The Groovy Age of Horror: LIKE A MASK REMOVED ed. by Bethany Zaiatz (Circlet 2010)

The Groovy Age of Horror: LIKE A MASK REMOVED ed. by Bethany Zaiatz (Circlet 2010)

I may be looking for this book next payday. For now those of you who follow comic genres may want to see this little erotic gem.



Julian

Tiger Woods Mistresses: Full List of Women & Pictures!

Tiger Woods Mistresses: Full List of Women & Pictures!

Tiger Woods has been linked to so many women, it's hard to keep them all straight. To help you out, we put together a list (with pictures) of Tiger's mistresses!

Here's a primer on the eight women linked to the world's top golfer (with names, as of this writing), with corresponding images below (left to right) ...

1. Rachel Uchitel. NYC club hostess. The first mistress linked to Woods, sparking his fight with wife Elin, which led to his car crash. His emails suggest he was falling for Rachel, but now she's just worried what diseases he may have given her.
2. Jamie Grubbs. Tool Academy contestant and cocktail waitress. Had 31-month-long affair with Woods and coughed up the voicemail to prove it. Thinks we are dumb enough to believe her when she says she didn't know he was married.
3. Kalika Moquin. Club manager/promoter from Las Vegas.
4. Jamie Jungers. Very cute, but totally trashy lingerie model from Vegas. Says she spent Tiger's money on liposuction during the time they were together.

5. Mindy Lawton. Trailer park waitress from Orlando. Kind of blah. Said Woods' wife Elin was pregnant during their affair, and that Tiger hates condoms.
6. Cori Rist. Aspiring, mostly failed model. Met Woods at a Manhattan club last year. Was married herself (with a child) throughout her fling with Woods.
7. Holly Sampson. Former porn star. Says she first met Tiger at his bachelor party ... where they had sex. Spoiler alert: It wasn't the last time they did.
8. Joslyn James. Current porn star.

UPDATE: Since our original posting, three more mistresses have been ID'd:

9. Loredana Jolie. Playboy model and hooker linked to Tiger by her pimp.
10. Julie Postle. Also known as "Unidentified Orlando Cocktail Waitress."
11. Theresa Rogers. Tiger's first and only bona fide cougar mistress!
12. Raychel Coudriet. Apparently his college-age neighbor got some.

There you go. Now you're all up to date, and have a cheat sheet to refer back to. Until another "alleged" Tiger Woods plaything comes forward and makes this awesome composite image we made obsolete. Give it a couple of hours.

Ultimo dia de vacaciones : Sydple Perversion

Ultimo dia de vacaciones : Sydple Perversion

If you read Spanish this is a damned wicked & wild site.

Spoiled Photos

A Blog Award

Cacophony

I had a dream this morning that for once in my life, I was thin. I was also handsome, noticeable, and stylish. I could see the ‘Me’ that (I guess) I want to be as, for lack of a better word, being happy. I don’t really know how else to describe it even with the vocabulary I posses and the access to dictionaries, thesauruses, and other reference books in my grasp.

The Me was wearing a nice suit, strolling calmly, never looking down, and smiling. He didn’t seem afraid or hesitant; tranquility was in his demeanor. And, I liked this Me. He was the Me I’ve always dreamt of being, the Me I ached for and reached for time and time again. And when I think I am close enough to touch Him, I hear a roar. It’s like standing in the path of a freight train, but flat. Maybe like being encased in a jet engine, whirring and spinning the turbines in a dull, hurricane roar around you. But it doesn’t feel as if you’re feeling the wind, but surrounded by the noise.

Cacophony.

Since I was 16 years old I have heard this roar, and I can pinpoint the times I heard it:

• I heard it in 1986 when I was sent home from the Marines.
• It mimicked breaking glass when someone chased me for an argument about a married woman.
• I heard it in 1989 when I lost my virginity to someone who didn’t love me, and I pursued nonetheless.
• Again in 1992 when my common-law marriage dissolved with the hatred of my ex.
• I was surrounded by it again in 1995 when I lost a pile of money and had to repay it to my friends.
• No one else ever knew (or shall know) the details of that moment above beyond what I’ve told you.
• It came at me in 1996 when my artistic company folded, collapsing around me, and with the voice of my spiritual mentor saying, “This wasn’t you so I prayed it wouldn’t happen.”
• It came at me as I painted in 2002, hearing my on-line lover died thousands of miles away, paining me that I couldn’t express it to anyone who’d regard it as something actually important to me.
• It attacked me as my last marriage fell apart in 2005.
• It came at me in 2008 when I feared being a cubicle zombie.
• And the scream of flat noise crushed me last year when my mistress returned to her lover.

