Paul'S PlacE ❗ ⭕❗⭕ ❗⭕
These stories and irreverent points of view usually make sense... to me.
I hope you.ll share my smile.
(©April 2018-22 January Paul)
Keywords | Title View | Refer to a Friend |
Secrets You Should Keep... If Making a Fresh Start...😮❗
Posted:May 11, 2021 11:46 am
Last Updated:Aug 5, 2021 6:32 am
Debra sat on the polished granite, leaned her elbows on her knees then propped her chin between her hands. That pile of red roses had shrivelled and browned, and clumps of black earth were dangerously close to staining the white laces that dangled from her runners. The wind whispered her secret in a hushed chorus as it rustled the leaves of the soaring maples that had assembled. Robert was gone — and she felt nothing.

Debra looked up to watch a large crow fly into the distance, perhaps to escape the rain which had begun to fall. It was a refreshing summer shower she welcomed. She never noticed the approaching footsteps until they were upon her.

"Enjoying the moment?" Detective John's voice boomed between the fat water droplets that pattered.

"Yes... I mean, no. I'm leaving for New Hampshire tomorrow to visit my sister. I was saying goodbye," Debra stammered.

John opened his umbrella and welcomed her. Debra obliged and huddled under the canopy he'd provided; yet... she felt uncomfortable as he spoke.

"It's an absolute coincidence that Robert plunged where he did. That trail you were jogging has few danger spots; he tumbled in the only prohibited area — it was marked and blocked by warning signs everywhere. You guys didn't see them as you ran?"

This question had become repetitive and irritated Debra.

"He was ahead of me, I've told you already."

"Yes, you have. I can't figure out how an experienced runner like Robert could have slipped from such an obvious path."

"I warned him not to go, but he wouldn't listen. He was stubborn."

John looked at Debra and nodded politely. "Walk you back to your car?"

They walked as the detective spoke again.

"I'll need your address in case anything else comes up."

"Sure, but you could have called me. Why are you here?" Debra asked, puzzled.

"The autopsy revealed something interesting. Robert died from his fall, but he was also high as a kite. Did you see him take anything that day, Rohypnol, Ecstasy perhaps?"

"I don't know if he took drugs. He never told me and I never noticed, and it's too late to ask him, isn't it?" She'd reached her car, drew the keys out of her pocket and impatiently waited for John's reply.

"That's true. We might never know, will we?"

Debra slipped into the seat, closed the door and listened to the calming pitter-patter of raindrops as they tapped on her roof. She watched as that detective walked away, knowing — hoping — she'd never see him again, then rested her forehead against the steering wheel, precisely as she'd done... two weeks ago.

A sharp of knuckles against glass startled her. It was Robert; she'd been thinking while parked in the driveway. He spoke to her in his usual belligerent tone.

"Hey! The rain has stopped. Are we going for a fucking run or not? Otherwise, I'm leaving without you."

"Uhm... Yes, of course. I'll get our water bottles from the fridge. Why don't we try that park by the lakeshore? It's got an impressive cliff to jog along," Debra replied, stepping out of her car.

The first time he beat her, Debra knew she'd have to find a fresh beginning, and that 'debut' was about to start. She was anxious to repay Robert for all his devoted fucked-up love.


Black as the devil, pure as an angel, sweet as love.
A Kiss... Is Just a Kiss... Or Is It... 😮❗❗
Posted:May 4, 2021 10:56 am
Last Updated:Aug 5, 2021 6:32 am
She looked at him, grinned, then labelled his sweater as 'funky'; was a compliment, she insisted. I admired the rich, black cashmere with that silver gnome, creatively stitched on his shoulder. " Funky, is a fluorescent t-shirt you buy in a souvenir shop next those glitter cellphone cases," he frowned at her. Their date was off an auspicious start.

I sat on my stool by the window, watching the cars go by, sipping my cappuccino; I tried not to stare at them. They, were an attractive young couple standing next to me nestled around that counter, with the cream and , and a half dozen other stainless steel vessels containing trimmings I never knew one could put into coffee.

