusion is the girth of the thing, so I just say "It depends on how excited I am" and she says "I'm impressed."  Anyhow, I see her sparkling with tiny glints of sweat and she remarks on how hot she's getting, so I figure: get her upstairs.

Another bonus is that we're sort of abandoned by one "pimp" but we get taken care of by no less than Richie, the man who back in 2008 helped to try to set up my Murder -- and he remembers that, too, so it was a great chance to say Thanks to him once more.  So Vela and I get on with our half hour, I get her onto my lap and ask "And what would you like, little girl?" and she says "My two front teeth" but after a minute of grinding adds "And a guy built like you under my tree!"  So after a while I think, Now or never, because a half hour goes so fast, so I tell her, If you want to go for it, go for it -- in other words, if she thinks she can get herself off, I'd love it.  She is of course deferential, saying she'd like to get me off, but I have to decline, saying it's rare that a girl gets me off (and that's talking about my REAL cock, and that's Elwell territory).  So over the course of the session we get in some serious (dry and zipped-up, you understand) galloping.  I let her hold onto my simple gray scarf around my neck and I say she can ride me like I'm a stallion and the scarf is my "reins."  At some points we make the couch awfully thumpity-thumpy and squeaky-squeaky.  (I noticed Richie peeking in, but he was too late, and besides, technically we never really "did" anything.)

She declares "I should be paying you!" and that sets off a reverie.  Suddenly I'm back with that Czech Olivia Newton-John, Heidi's roommate, the one who got whirlwind courted and married and snatched away, the one I've called Nolin earlier in this thread.  Of all dry-humping stripper orgasms I've treasured Nolin's the most, not just because she was so fucking beautiful but because her pursuit of that orgasm was so intensely earnest and resulted in her own "I should be paying you" comment.  Summer Leigh was spectacular, no question, but for me Nolin was tops.  (The orgasms of the bitchy Natalya were the most dramatic but, I'm afraid, the most dubious.)

As we go along she remarks on how she's just a gal trying to save up money and get through school.  I ask her what she's studying and she's saying social psychology, in the hope of becoming a sex therapist.  I suspect this is a line but she's pretty serious about it, and it's certainly a turn-on, so I ask Doctor for her advice and she says "The Force is with you!  Use it well!"  Somehow I never noticed a sexual advice scene in the Star Wars movies, but that sounds good to me.  (At least we didn't talk about lightsabers, let alone the Schwartz.)  She never quite cums, at least in any obvious dramatic way I can detect, but she declares the session quite a workout and "the best date I've ever had."  She gets off and nearly trips over one of my long legs and I take the blame, saying I have big feet (at least that much is true), and she says "You prove the myth is true!"  So I get up when her back is turned (because truth to tell, I stand up and Perversity is starting to travel down my right pants leg like he did earlier in the evening -- he has in fact been quite a comedy of errors so far as the smuggling process has been concerned) and grab my folded-over coat and we talk.  Things are quite nice and cozy and lovey-dovey between us in the afterglow -- and it's still early in the evening, it only just turned 7 PM and there's a new shift on and Vela is getting off (so to speak), but Perversity has actually been a lot of trouble (except for the past half hour) so I shuffle on home.  Even now I think back on Vela, a starry-eyed new beauty who believes that I'm packing a cannon, and I imagine looking her up maybe one more time and allowing her to play sex therapist for me.

Have yourselves a merry horny Christmas and New Year, faithful readers.

PS: it occurs to me that my favorite girls have a catchphrase.  (Except Columbia, she doesn't have to say anything in particular, she just IS.)  Nolin coined "I should be paying you" ahead of Vela, sad to say.  Heidi said "You are better than Duquesne Club" and Elwell said "I love making you happy."  But I had forgotten something else that Vela said, something that went a little beyond the prank I was playing.  She once murmured "Mister Murdock" and I had to point out (so to speak) that it was my first name and not my last (because you do have to stay in character).  She said she knew that.  "But you deserve to be a Mister.  You should be called MISTER Murdock."  I admit it's not the same as being called MISTER Tibbs, but it gave me a thrill.  

