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Shall we discuss Giant Tits?

May 2, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

Shall we discuss Giant Tits? Yes, Let’s.

We know the truth: it’s biological. Yet we leer and lean and stare. What are we staring at? Is it food? Is it fat? No, it’s biology.

It’s biology and biology is something you can’t control.

We can’t help it. We stare. We lean. We leer. We just… have to. Can’t help it.

It starts with the look. What we want is to touch, but we start with the look. Why do we want to touch them so so so much? Biology. Can’t help it.

So we look. If we’re smart we’re not caught looking by the one we’re with.

But let’s say we’re with no one.

Now we want to get caught just a little. We look. When they’re not looking at us, we gaze. If we’re smart, right when they start to feel that gaze, we look away. And now they’re looking at us.

They know that we looked, they always know that we looked. They get tired sometimes from all the looks. But we can’t help it. Which is why it’s best not to get caught looking.

But they know. Biology tells them so. The Giant Tits were being stared at once again, coveted once again.

We don’t think about it: the back pain, the weight carried around that makes it impossible to catch a basketball, the lines that carve into their skin from the bra lines.

We don’t think about the harassment, the intimidation, the fear of the young girl who grew before her time.

We don’t think about these things. It’s biology. All we think about are the Giant Tits.

So we stare. We lean. We leer.

And we hope to hold them in our hands… we hope to see them let loose so that they sway in front of our eyes… we hope to fuck them. It’s biology.

Can’t help it.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Some News Can’t Be Unbroken

April 22, 2010 Diary, Raymond No Comments

She was a virgin.

A sweet southern school teacher. She was 23, and had natural D-cups that were full and soft, but definitely not too soft. These are the things that fantasies are supposed to be made of.

The truth is, she’d never fucked.

So there we were in bed. We’d met in a bar. I don’t remember the particulars now. I remember that I was lonely that summer. I went to bars with my friends when I could corral them to go with me. I went there hoping to meet someone. I went there to cure what ailed me. I went as often as I could.

I was 22, and recently dumped. There had been a great run-up to the dumping involving another woman (unknown to my real love), a month-long bender and ultimately a near-death car crash-up.

The car crash had been a one-car right-angle turn that wasn’t properly executed at 6:00 AM. The relationship had come to an end shortly thereafter. It’s funny how romantic notions of death are appealing to some women, but nobody’s laughing after a wreck like that.

I was walking wounded on a smashed-up hip, but the feelings inside hurt worse. Much worse. My former love had hurt me. She was supposed to come to the hospital but hadn’t arrived due to a supposed miscommunication with my family.

Truth was, she just couldn’t justify it anymore. The romance evidently had died with the car. She was mortified by the outcome.

Yet the walking wounded still get around. Maybe they’re a step slower, but they get there in time most of the time.

In the absence of love I found hope in my sweet southern virgin.

Let’s call her Nancy. I wonder if I should be ashamed that I don’t remember her name… considering what followed. Maybe it’s just blocked out.

I remember that her voice was syrupy. She was from Florida. She taught children. This job seemed to suit her. She didn’t seem very grown-up herself. But she was all woman.

Back then, it was still somewhat of a novelty for women to really hit the gym. So women were softer. It’s neither good nor bad necessarily. I remember that for a 23-year-old, she was perhaps three to five pounds overweight. It was as if she carried all the extra in her breasts.

She had a full bush. It wasn’t exaggerated, just not really trimmed. It went all the way up to her pantyline.

Her vagina wasn’t super-tight or anything. Fantasies are just that… fantasies. But I’ve never been obsessed with tightness. Like with all things, I look for ‘just right.’ Call it the Goldilocks test if you will.

I remember that she smelled clean. No perfume, just soap. Her vaginal juices were acidic. Not a judgment, just a chemistry thing. Not bad. Great if you can get it, really.

She was so fucking cute. And she saved me, in a sense, that summer. She was the first after all the rest. The first after I’d found love and lost it again. I would move from there soon enough.

Dark hair. Winning. But not sophisticated. She’d never had sex because she hadn’t gotten around to it. Even thinking on that now, it amazes me.

After a couple of dates, she confessed and I persuaded.

So we fucked. I fucked her, and then I showed her a bit of how she could fuck me. She took right to it.

Virgins are lousy in the sack. It’s universal that way. Sex is a habit best practiced.

Still, I was so grateful. So happy. So relieved. I was happy to be fucking her, and more than a little proud that I was her first after all those years she’d taken a pass on it.

She was pleased. It was a healthy situation. She felt comfortable being brought into a sexual life by me. Except for one thing.