"All your clothes are funky. That's what I like about you", she whispered.

His steaming mug was prepped, and he tried to walk past her — to claim a couple of those empty chairs. She moved to her right and reached for the ; he took a step to avoid her. She caught his glance, leaned forward and went for the milk; he veered left, but she quickly shuffled in his way. Her lips brushed by his cheek. She took a breath and nuzzled her nose against his ear, then turned and faced his eyes and inched her open mouth towards his.

He had no choice; was none offered, and no other would have been taken.

Their kiss was soft and gentle yet held the raging passion of two young lovers — still learning each other. I guess I was staring because when she un-fluttered her eyes, she glared at me as if say, "What the fuck do you want?"

I would have answered, "Some of what HE'S having." Instead, I turned my head and looked out through the hazy glass onto the street as a cluster of dusty cars drove by.


It's just a kiss, or is it?
You Know Her... She Wears Stiletto Heels... and Drives a Truck... 😎❗
Posted:Apr 29, 2021 11:37 am
Last Updated:Jul 3, 2021 1:46 am
is a pitiless old bitch who plods along in scuffed stiletto heels, cloaks cheap whiskey stains on her red-smeared lips and cackles with a chain-smoker's cough. The electronic billboard I'd just passed warned me of an 'incident' four miles up ahead. I crawled behind the noxious black fumes from a trio of eighteen-wheelers and glared at my dashboard clock. Why, had I promised Lynn I'd be there?

SHE, planted that seed decades ago in a Toronto hotel.

The party was jammed with hangers-on and groupies and a throng of friends we'd invited to join us after our gig. I was the last to arrive, and she was the first person I saw — she stood out. I was mesmerized before Lynn had even said hello.

It took me a while to sift through that crowd and get close enough for her blue-green eyes to greet me. We didn't make love that night; instead, she poured a foundation for an insidious addiction that permanently tattooed my brain. In one night, she'd twisted me between her fingers.

She'd call whenever she was in Montreal, and I'd drop everything to enjoy whatever time she had for me. We were always reckless in our lust for each other, fueling my obsession and leaving me with a horde of memories and wild adventures. Others complained of her vain cruelty, but she only jerked me around once; claimed her best friend had fallen down a flight of stairs — it was bullshit.

And then her career stepped in.

She moved to London, and we drifted apart. I was invited to her wedding but never went and I hadn't seen her in years. When she called this morning, my heart skipped a couple of beats. She was in the city for a conference, would I like to meet up for dinner and, oh yeah — she's divorced.

And here I was — fucked on the freeway. I dialled Lynn's number; it wasn't going to be — not THIS time. Besides, I thought to myself, why should I jump whenever she snaps her fingers. She picked up after a couple of rings; I was about to speak, but I paused.

I'd begun to gain speed; ten, then thirty and forty miles per hour.

"I'll meet you in the lobby of your hotel in twenty-five minutes," I blurted. "See you soon, Lynn."

Why did I say twenty-five minutes? I was sweating out the haze of exits in front of me, wondering how the heck was I going to make it downtown that quickly. Suddenly, those damn plodding trucks in front of me took an off-ramp, and I had — a wide-open road.

My phone rang, it was Lynn.

"Paul, listen, my sister just called. My brother fell down a flight of stairs; I'm taking the next flight to Toronto. We'll have dinner another time; I hope you understand."

I eased up on the gas, looked at my watch and smiled; I would have made it. What a bitch! I meant 'time'... I think.


In my city, many women truckers wear this uniform.
How To Write A Fucking Profile... So That People Fucking Read It...😎❗
Posted:Apr 22, 2021 11:31 am
Last Updated:Aug 6, 2021 4:17 pm
The Sad Lament

If you peruse the pages of this imploding website, you'll inevitably stumble over some poor soul's blog as they lament their inability to make themselves understood. Poorly written profiles combined with an inattentive audience result in a crybaby approach to finding a solution. Wouldn't it be more productive to learn how to write a proper profile for your target audience?

I'm here to help you before this site fades into oblivion.