[DruulEmpire]

(Incredibly, I think I bypassed the story of the very last time I saw Brandi Morgan.  She wasn't even officially active as an entertainer -- she went and retired -- but she happened to be in town to catch a U2 concert and agreed to meet with me secretly upstairs at Blush anyway.  Nothing earthshaking happened, it was just a very sweet session.  And now to the thread proper -- )

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Murdock, who was "Murdered" on April 7, 2008, actually died today on February 15, 2012.  I had already told Heidi my real name ages ago (news flash: she's learning how to ski!), and of course Elwell has known awhile.  But yesterday I came clean with Columbia, not only about the name but my always having been in Pittsburgh and my reason for the Murder, and she laughed, she seemed to appreciate my reasoning.  The thing is, Columbia is the last veteran there -- there is one veteran black dancer but I never really got into her, so Columbia is my Last Mohican.  So I told her, on Valentine's Day (and of course, I got her a valentine), that I'm hanging up the whole Murdock scene and the club scene as well.  Yes, I might visit Columbia on a special occasion (her birthday in summer, Christmas) but I see that as just the two of us.

So this thread may be over after all -- but not before I met yet another Czech chick, built a bit like Natasha the Giant of the Nineties but with a sweet face, let's call her Jordan.  (It's thread's end, so I don't give fuck all if this name gets duplicated in reality.)  I had my werewolf mask with me -- no real plan for it, I was desperate for nostalgia -- and Jordan got me in a booth and I swear to God, she promised me that she would bring out the wild animal in me.  I told her "You don't know the half of it!"  Then she got distracted for one moment in mid-dance and I slipped it on.  She liked it so much that when we were done she slipped it on and stark naked burst out of the booth growling at everyone out there.  It is true, it is true, there have been some magic moments.  But it was really my time with my Red Queen Columbia that I treasured.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I saw Elwell.  But she had been kicked out of the club.  Desperate for work, to keep her wildly ambitious cash flow up and steady, she worked about one week in a smaller club and the money sucked there (certainly compared to Blush), so she's found other work.  So I wanted to see her.  She would not join me in the William Penn -- which is a shame, because it's a great hotel.  So I considered going to the other club.  I idly threw out the option of her place -- I didn't think there was a prayer of that.  And yet, yesterday and today, that is where I went.

Yesterday was an interesting failure, she had simply too much website work to do and that left us only an hour before she had agreed to go out with friends.  What can I say, she takes her entrepreneurship very seriously -- and that's just the current company, on top of endless angst left over from an old restaurant venture with her awfully shameless (first) ex-boyfriend.  So today, there was time and peace and smiles and jokes and yes, sex -- and here we reach the cascading edge of the Flat Earth that is this thread, and find ourselves in a whole other social realm which I no longer wish to share too intimately.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  She was sweet and good to me in a way I will treasure forever -- but in a context I can never understand.  Four years later and she has seen fit to share some of the deepest secrets of her life and yet I have no idea what I am to her.  To listen to her half the time, I'm some project.  She bought me a cell phone.  I don't need a fucking cell phone.  But her cerebral computer won't accept the possibility.  It's inconvenient to her endlessly fluid let's-change-plans-at-the-last-minute mentality, which somehow reasons that it's shame on me for missing an FB message of hers from one hour ago WHILE I WAS IN TRANSIT.  And that in and of itself sounds petty, I know, but I begin to understand how untenable my position is.  Nothing is real for her unless it's constantly on her phone, her attention span refuses to assimilate as much as a single paragraph -- and the thing is, if I'm her secret, to be held apart from everything else in her life, and she can never mention my existence to anyone, out of this endless web of people she knows, while she's endlessly adoring everyone else's existence and then sharply criticizing the obsolescence of my own ... then I don't get it.  Of what value am I to her?  Today I thought I was at the very least worth a good screw.  The act itself ... I'll just say, it seems to speak for itself.  But then right after she says, eh, she can take or leave sexual ecstasy.

I wish there was a single factor I could point to.  She's all plugged-in and I'm just not, so there's that.  But I get to wondering if, in some way, she's too male for me, that I've too much the classical feminine in me to put up with this squeezing and scrunching of time and demand of protocols, basically bossiness -- and it doesn't even sound like bossiness, coming out of her voice, with an attitude claiming to be one of helpfulness and concern.

She turned on to me in the first place because I was so alien -- and now she can't seem to stand it.