I hate condoms. I did then, and I do now. I don’t sleep around as much as you may think and I know how to spot trouble, shall we say. So diseases have never been a problem. I pulled out after fucking her and came on her stomach. We fucked twice a night for a week. I assured her that it was fine. In fact, I’d been doing this for a long time. I don’t have any problem with the idea today. How complicated is it? Just don’t ejaculate. Pre-come is all weak swimmers with no tidal rush behind them. Pre-come is nothing compared to the onrush that follows. Pre-come is harmless.

Pulling out late is a problem.

I left town. Upon return, I called her or she called me. Presumably I called her. It was winter.

I had liked her a lot, she was charming. And I had really enjoyed her breasts. They were quite spectacular.

She was staying across the river. We met up. We drank. At least I did. I drank a lot. I don’t remember drinking a lot, I just remember waking up the next morning feeling like I’d been hit with a hammer.

The next morning, she told me that she had had an abortion.

I got angry. “You didn’t call me?!”

She said that under the circumstances, back in the south on summer vacation, she hadn’t thought much of it.

“You didn’t think of it?” I stood up. I began to pull my clothes on. I did this angrily, like a demonstration. This is a dumb exercise for anyone. But it gets the point across. Childish and clear.

“What was I supposed to do? What would you have said?”

“I don’t know. You never gave me that choice!”

I was really, really angry. To this day I sit with the knowledge that I was powerless that morning. It had all happened while I was getting high thousands of miles away. I hadn’t been consulted. Had she tracked me down through family, I would have not been able to comprehend it. I was spending my nights in a meth house.

We are all good people. The sweet southern virgin. Me and my restless exploration of cheap taboos. The mother of the young child that lied half-catatonic on the meth den couch while she argued with her common-law husband. We didn’t mean to do these things. Maybe we’re not good all the time. Maybe we would all get another chance. Maybe not.

I looked at her. Nancy. The former virgin.

I was hungover and I was upset. I love children. These moments are confusing.

I walked out the bedroom door, down the stairs of her friend’s house, and she and I never spoke to one another again.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Even the Unlovable Can Get Some Love

April 11, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

How many times have I leaned on you?

Why is it, in the cycle of disrepair, that I reach out this way? I’m drunk, I’m on the phone. I shouldn’t be on the phone. I want you to come over. You’re my new squeeze, my ex, my anything, my everything. I want you.

I want you and I don’t want myself. I don’t want to be myself anymore. I’m drunk or I’m hungover. I’m raging against the dying light, or I’m licking my wounds at noon. I have booze and drugs and rock and roll and I need sex. I need you. I have to have you. You are all I want now. Without you there is nothing left.

There is no us. There is only me. Me and my hands and they can’t be still without these chemicals. I love you but I can’t consider you. I love you and I would if I could. And I mean that. I’m almost out of excuses but I’m hoping that you’ll listen to one more. I’m hoping that you’ll see past the agitation, the aggravation, and the endless frustration. Don’t look at the vomit on the floor that’s all crusty and rust-colored. I still consider myself a spiritual person and vomit doesn’t bother me. Not much at least. Not anymore. Just don’t tell anyone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?

There’s a knock on the door and I drag myself to my feet. Well, hellllllll-o.

You brush past me, wanting to assess the damage. For a Friday afternoon, it’s really not that bad. At least as I see it. The furniture is largely upright and unstained. What matters to you as far as I can tell is that you’re here now, and that I’m breathing all right. I am. When I’m not chain smoking, that is. And if you ignore the occasional coughing fits.

I don’t think about why you’re here or what’s right or wrong. I can’t be bothered with all of that. Why address the impossible…? This is what I am and what I want to be, what I always wanted to be. Otherwise, the conversations might be different. We might be different.

You fell in love and you ignored the warning signs. The pictures of us together are lovely. You sleep deeply and somehow the blaring music in the other room doesn’t bother you. If I were you, and I were a woman, I’d probably buy earplugs. If I were you I might try to help but then I might give up, too.

If I were you, I’d stop answering the phone so much.

I have goals and I have dreams. You play along with my romantic notions and slurred speeches. What else can you do at this point? You’re a woman and you fell in love. Leave, you’re still in love. And then you’re in love with an apparition, a memory. What good would that do you, or more importantly — much more importantly — me?

But you’re in love with a ghost as we chit-chat today. The ghost of the good me, the one you came to love. The ghost of our happy times, before I started wallowing in the wretched.

You push me away at first when I try to kiss you. I have been very lonely today. It doesn’t occur to me why, but I wouldn’t care had it registered. I would have brushed that away just as you brush my kiss away now.

You want me to take a shower. I think about this. At first I say no in order to buy some time. Showering will be awful, it will ruin my high and I know this. But now I am naked and getting into the shower. I stop in front of the mirror and admire myself. I like to do this when I am high but I won’t want to do this tomorrow.