The Typical Complaints

How many times have you come across some sensitive male blogger whine;

- They won't stop sending me pussy pics.
- I just want to blog.
- I'm not here to meet.
- I want a meaningful friendship before we fuck.

And yet, women harass men on this site incessantly and without remorse. The reason — men have mishandled their profiles. Let me explain.

How Much Can A Standard Member View

More and more women no longer carry that golden crown, they've become Standard members, and as such — they can only view a portion of a profile. How much?

Approximately 25 words, or 122 characters. THAT'S how much space you have to make clear EXACTLY what you're looking for. There is no room for pleasantries or salutations, or adjectives, let alone adverbs. Here are prime examples of how you should express yourself.

- "Please fuck off."
- "I don't wanna fuck."
- "I just wanna blog."
- "I'm here to look at pics."
- "Even if I wanna fuck I've forgotten how."
- "I'm only here for the free coffee."
- " Leave me the fuck alone. My wife just left me and I'm depressed."

The Average Attention Span

Experts have determined that people on a web page read only 20% to 28% of what's written before they get bored. So even if a woman is a Gold member, she'll be inattentive and lose interest in a hurry. Don't waste your time describing your interests or your wish list - they'll never get low enough into your profile to read it.

Women Can't Read

That's shocking yet true. Don't use fancy three-syllable words and keep your writing level to no higher than a Grade Four proficiency. Although women claim to be able to read — it's a fallacy.

Optimize Your Profile Pics

If you don't want to get harassed by women, stop flashing your dicks. The best pics you can post are;

- elbows, knees, arms, feet (wearing dirty socks), white teeth (are pushing the limit), definitely NO tongues!

A Perfect Example

Here is an example of a well-structured, exquisitely composed and brief profile.

나는 섹스하고 싶지 않습니다. 채팅하고 싶어요. 나는 처녀입니다. 나는 친구로 남고 싶다.


As you can see, this person has followed all my rules and has crafted the perfect profile.


Don't complain about being harassed by women on this site. Take these tips I've provided, hone your communication skills and affect a positive step to ensure YOUR profile reaches your target audience.

Make it happen, and good luck!

This man successfully found a partner to spank.
Would You Put THAT In Your Mouth... On A DARE... 😦❗
Posted:Apr 20, 2021 11:37 am
Last Updated:Apr 24, 2021 12:01 am
Who says hospital food sucks? My niece is a nurse at one of the mega hospitals in this city, and it's got a fantastic world-class food court. It's nestled beneath a fifty-foot high, glass atrium along a wide hallway of vine-covered red brick walls in an inviting space that murmurs — 'Why dontcha sit a spell.' I was early, and you know me and my restless feet — so I walked around.

I trudged along through a maze of pastel green halls and offered an encouraging smile and a thumbs up to those who looked like they needed one. Eventually, I'd drifted into the emergency waiting room, and that's when I saw her — sitting in a wheelchair.

She was a young girl with a chrome hood ornament stuck in her mouth. [* NO, I don't know what type of car it came from; I should have asked. *] I wondered what might provoke someone to shove something like THAT down one's throat, and then it dawned on me — it must have been a dare.

Which reminded me of one I'd lived through many years ago.

I was ten years old, lying naked on a table in the basement of my neighbour's house, Rosanne. She and her assistant, Giovanna, were both eleven and had volunteered to give me a free medical exam; I obliged. When they got down to that sensitive rigid twig between my legs, I thought of something my best friend Bobby had told me. His older brother had told Bobby — so it HAD to be true.

I shared Bobby's comment with my physicians.

"Ya know, if you lick it, it tastes just like a cherry lollipop."

Rosanne and Giovanna both stopped and stared at me. "No, it doesn't," they exclaimed.

"Yes, it does. Bobby's brother told him so, and he told me," I replied, quite sure of myself. Rosanne confronted her assistant, Giovanna.

"I dare you to."

Ya don't wanna mess with a spunky Italian girl who's got three brothers and doesn't take shit from anyone. With a confident glare, she leaned down between my thighs, licked and then waited a few seconds; as if to test the theory.