I can keep trying to thrash this out, but I think this is the end.  Yeah, I know, cry me a river, hot woman has sex but then buys you a phone, oh no.  But you weren't there.  At every turn I could only be bitterly reminded that I do not really belong in her life.  I'm almost nauseous right now with how much mindfuck I've put up with today.

I have known the dream, what I always assumed was Everest -- and it is not enough.  I always harbored a suspicion that we could never fit.  Now I know.

I don't think she values me enough to come hunting for me, to come tracking me down.  I was just one odd little extra fleck of colored glass getting swirled around in her fun little kaleidoscope.  Her kaleidoscope will spin on just fine without me.  I've thanked her, and pleaded a headache which I blame on myself and said I'll drown my brain in chianti -- and you know what, that's still not a bad idea.  And if she starts bugging me, I'll just take it very slow and very cool.  Because as hot as she is, and it was, she is not SO hot, sell-your-soul-at-a-whim hot, Angelina hot.  I have scaled Everest -- and you know what, it seems more like one of the bigger rides at Kennywood.

It was, yes, the best of times -- and I am in zero hurry to ever have another one again.

later update:

I notice this is my 11,776th post.  Am I discussing here what could at long last be my personal declaration of independence?  It's hard to say.

Now that I've had a chance to catch my breath -- to literally sleep on it -- I can better appreciate a few things.  One, the whole "Can I dump the hot sexy babe who's only out to mess with me for messing's sake?" issue is no issue, because I did it before.  In 1990 I got involved with a brilliant but bipolar woman who, desperate to hang on to me, showed up at my doorstep in a raincoat and nothing else, and I dumped her.  (Okay, so I dumped her two months after that admittedly persuasive raincoat stunt, but still.)  So I can do it again.

I think it's perfectly natural for an organism to reflexively want to defend itself from invasion.  The problem being, I look around at this life of mine and I have to confess "Fuck all, man, you NEED an invasion."  But is she the right invader?  Is she the last straw, who will load me down with all kinds of useless extra drama and help to murder any hope this year held out?  Or is she just the right ass-kicking tornado, bad in style but correct in intent, I need to sweep through my life?  That she happened to me at all is miracle enough.  How much more miracle does she really have left in her?

My mind floods with movies.  I think of Kurosawa's "Ikiru," which my mother loves and which I do recommend.  A dying bureaucrat, snickered at as "the mummy," starts dating this vivacious young factory worker.  He marvels at her, but eventually she has to tell him, and I'm paraphrasing very badly here, "You can't absorb my youthful energy just by being with me."  Then she shows him a little mechanical bunny that hops across the table and says "I do my job and I think every **09** in Japan loves me."  (Special edit: that "dirty word" just now?  "Ch1ld."  FUCKING CENSOR!)  So he leaves her, to fight bureaucracy and corruption to build a playground.

So I could leave Elwell, in an Ikiru way.  But then there's also that damn "Accidental Tourist."  Is Elwell Geena Davis?  But then, honestly, does life ever turn out like a movie, let alone a good movie?

There's the old saying about the fiercely religious man who, when his community is hit by a flood, declares "I am so religious that God alone will take care of me."  His neighbors check on him, and then the police check on him, and then as the waters rise a boat comes by to check on him, and then even a helicopter calls down to him as he's up on the roof, and every time his spiel is the same: "I am a religious man and God loves me and will save me."  So he dies, and he meets God, and he asks "I waited for You, why didn't You save me!?" and God basically replies "I DID try to save you, you schmuck!  I sent your neighbors, and I sent the police, and I sent a boat, and I even sent a helicopter!  What are you even DOING here!?"  So perhaps from time to time we get to be each other's angels without even knowing it.  I need an angel, and she certainly seems like one.  What if it can really be that simple?

even later update: it's 3 PM EST and my cell phone has been charging for two hours now.  How long does this take?  I can't help but think of this little red phone as a hotline, in the oldest sense, a secure and secret line between two people.  Wonder how much action this one will see?  

[pedonbio]

.

[DruulEmpire]

I suppose the answer is: It's been great times -- and with any luck, on their own new terms, there may yet be even better times to come, but those will have to involve at least one new woman.