I have an angle. Nudity is a precursor to sex. So I will shower.

When I get out of the shower, you are on the phone. You hang up and look at me. You smile. You take the extra towel and you run it over my hair. I smile back at you and do a little dance. This is courtship.

I pour you a drink even though you don’t really want one. I get high as soon as I’m dressed so that I can relax and ditch the bad clean feeling. I comb my hair. And then I comb it a second time.

We agree to watch a movie. I bide my time. Ten minutes into the movie I am bored and hit pause. I always do this. We argue. I pour a drink for myself. You decide to have another. We sit on the couch.

I manage to harangue you into going in the bedroom. I have needs and then my needs have needs too. As soon as I get your clothes off it’s all sweetness and light, but I’m biding my time again.

I fuck you hard. I’m not nice about it. You go with it. I almost lose my way, but I throw us both over and use my mouth all over your body. You suck my cock back to fullness and we flip around again. It’s frantic now, we both know that we’ve got one last shot. You are groaning and straining with your back arched. We come together. You howl as I grunt like a wild boar.

You wanted to fix me and I wanted to fuck you. I got what I wanted.

Where we will go from here, no one can say. I wipe the semen off with a stiffened towel that hasn’t been washed in weeks. Naked, I go into the kitchen and pour another round.

Tomorrow I will tell you stories of reform. Tonight I will drink and smoke weed and fuck you and smoke weed again and listen to music. In that order. You will fall asleep hours before me. Alone.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

On a Saturday in Venice, California

April 4, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

You don’t really want to fuck on heroin. The drug is enough. You’re slack, slacker than you’ve ever been. You’re okay with the world around you. The world around you suits you just fine. Friday night is becoming Saturday.

All good things must come. Come and then come to an end.

At the end of the high, it’s time to come back.

The best way to come back is to come. But it’s hard to come with your body broken like this. As the good feelings of Friday night came to an end, the pass out takes over. Now it’s Saturday and the good times have ended and you’re hoping she’ll come. Come over at least.

Detoxing is not sexy. Hard drug toxins have a special, special touch. The sweating starts. There is no appetite, the body wants the poison out but you’re not ready to live yet. No food for you.

The sheets are soaked through with sweat and you’re cold. It’s cold but you still sweat. You have the chills but you still sweat. It’s hot outside but you’re cold and sweating.

And then she arrives. You’re in agony but you’re young enough where lying in bed is somehow acceptable even though it’s four in the afternoon and the world is outside, just outside your window. She ignores the wet sheets. Notices them, yes, but decides to ignore them after she pushes them away. You pull them back to you.

You have only a futon. The futon is unfolded and it takes up most of the space in the room. The apartment is small. It’s a nice day outside but the blinds are drawn. It’s four in the afternoon and you’re glad to see her.

You reach your hand out. You caress her breast. Cup it. Something about the pain changes in you. There is a restlessness there. Warmth. You’re not as cold anymore.

She sits up then and reaches for the bong. She has her own weed. She smokes and you try to but it’s painful and you don’t want to be stoned, it just makes the pain worse.

But now she is high and that makes her horny. You don’t know why it’s called that, horny, but smoking weed makes her happy and horny and you don’t care why people call it that. You can barely think straight, thoughts are still all floaty but it’s not pleasant anymore.

She tucks herself in next to you, you ramble half-coherently, rattling off the fragmented thoughts that drift about in your mind. Your mind is resistant but your body is stirring. Your cock awakes. You’re young so you slip your hand in her panties right away as you kiss her. You’re young so you don’t think about how your breath might be or how your saliva must taste. She loves you and she ignores it, at least she doesn’t say anything. You’re young and she’s young too.

Before long she’s riding you. You don’t have the energy to move your body on top of hers so this is perfect. You’re surprised that your cock works at all since the rest of your body is broken. This makes you happy. Your cock is not as hard as normal but there’s something satisfying about this too. You’re young and you felt like you were dying just minutes before but now she is riding you and you know you are alive.

So this is what sex is after heroin. You fuck her and grab her tits with your hands and you’re happy. You’re turned on and it’s not exactly like regular happiness, but you’ve never fucked after heroin before and you’re glad to be alive because you felt like you were dying.

She is fucking you and making those noises that she makes. She’s going slower than normal because you are. You’re going slower than normal because your bones hurt and you’re just happy that your cock is hard and it’s staying hard.