Rosanne spoke again. "Ya gotta lick it more than once — like a lollipop," she insisted with authority.

Giovanna nodded and dove in with gusto. Now, if it wasn't for the fact that we all heard the front door opening and Rosanne's mom calling us into the kitchen for popsicles, I might have had a 'happy ending'. As it was, I'd felt the most incredible sensations ever — in my time on the planet!

"It doesn't taste like cherry," whispered Giovanna to Rosanne as we all scampered up those stairs for our treats.

They wheeled 'hood ornament girl' into a private room as I looked at my watch. I'd be late, so I quickly headed back to the food court, where my niece greeted me. Our meals were 'ta die for,' and we both grinned ear to ear as we were draped with the international aromas of haute cuisine.

I sat there smiling, savouring my 'casu marzu' (maggot cheese) and grilled octopus while thinking about HOW they ever extracted that hood ornament from that girl's mouth.

Geez, the strange things people will shove up and into holes and cavities of their bodies, huh?


I believe that's a bottle of Miller stuck up there, or am I wrong?
If You Do A Lot of THIS... Don.t Expect A Lot of THAT... 😮❗
Posted:Apr 15, 2021 10:45 am
Last Updated:May 26, 2021 2:13 pm
Ever have to deal with methodical, plodding, detail-oriented — 'don't see the big picture' — people whose goal (seemingly) is to blather and prove how smart they are?

The meeting started late because HE (our Chairman Richard) wanted to wait until EVERYONE was in the boardroom and seated — even though we'd had a quorum for over half an hour. George and Irena were tardy; no one wondered why. Richard glared at them and went through roll call, although THAT was redundant; some of us sighed.

He refused to acknowledge a motion to approve the previous meeting's minutes; two extracts were missing from our copies. Instead of reviewing the missing pages, he insisted on reading all eight — just in CASE, there were other omissions.

Before we could vote on accepting the minutes, Dottie left the room to answer an emergency call from her ; and Bill and Steve were summoned to put out a 'fire' with their TOP . We still had a quorum, but rather than vote, the chairman, waited for all of them to return — which they did, about six or seven minutes later.

After the vote, he read the agenda line by fricken line, despite the fact it was the same plan we'd had for the previous six months — with one new addition.

Finally, we got to the meeting's main item. Richard got up and used his 'privilege' to share with everyone a lengthy article he'd read — in The Globe and Mail — but unfortunately, he couldn't recall the intricate details of what the author's conclusions were. We all looked at each other around that giant table and just rolled our fucking eyes.

At that moment, Dottie got called back to the phone with her , and Mike — from Marketing — walked into our room to remind us that THEY had it booked for one o'clock and we were already five minutes late.

David quickly motioned to adjourn the meeting, I seconded the motion, a flurry of hands flew in the air, and we zoomed out of that bunker in seconds, all except one embittered chairman. Richard stood there with a puzzled look on his face. "Who seconded that motion?" he squawked after us.

I turned and watched as Mike casually sat down, looked up at him and grinned, then tapped an up-tempo Latin rhythm on that polished oak table.

*Note:I dare ANYONE to write a piece about blathering and not get paranoid about blathering. lol 😂

We met for a coffee in the cafeteria after the meeting; it was 'casual Friday'.
Shades of Her Chestnut Hair... and Two Hundred Pound Anchors... 😮❗
Posted:Apr 6, 2021 10:31 am
Last Updated:Apr 22, 2021 11:44 am
A brilliant haze splashed hues of auburn and had lit her hair in shades of chestnut and burgundy as the sun blazed its chorus — and paused. He gazed at the framed picture and her faithful smile and recalled that moment as he sat down. Saturday afternoon was fading. He lit a tiny pink candle buried in the chocolate cupcake, resting on his kitchen table, and watched it flicker as it cast vague shadows along darkened walls. It was his birthday.

SHE was never supposed to leave before him; he thought he'd made that clear to her. He smiled wistfully as an accustomed ache choked his throat. He blew out the candle then watched... as those wisps of white smoke drifted into the air. His wish would not be granted.