The views-to-posts ratio has hit 266:1, time to knock it back down a little with some non-Elwell news.  I hope to see her, possibly for the last time, around the end of July -- at which point I finally get to quit pumping money into this stupid cell phone.  Barring some miraculous horniness on her part, February 15 was probably our last sex ever -- and that's fine.  I've a new resolution: to see her again in no more than five years, and hopefully with something in my own life worth celebrating.  I have been made to feel too much like an oddity or a charity or a spy or, perhaps most simply of all, a schmuck -- but if I could ever at last see her again on a somewhat more equal footing, that would be vindication, that would be its own kind of thrill.

Oddly enough, I am only now setting down events from sixteen nights ago.  That's what life is like now: as I concentrate more and more on survival and (relatively) serious art, BEA rituals ranging from Addventuring to reporting to this thread lose their urgency.  Still, I had to go back -- Columbia's birthday was coming up, and I figured, better to try to celebrate it early.  Elwell is dancing her ass off all over again down there, so I had to deliberately scoot around her schedule to single out my Red Queen.

Of course, the club does not hold very well with this whole "singling" idea.  I get down there and I like the look of a new girl who calls herself Estee -- and yes, super-sharp readers may recall that there was once a rather shy blonde named Estee, but this brunette has simply taken over her name.  Oddly enough, no sooner do I being to step out of a booth with her than I see a classic California blonde, calling herself Jayne, and so I whisk her directly back.  Turns out Jayne is a Hollywood girl who's only here for a week, so it is very propitious indeed to catch her.

Paige turns up, my once shy and tentative but now highly dynamic "Tara Reid But Sober" girl.  I confess to her that I'm there to see Columbia, and evidently Red has already made it to the bar.  Paige and I have a very nice time and then she leads me directly to Red.

Now, here's what's mind-blowing.  I live in the neighborhood called Squirrel Hill.  Red has moved around a bit.  Where is she living now?  In Greenfield -- which adjoins Squirrel Hill.  Wherever she is now, I could probably walk there in under an hour.  Now, here's what's craziest.  Her favorite pizza is  Aiello's.  That's mine, too.  Conventional wisdom holds that Pittsburghers MUST love Mineo's Pizza -- but it's Aiello's, the "spinoff" from Mineo's which in its way is actually more traditional, which specifically makes what could be called "wine pizza" (that's pizza you can have wine WITH, there's no wine IN it), which won me over decades ago, and evidently Red feels the same.  What are the odds!?  Hot women scattered to the far ends of this metropolis, and the finest of all is practically a neighbor.

Red and I lingered sweetly together, and on my way out I was struck by a British beauty, calling herself Emma -- but she seemed preoccupied, there was no hookup, and so I left.

The club is going strong.  It maintains an excellent eye for hot girls and continues to be global in its outreach.  Which reminds me: I haven't heard from Heidi in some time now.

Playtime is ending.  July may say farewell to Elwell, and maybe I'll try out Project Perversity on a new batch of women round about Christmas or New Year's.  Meanwhile, Columbia lives practically down the street, and I need to jolt my life once more if I'm ever to properly reunite with Elwell.  It's all been fine therapy -- way too expensive, but fine, and now the sessions are winding down.

[DruulEmpire]

We're reaching a views/posts ratio of 297:1, so I'd better knock that back down a bit with tonight's report.

Project Perversity has been forcibly retired by Elwell herself.  Well, maybe.

The club's website now officially sucks.  It didn't always.  It was chintzy, but at least it performed; now it's glitzy, but they can't keep the dancer schedules either up to date -- and I'm not talking up to the day, I mean even up to the week -- or straight.  Honestly, I went back down tonight. Perversity tucked in place, anticipating no Elwell at all.  Frankly, I was ready for the feature, Bridgette B, plus that British beauty I met in passing last time plus maybe even good old Vela.

But Vela wasn't around and she wasn't even posted.  But Elwell was down there, chatting steadily with someone.  It was a little awkward, our hooking up again after a long hiatus -- she always seems so sure that someday I'm not going to like her anymore, and the thing is, c'mon, I can't help but like her -- but I was able to whisk her upstairs.  In the course of that she examined my underwear and wondered why I was wearing two pair, and I explained Project Perversity to her and even showed it to her.  At this point she very thoroughly and repeatedly assured me that every girl knows when a cock's fake (one good point she made was that a real cock is warm to the touch), and I was left no chance to say that I didn't much care if a woman was faking a response, so long as she was doing a good job.