She is cooing and you love her. You’re glad that she came over, and you’re glad when she says, “I’m coming, Babe.” She says that a lot and it makes you happy in that certain way every time you hear it. You fuck and sweat and breathe strangely since your body is still in shock and then you stop for a couple of minutes and then you start fucking her again. You know that you’re alive. And if you’re alive today, you’ll be alive tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow you’ll do more heroin but probably not, because that would be stupid. But you’re glad for her. You love her and you love fucking her and you find the energy to get behind her.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Don’t Crank It

March 28, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

This is a bit… complicated. One thing that I’ve found out about myself is that I am at ease around women. The flip side of that perhaps is that I’m too easily lonely.

I refuse to masturbate except under extreme circumstances.

This policy evolved over time, and I do follow it. So let’s define “extreme circumstances”. First, for whatever reason, I find myself without a regular sex partner. Perhaps I’m traveling, or in the first few painful days following a breakup. But this is the key: if there is any opportunity for sex with a female companion, I have no interest in cranking an orgasm out.

The simplest analogy is that with an old-time boxer preparing for an upcoming fight. The wisdom was that the testosterone was needed to defeat another man, and it shouldn’t be wasted. Yet my ‘upcoming fight’ is sex-related. I’m saving that drive for its real purpose: to find a woman to have sex with. I refuse to reduce the sensitivity of the shaft, and I will not underestimate the power of the sperm coursing through my testicles.

If I masturbate, I’m lazy. I start to associate sex with pictures, or movies. Place it in the realm of fantasy. And sex is no fantasy… it is the realization of life. It’s everywhere, and my masculine sex drive is one of my defining characteristics as a human being.

So I save it. I resist the impulse. I store up that precious sticky warm life and let it just percolate inside my balls. It gets so bad under a dark moon that my nuts begin to ache. I’m walking around trying to look normal and if my sack brushes my leg, there’s a concussion of pain that I keep to myself.

I own that pain. Breathe it out and look around. There are more beautiful women in Southern California than I could ever fuck in 1,000 lifetimes.

I’m saving this life force for them. Saving it to remind myself to look around. Smile. Talk to women in checkout lines. Just waiting for that glint of recognition that she knows what I want, and she’s happy to give it to me.

… And when I get that release, it’s primal. It’s animal. It’s earned and it is intense.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Pussy Power

March 21, 2010 Diary, Raymond No Comments

She strips down unceremoniously. She takes her pants off, and then her shirt. Lies back on the bed, waiting, wearing a bra and panties that must be three or four years old. We’ve been together long enough that we’ve become this way. The blood has begun to slide down the interior of my cock. It’s not an urgent feeling. Not yet. My balls generate a light surge of sperm, which I can feel as though it’s coming from underneath me.

But I’m not getting hard. Not yet.

I won’t get erect until I have what I really want: her juices all over my face. It begins with the smell. Her scent has become the most powerful substance on earth. I kiss her lightly on the mouth and position myself above her. But in my mind, I’m already moving down.

I run my fingers over her skin. Reach around and unclasp the bra. Her breasts are free, she lies back again. They rest on her chest. I stroke them lightly. Run my tongue over them. Yet this is preamble; I’m ready now to begin the feast. I pull her panties from her, she shakes her hips with a slight wiggle to help.

And there it is: the object of my desire. I don’t know if she realizes how beautiful she is in this moment. Her vulva is pink and beginning to bloom red.

Her pussy has personality. It has power.

Oh-so-gently I bring my tongue to the hood. I raise it, my tongue erect. I let the middle of my tongue engage her. Slowly, waiting for what will happen next. And there it is… Slick, warm nectar. She moans, but I know it’s only the first throes of release — inhibition beginning to fall aside.

Now my cock is alert. Now we’ve arrived where we should be. I stroke — delicately — the interior of the lips. Red, red, red. These lips speak to me. I kiss them, and I drink her taste in.

The smell is pungent and permeates the room. It is the smell of life, of urgency, and it is a warm smell more powerful than that of any fire.

I move my face forward. There are so many things I can do to please her at this moment… And I will do them, eventually. First I must take in this moment, as the slickness of her insides now embrace my mouth, my cheeks, my nose. I nestle my face there for less than a second, not wanting to get too lost in it. I let the warmth run over my right cheek.

For a moment now we will have the greatest kiss. I run my tongue inside her, coaxing more of her onto me. My hands reach out, palms on the bed. I lift myself to her face and slide my tongue into her mouth. She kisses me back, also drinking it in. We are reaching a frenzy of yearning. Our faces rub along each other, cheek to cheek. The smell is that of everything we want. She moans. Hungry. At this moment that taste is the divine.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Image courtesy of the Sex and the 405 archives.


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That Steam allows the objectification and sexualization of female characters in a variety of its games but refuses to accept a game about actually engaging with women in a more interactive fashion is astonishingly backward.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...