The boxes were packed, and most of his furniture was gone. He'd just missed calls from both his daughters — while rummaging through old clothes in the basement — but his phone had captured their song and the harmony of his grandkids. He listened to the replay of their voices and giggles.

He remembered that time when they'd tried to plant sixty candles on his cake, with much laughter and dizzy hope. It was a fail, but one where they ALL squealed and cheered. He'd puffed at those flames till he was light-headed.

He took a bite of his cupcake, sipped from a glass of cold milk and slowly turned his head towards the eerie silence that had emerged. The Grandfather clock, the guardian of his hallway — the one he'd bought with her when they first moved in — had just stopped ticking. Its moon face mocked him, the swan's neck, reflected in the bevelled glass, stood expressionless. No one wanted it, and he didn't know what to do with it.

The doorbell rang and broke the stillness of his thoughts.

He shuffled his tired legs to the door and greeted a young couple who smiled and spoke softly. "We saw your ad for the Grandfather clock. Do you still have it for sale?"

He welcomed them into his house. The couple gasped as they eagerly nestled up to the edge of the impressive clock and began to caress the smooth lines of its warm mahogany case. He smiled contently to himself as he watched. That clock would start life afresh and find a new home.

As long as they didn't ask him for help, moving that ginormous two hundred pound timepiece down the stairs, up the walkway and onto the roof of that guy's fucking Toyota.

Things You Should NEVER Do... If You Are IN A Threesome... 😮❗
Posted:Mar 30, 2021 10:18 am
Last Updated:Apr 21, 2021 9:28 pm
It was past midnight, and we were making love in her bedroom. Karen was apparently enjoying herself – I could tell. She was moaning, although she might have been faking, encouraging me to finish soon; women are experts. I was reflecting on that— holding her ankles — when I heard the front door creak open.

Karen had told me she didn't have a boyfriend, and I believed her. I stopped and looked into her eyes — Karen wasn't panicking, so neither did I, but I asked her a question. "Who's that?"

Her reply was swift and delivered with the breathless impatience of someone who wanted to cum, "It's just my roommate, Mary."

I nodded and continued my task. That first thrust after a pause always produces a pleasant gasp, doesn't it? I never had a chance for push number two; the door to Karen's bedroom flung open and in pranced the roommate, Mary, quite obviously hammered out of her skull.

She stumbled over the carpet and fell forward onto my bare ass, then, with her hands propped against my back, pushed herself up and blurted the obvious. "Oh, you're fucking someone tonight? Who's he?"

Before I had a chance to reply, Mary made a frantic dash for the bathroom. The next sound Karen and I heard was Mary's horrid retching; our ardour had soured — and I'd plopped out of Karen. We both looked at each other. Karen slipped out from under me, put on a gown and quickly headed off to Mary's aid. I wondered for a second if I should wait where I was or offer my encouragement and help. At the very least, I figured I'd put my pants and shirt on and see if there was something I could do.

I stood by the bathroom door and witnessed Mary heave out what looked like a meal of spaghetti and escargot. Then I sat in the kitchen, and finally, I moved to the living room where I lay down on the couch and eventually fell asleep. It must have been early in the morning when Karen nudged me.

She was late for work and had my socks and underwear in her arms; I understood and looked around for my shoes. There was no sign of Mary, but I presumed she was still alive.

Karen and I never hooked up to finish what we'd started. Was it that sex with me wasn't as good as I'd thought, or because I was dozing when she screamed for more paper towels and the plunger? I didn't bother to ask.

And that's the challenge with threesomes; you never know if they'll work out, and you'll all be compatible. The one I had that night — was a slight miss.

The Art of Driving Your EX... Crazy 😮❗
Posted:Mar 23, 2021 10:15 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 8:40 am
I'm in a contemplative mood, slouched in my darkened living room, wondering — trapped with my obsessive clocks as they all tap *variant beats. I can feel myself drifting towards a desert, filled with parched and faded memories: Where is that oasis? Where is that vivid recollection, the one I can taste and touch, as if I'm there? I found one of those... the other day, in of ALL places — an old and weathered cardboard box.