This got put off till the end of my visit, though.  In the meantime, she told me that she wanted me to call her up sometime soon and stop by her apartment again so that she could shave me and bathe me and then be my personal play toy and perhaps wear a Halle Berry Catwoman costume with the vagina cut open so that I could take her doggy style on her bed and fuck her raw for several hours.

You add to all this how insanely pretty she is, and what can a man say but: DANG ... !

There are peculiar outside details to this.  That move to California?  STILL up in the air.  Why?  Because of that clean-cut Duquesne U. kid in her life who has shared her with his family for Thanksgiving and Christmas and basically already done everything with her that I should have done if I had my act together or a life or anything like that.  She's still in love with him and even as she tells me all of the above she's concerned about how jealous he is for her.  Truly, honestly, I wish I could hate this guy, like her earlier boyfriend of the gun threats and the tax fraud, but perhaps he may be the best thing for her.  I don't know -- and when you come down to it, I think I choose not to know.

She and I are in limbo.  California?  Who knows?  Personal 2013 calendar?  Who knows.  This woman with her hand on my cock hath power to make me feel like prince of the universe, but honestly, I look around, at my life-long industrious novelist friend who even now can't break out beyond the micro-presses, and I look at Elwell, always on the sidelines of fame, at one point seeing Bradley Cooper fleeting by while she's involved in some series pilot for the Style network, but nothing seeming to gel for her, I look around and it becomes ever more obvious that I have to be the damn primum mobile.

She wants me to come over to her place next week, but my colonoscopy is scheduled then.  You know what?  You may think it's silly, but I wish I could kiss her.  Maybe she's saving all that for Mr. Duquesne, but while she's beating herself up in this Cosmo girl way, concerned about the latest trick to drive your man (and not even your main man, but your man on the side) wild, I just wish I could kiss the hell out of her.  Maybe that's what it all comes down to: finding a beautiful woman I can kiss for a full minute.  Maybe that one fact is the gold I've mined out of this entire crazy adventure.

[DruulEmpire]

Views-to-posts ratio passing 298?  We can't have that!  Time to take it down another notch ...

By the way, I want to be clear that I haven't gone totally romantic.  The above business, about a good long kiss, is only shorthand for a lot else.  It's not really just the kiss, let alone some Cosmo girl fretting endlessly over the technique of the kiss.  It's about the kiss conveying actually hard-won information which has been earned with sweat and tears and most likely one hell of a lot of sheer tedium.  If you can kiss all hell out of a beautiful woman who will be there for you when you go to the hospital, or when you have to move, or when you're in some private agony all your own, or when you have a great big shitty job you need help with, or when you just have a long empty stretch of time you would just like to waste being a homebody, and your woman is there for you through all of that -- man oh man, that is everything.  Truly, that is just about everything I could ever want or imagine.  And if you can do all that with more that one woman, more power to you -- but to get even one, is a minor miracle.

It is helpful to reflect on this, as Elwell seeks to make me a little bit of a pet project, her being the Pygmalion seeking to transform me into a proper Twenty-first Century Man.  Yet she is still one of my three favorites from the club.  Still I think of Columbia, always smiling, always sensible, and now just one neighborhood away from me -- and still I think of Heidi, whose e-mails from Europe are intermittent but loving and oh so tempting.  I think of all three, and I get this fantasy.

Call it Murdock's Angels.

Could I get even one of Murdock's Angels to become a useful member of my long term life plan?  I still have to try to keep Elwell at a safe distance, as she continues to be this party girl who simply burns money.  It's tempting to try to maneuver Columbia closer, but she might actually be too sensible a person to be lured too quickly or obviously.  And Heidi, to her goes the fantasy of jetting to Europe someday and taking her away from a life of drudgery to become my personal secretary-cook-maid-chauffeur, and possibly nurse, and of course my personal Uschi Digard.  Frankly, at this point in my life I find such fantasy not only refreshing but oddly energizing.