And hearing it again, today, I am afraid.

I am trying to be brave, but I am sure that I am going to be far from my dreams. And if I don’t voice this and confront it, I will be stuck scared and still, nervous and sick with the fear of what’s going to happen.

Something is coming but I’m not sure what and that’s what’s making me nervous. That’s what’s making me sweat and swear, wonder and fear my days and nights.

I work as much as I can, trying to hold out, but there are few friends I can depend on, or even wish to burden with my fears and anxieties. So I pour out my words, hoping to hear, “You’ll be fine. Just relax. You’re gonna be okay. You’ve always made me smile so let me return the favor.”

But that’s not so, and I can’t take where all these fears rush me. I know the nervousness of counting the minutes until the next bill collector calls, wondering where I’ll get money from, or how I’ll make it on my own. I haven’t been on my own for some time, and my talent is limited. Or at least I think it is, and that scares me.

Is that plain-old paranoia? Or is it just me worrying about nothing at all? Maybe, just maybe, when I have followers, fans … people who love and appreciate my work, I won’t be worried as much. But I know that I am peripheral, a side-glance to them.

I miss having coffee with someone special. I’m sure she’s having coffee with someone else now.

I want more notes, comments, and adulations (or even criticisms) about my work. At least then, I can move to making my professional dreams come true. I am trying to make a conscience effort to have a joyous life and work faster, with more effort to create something amazing and wonderful, to entice and create havoc again and again.

I give away my money, I look to the future, and I try as stubbornly as possible to make my dreams come true. I want a kindred spirit to want to look over my shoulder. I want someone who I won’t be ashamed to show my obscene work or naughty creations. I won’t have to hide, lie, or expect to hold back on the perversions or rituals of my desires.

Some days I can’t look at myself in the mirror.

Some days I want to recreate myself, travelling back in time with the knowledge of now to give to Past-Me, telling him to enjoy and accept himself before it’s too late.

Some days I want a warm bath, a sharp knife and some brandy.

I’ll be 43 this summer. I’d like to have children and experience with someone I want, not someone who wants me; it has to be absolutely mutual. We can go broke together or raise billions together, but it’s Us, together.

Obviously, that’s not gonna happen.

Not yet anyway.

Water … Valerian root pills. It’s late & I need some sleep.

Privacy too.

(Pause)

In my dream, once I (the Me) got around people, I suddenly found myself growing ugly, fat and horrible-looking. Instead of being in the center, I was on the outside, looking in. I was attached to someone I wasn’t sure I liked, who (I think) tolerated me, and who didn’t seem any happier than I was at that moment.

And it scares me because that’s the Inner Me. The abrasive asshole I don’t like or care for in any way, want nothing to do with, and ache to abandon and desert. He’s the guy I wish would die without killing me.

In my heart of hearts, I am unhappy. I can’t climb a mountain and shout it, but I must be a small whisper in the cave to Daniel. And I have to do something else.

I must go on.

I must continue breathing, living and wanting to be happy.

Honestly, I’m not warped, fucked-up, or emotionally damaged. I just know I’ll choose things that aren’t conventional to the rest of the world, and that will lead me back to being alone or sad. A lot of people would “sell their soul to the Devil” to garner fame, fortune, or whatever they prefer. I wish it were that easy. Old Scratch, he ignores me.

Or he doesn’t see me worth his time or trouble, and he’s not a thing I’m afraid of.

I fear God Almighty more. Not because I am scribbling what some may consider pornography, but I am not being true to myself. I am not writing, painting, or building something beautiful.

I know what I want to do; it just comes down to the action, the privacy, the magic. And if you’re even slightly spiritual, you know magic abounds even on this plane.

I need to focus, and I need to leave Texas. There’s too much here making me nuts, flush with fear, and unable to accept a certain level of depravity.

There has to be a new life.

There must be a new way.

There is … I just have to grab it.

I wish I could grab my other dream the same way. She knows who she is in my Life, and I have to accept this calm and fear, before the madness begins.

How is another story.

I have to drown out the cacophony.

I can’t let it drown me.

I can’t drown..

I can’t.

I …




Adios for now.