My mother had proudly kept the inventory of everything I'd ever produced in school and shoved it in a box. I opened that crinkled corrugated cube for the first time the other night and stumbled upon a story I'd written in grade 11. Holding that yellowed parchment — penned in legible handwriting that was supposedly mine — brought me back to the VERY moment I was asked to stand up in class and read it.

That English course bored me. I'd been wallowing through it, dosing off during the lecture, when Mrs. Robinson (no relation to the real one) called my name, asked me to stand and commanded me to read my assignment; 300 words on — 'Emotions.' I presumed she wanted to embarrass me, thinking I hadn't completed it.

I hemmed and hawed, not because I hadn't done it, but because I wasn't sure if it was 'cool' or appropriate to share with my classmates. I protested she requested, I objected, she insisted — she won. I cleared my throat and began to read.


I had a dream about you last night. I was walking through the door when I saw you standing next to him. He was taller than me; his hands clutched your waist tighter than I would have. Was he already afraid to lose you?

I didn't think you'd notice me — I was draped beneath black shadows. You stared back and smiled, the way you do when you're about to prove something.

I knew, as your fingers gently ruffled through his hair, it was a performance. When your lips parted, at first, I thought it was to say a word; stupid me. It was to meet his hungry mouth.

You never kiss with your eyes wide open. You made sure I fell into them as they slowly closed while he pressed himself against you.

I could smell your scent from where I stood. I would have asked him how you tasted; I'd forgotten. I shouldn't have walked into that place. I watched as you wiped your glistening lips with the tip of a finger; a silver thread from his tongue had lingered.

Was there a word you were hiding, one you wanted to share, a secret we could hold? Then why were you glaring? Should I call you later? Was that a sign? I should never have stayed in that space.

Your friends told me that you'd be there. I took a chance and hoped I wouldn't find you; then I prayed I would. Why didn't they save us from ourselves? My stomach was a twisted knot; you were deep inside my head.

I had a dream about you last night. It felt so real. My sheets still smell of you, barely now. Damn, I hate you, but I fucking miss you more than ever.


I looked up at the class and shyly sat down.

I had written that story for a girl I was dating or should say — had dated. Diane was sitting up front, near the windows, by then, covering her mouth with her hands in shock. All her friends turned and looked at me. The whole class knew. High school drama; whatcha gonna do, huh?

Mrs. Robinson NEVER asked me to read ANY of my assignments out loud again.

That memory still resonates. I imagine all of us have nicks and scrapes from a bruised heart. I looked at my yellowed paper, folded it, then placed it in the box and pushed that box back under my bed. Why would I continue to relive my cryptic past? I'm devoted to managing my tangled present.

And here I am now... slouched in my darkened living room, wondering — if it's possible to synchronize my untamed clocks, so they ALL 'TICK-tok' at the same fucking time.

*Variant: Although the clocks were all ticking in an asynchronous manner, each one had a different tone and sound; hence — 'variant'.
She Left Me With Shards of Glass... and Bucket List Craziness...😮❗
Posted:Mar 16, 2021 10:28 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 7:55 am
Throughout my life, I've been casually crossing things off a list. These days, my targets are modest, NOT from having done it ALL, but because I'm comfortable. Yet, once in a while, I'm surprised when a thought consumes me, one that sneaks into my bucket list. It all began a couple of Saturdays ago.

I'd pulled an all-nighter, binge-watching 'Schitt's Creek'. Breakfast turned out to be dinner: I craved an old-fashioned meatloaf with mashed potatoes, maple roasted carrots, a cucumber salad and — of course — garlic bread au gratin. The meal was delicious, but the cleanup (I don't own a dishwasher), required a commitment too tangled for my tired brain. I left everything where it was, piled up on the counters, next to my two sinks.

And THAT'S when things went off the rails. A lazy 'laissez faire' attitude conspired with apathy, then bloomed into an idea that moulded a plan — and shaped this question.

'Can I use EVERY single knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup and bowl that I own, without washing ANYTHING — for the next two weeks?'