And even if none of them are for "hire," the club continues to revolve its stable, and it might be worth checking out for yet another woman.  How sensible is it, to look to a strip club to provide one's lover, or even one's wife?  I think it's all in how you play it.  Recall that at the beginning of this thread it was a girl I called Kyra, because of her Sedgwickness.  She was sweet, but I'm not sure anything might have come of that.  It takes time and money to feel sure of a woman of some substance, or at least some promise -- you have to be way, way beyond your "purchase buy" mentality.  Dull as it may seem, you have to actually get to know them, and decide if they're worthwhile.  This, incidentally, is why I now have to pity a man who goes to a club smugly certain that each and every woman there can only be trash and can only be regarded as such.  If it's trash that he seeks, he might better consult a mirror.  

[DruulEmpire]

Views-to-posts ratio exceeds 340, what gives ...

If I had any real discipline, I'd probably have gone down tonight to see Columbia and leave an early birthday card for Elwell.  I guess I'll still have to do something like that over the next two weeks.

I don't want to go back in 2013.  At all.  I've already let the cell phone die.  Better to hunker down and prepare for a ninth woman in my life, for real.  But I'll see if I can wrap this up with a flourish.   

[pedonbio]

Well, Druul, if you do "wrap this up" I, for one, will miss it terribly. In part it allows me to relive a period in my life; in part it reminds me of some of the work I did when I was representing clubs and their owners, as well as the women who worked in them. I know that East Coast clubs differ somewhat from West Coast clubs, and I know virtually nothing about th East Coast clubs.

For example, in West Coast clubs the girls pay a certain amount of "rent" on a daily (or nightly) basis to work for tips. And club owners always insist they have a firm no-prostitution policy. What that usually means is that they fire any girl who gets charged; it also means some of the most ridiculous abuses of police manpower you can imagine. Last year in Seattle the police department "wrapped up" an investigation that had taken three years and cost more than a million dollars to get five misdemeanor convictions and close one club.

But of course that system pretends to ignore the simple fact that few of us so appreciate gazing on female beauty as to tip them enough to live on just for looking, while many of the girls have "boyfriends" who have specific dollar expectations of them.

Usually when a girl got fired from one club, I was able to find a job for her very quickly in another club, and I found the women who worked the clubs to be very bright and amiable. One of my favorite clients was a woman who, in the early 1990s, worked in a club in Seattle and received an offer from a patron for $15,000 if she would spend the weekend with him, payable by check. He wrote the check, had a weekend of delight, and vanished. My client deposited the check, subject to a 14-day UCC hold because it was drawn on an out-of-state bank. After it cleared she withdrew the funds. Then the bank discovered that not only was the check bad, but it was drawn on a non-existent bank, and they came after my client for the loss. It was such fun raising the dexter digit to the bank.

Ah, memories!

 

[DruulEmpire]

The views-to-posts ratio has passed 345 to one, wow.  Not bad at all for a mostly textual thread in as pictorial a hangout as this one.

Bio, hi.  I don't think I've ever seen this thread as some infinitely prolonged series, like "Gunsmoke."  I think I always knew it would have to wrap up somehow.  For one thing, I only make $11 an hour; having thousands of dollars just lying around really helps an avocation like this.  Even so, I still find it hard to consider as some sort of perpetual lifestyle.

Thursday the 29th was probably my last night there, and it worked out pretty neatly.  The online schedule said Elwell was off, as did the schedule on the club wall, so I showed up with a Christmas card for Columbia and a birthday card with a letter to be passed along to Elwell.  (I figured it would sweeten the card and the letter to include a check for $324, one dollar for every month of Elwell's life.)

So I come in, and am struck by all the relatively new girls.  Most of them look simply okay, but a few have a spark to them.  I sit down, have my beer, and a hand claps my shoulder, so I turn around.  It's Albert, the club owner.  I've been coming here for years, and we've been vaguely aware of each other, but this is the first time he ever warmed to me and talked me up.  Does reality deal in irony or what?  It would have been awfully awkward to say "Hi, Albert, I've loved this place and I'm never coming here again," so I just kept quiet about that.  He talked about the Christmas party, and how Christine Aguchi will be turning up later in the month.  He's looking slimmer these days, not quite so much like how I always think of Ned Beatty.

After that, girls start hitting on me pretty quickly.  Two are nice, but not nice enough to distract me from my mission.  I'm there early for the 6:30 shift, intent on getting to Columbia.  The third girl, however, is a true dazzler, I get to liking her a lot.  Her name is Estee -- but it's a different Estee from the one you might glean from past pages of this thread.  Some names in the club get recycled, and this one has recycled nicely.  She's a fellow Pitt graduate, with experience in nursing and training in dentistry.  "So, you like to take care of people in ... all kinds of ways," I sum up.  She has a good look, dark-haired, sharply defined, very nice.  I arrived prepared to possibly be waylaid into a dance, and now I'm feeling eager to get on with that.

Perversely enough, we're talking about Columbia, and Estee confesses to adoring her -- and just as we're talking about her, she shows up.  Columbia is VERY early, about the only way this could have been more perfect is if I had already been able to get in a dance with Estee by now.  But Estee is very sweet and leaves me to my Red Queen.

It's a peculiar friendship.  Basically I pay her to share cheap champagne and chat.  There's no pretense of dancing: we enter the room, she strips immediately and she snuggles with me.  It's blowing my mind that she's practically a neighbor.  She talks about her favorite restaurant, her favorite places to shop, and I can't help but wonder what that would be like, to bump into her out there in Real Life.

In fact, I up the odds.  I show her the Saturday midnight movies coming to the Manor Theater.  Also, on impulse I picked up $120 worth of gift cards to the Pussycat.  It's peculiar little place in my neighborhood, I think of it as Frederick's of Squirrel Hill, a store for sexy lingerie.  I've passed it many times and wished I could fix a woman up in there.  So I give Columbia the cards, and she's very appreciative, evidently it's tough for her to get around to just plain shop girly-girl style for items less utilitarian than, say, a bucket of paint.

That was it -- and evidently none too soon.  Elwell really does work her fine ass off, because evidently I had just left and minutes later she showed up and got my card from Columbia.

As I think on these women, on Columbia, and especially on Elwell, I think there's a special problem with club girls.  Quite simply, once you've been a customer, it's tough for them to ever think of you as too much more than just a customer.  Some men blast right through that.  I think of that Czech answer to Olivia Newton-John, the one I called Nolin, the one who orgasmed with me, and how a man immediately snatched her up as his wife.  I hope that worked out, because that's what I would love to do, although it might really be more with a woman like Estee.  Elwell is whole light years removed from me, I appreciate that now.  I cringe a little to look back over this thread and wonder if she could be my Geena Davis from "The Accidental Tourist."  Please!  I'm going to have to be my own damn Geena Davis.  And Columbia ... it's hard to say.  We get along, we share a few interests ... she's a good friend.  A swell broad, in every best sense of that dated expression.

I think of the great three: Elwell, Columbia, and my Germano-Circassian Heidi, who I haven't gotten any e-mail from lately as she works hard over in Europe, I hope she's not tired of me just yet.  I think of them, and girls like this new Estee who I could have stood to know better, and I think I may return some year.  But if I do, it's like what I wrote to Elwell.  I have to be a different man.  No more playacting at being someone named Murdock Hay.  I need to become my own man.  I've heard from Elwell, and she's very sweet -- and she doesn't get it.  She still wants me as the same old customer.

I don't.   

 

[DruulEmpire]

Over 100,000 views, over 426 views per post -- I don't get it.  It's flattering, I guess, but I stop by here over one day, and it's up a few views, which makes sense, but then I come back a couple hours later and bang, it's up nearly three hundred views.  I still think it's mainly robots which are somehow latching onto this.

Anyhow, a few interesting postscripts.  Elwell seems to have found a durable sweetheart, just in time for Valentine's Day.  Good solid Polish name with buzz-cut hair and Celtic tattooing over his huge biceps -- how much more Pittsburgh can you get?  She sent a picture via F@ceb00k of this guy sleeping on her bed while cuddling her two little dogs, and I thought, Yup, this girl has her life fully accessorized now.  I of course selfishly miss the days five years ago when I was her rebound from some crazy gun-wielder, but I congratulated her and she says this guy is mature.  Mmm, relative to what?  Well, I hope it takes.

I do hope Columbia got use out of those gift cards, because the Pussycat closed just last week.  Ye gawdz, first the Baskin-Robbins -- Baskin-freakin'-Robbins, for crying out loud -- and now the Pussycat almost directly across the street from it, after 45 years.  That stretch of Forbes Avenue is never going to be quite the same.  Also, a Columbia addendum: she is now my sole degree of separation from Nick Nolte.  Nolte was in town shooting some small movie called The Warrior, and he spent some happy time with her.  I find that kind of cool, I've always sort of dug Nolte.  Haven't looked her up outside the club yet, but she's into the horror scene, and as a science fiction man perhaps it's time I branched out.

And Heidi is still out there, across the ocean, working very hard, now mainly as a nurse, looking after her family as well.  It's a silly dream, but I like to imagine becoming rich enough to lure her back and care for me in my decrepitude.  I suppose there are much sillier dreams, somewhere.  Coming up soon on the fifth anniversary of my Murder, so I'll try e-mailing her then.

Really, gang, that's it.  I've got nothing to go back there for anymore.  If anyone out there is finding this thread to be some magnificent honeypot worth buzzing all over, I wouldn't mind someone out of those 100,000+ views explaining how and why that could be. 

[PSY]

Today was insanely expensive but insanely worth it.  Truth to tell, I've never had that great a regard before for the straightforward porn starlets who take a stab at stage performance (as I don't really follow porn anyway), preferring women who really know how to move.  But over time I found Shyla Styles to be a special case.  I would check scenes from her downloadable little movies, and it must be the first time I ever saw a new porn star (as compared to a confirmed star, like Lovette, and Berk had to talk me into seeing Teri Weigel) and on the basis of that work, dance unseen, I figured "GET HER IN THE BOOTH."

First things first.  It was a bright hot humid day, so I appreciated the ritual cold beer more than ever.  It was a good day for house girls because twice they walked right up to me and chatted me up.  I was just going to play it cool, but the first girl in for the afternoon was seated several stools down from me and came right over.  I had only noted her in passing, we had never really met.  Turned out her name was Stelline, and she had dark curls and arresting eyes.  I got her a Red Bull (the girls seem to be into those) and we talked about this and that -- when whoosh, the DJ let her know she was first dancer up (probably because no one else had shown up yet).  This gave me a great chance to watch her do her dance.  Stelline is very solidly built with strong legs and a decent workable rack.  Anyhow, I watched, she sat back down with me, the younger, more coltish brunette barkeeper chatted with us a bit, and then I figured, Let's see her in action.  A very sensual dancer, good eyes, good breathing in your ear, body flowing up and down along you -- not among my first choices, but definitely worth catching again from time to time.

After Stelline, the stage dancers still had not warmed up much -- meanwhile, a lovely short girl with black straight hair and luminous pale skin, wearing a classy red costume dress, headed right for me as soon as I came out of the booths.  She said her name was Fallon, which floored me somewhat -- there used to be some other girl named Fallon, but now this one seems to have taken it the name over.  Anyhow, I liked the idea of back-to-back dancers and hustled Fallon straight back.

Fallon was HOT -- not in the sense of her body, which was skinny but still workable, but in her attitude.  She leapt right into action, clambering all over me, and as the dance progressed it got rather intensely coital, lots of suggestive dry humping.  Before even sitting at the bar I had, of course, shoved Perversity (see above) into place, and I was glad to have it down there so as to keep up with a real fah-reak like Fallon.

Before I knew it, it was Shyla time.  She didn't really have any particular theme to her dance, simply layers of nice trashy lingerie coming off, and it was a real strip, too, because she would allow peeks at her excellent enhanced boobs but took the longest time letting her bra come off.  She showed me a lot of attention -- possibly because I slipped her a fiver and then another, rare that I do that even for a feature -- and we got along well.  I got to squirt water all over her tits and pussy, but she wound up handing her rolled-up posters to two others, ah well.

She had a fair line of fans after her show, and I let a few guys slide ahead of me.  I got a Polaroid off her -- she holds my head to her right boob and signs "Murdock, Cum play inside me!  Shyla."  And in the booth -- wow.  She was this platinum dream come true, as if emerging right out of the computer screen -- and I think she dug perversity, because she got a couple of long intense gallops going.  A booth with Shyla was quite simply dry-hump fantasy screwing at its best -- only way to cap it would be if she had climaxed like Summer Leigh (see far above) but you can't have everything.

So that was Shyla.  Will see in two weeks if I'm up for (Spicy) Exotica ...

What is this-- just kidding. no really just being naughty.

[DruulEmpire]

My apologies for failing to capitalize Perversity in that next to last paragraph quoted above.  Within the context of this thread, Project Perversity takes on a very special meaning.  That's my own being naughty.