I mean, what's the point of keeping all this stuff clogging my cupboards if I'm never going to use it? My NEW bucket list pin had materialized. The only rule in this challenge was — the sinks could NOT be used for stacking. One needs some minimum standards.

Back when I was married and the lived at home, we'd regularly entertain a dozen people or more. Yes, we passed out paper plates for the BBQs we blazed, but on other occasions — the dinnerware and silver cutlery came out. My crammed cupboards were undoubtedly jonesing for that long-gone crowd; I imagined them pulsing, eager to please and be touched, once again.

Picture what my kitchen looked like after week one. I almost gave up, but I persevered because — I'm not a quitter. By week two, everything was piled precariously high, and I'd already had a miss-hap with (I forgot I had any) a glass plate.

I understand now why my ex-wife left those fuckers for me. Ever break one of them? You're picking shards and slivers of glass off your floors for days, and I expect... weeks.

This past Saturday, I'd finally used my last bowl. By noon, I looked into my bare cupboards and drawers and at the horrific mess in my kitchen and confirmed — my goal had been reached.

I had a satisfied smirk on my face as I surveyed the carnage. Then I realized — I'd have to start cleaning up all that crap. It wouldn't be an easy task. Pre-soaking in hot water was compulsory, and so was double washing. I lost track of all the hours it took, but eventually, I got the job done. My kitchen is sparkling clean and looks great. And, I discovered some new favourite bowls and plates.

Will I ever try this again? Never! I can hear some of you suggesting I get a life. Point taken. I could probably target other items on my bucket list, but you know, walking the Great Wall of China doesn't interest me anymore. Have I somehow morphed into a venerable, forgetful and boring homebody?

I've been drinking a coffee while writing. Hang on a sec; I'm going to wash the mug....

... I'll be right back.

*Addendum: I should have opened this question up to items on your 'sexual bucket list'. I've had a couple of threesomes — so I've ticked THOSE off.
Honesty and Altruism... How to Church Yourself Up... and Get Laid 😊❗
Posted:Mar 12, 2021 9:21 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 12:33 pm
I'm often asked — here and on the street — the same question over and over: "Paul, how can I get laid?" Men AND women approach me with that conundrum, and daunting as it may seem (to the inexperienced), the answer is simple.

Be as honest as you can, and present your positive attributes while highlighting your altruistic nature; everyone LOVES an altruist — although few of us know what that means. So, I'll give you an idea of what I'm talking about by showcasing a custom blog I wrote for someone who needed help promoting themselves and finding sex.

*Note: This blog was for a man, but with a few tweaks, it'll work for a woman.
A Typical Day

My day usually starts at 6 a.m. . With that Covid bug still flourishing, it means I'll be wearing a mask, and I can trim 6 minutes of prep time by not brushing my teeth or shaving. A hot cup of coffee, and I'm in the car, on my way to church for morning prayers.

The liquor store opens at 9, and I like to be first in line to avoid any jostling or gunfire; then, it's off to a soup kitchen to serve lunch to the homeless. I always get a warm fuzzy feeling when I can help the underprivileged, and they seem happy to have a warm, clean place to take a shit.

The way back to my part of town includes a detour to the 'Cannabis Store,' where I'll pick up a half dozen pre-rolled joints. As I approach my house (if I haven't gotten lost), I'll always pop in at the food bank and see if they need a hand, carrying boxes or lugging anything about. Friends always appreciate my assistance and the goodies that I share with them: I'm a giving person.

Home at last and (after a quick bowl of macaroni and cheese), I'm finally able to sit in front of the computer to start sending out my 'dick pics.' It will take a couple of hundred or so before I get a positive reply from ANY lady.

Several hours of diligence and patience are required; I don't expect immediate success. But, by this point — between the alcohol and the refers — I'm usually fucking smashed, so 'sleep' is a welcome companion. Early to bed is MY trick for staying healthy.

And there it is—another successful day in the books. I can hardly wait till tomorrow.


There you have it; a frank yet straightforward and honest reveal of what THAT man does with his days. Impressive, huh?

Now, mind you, I would customize YOUR blog to reflect your style. For women, I'd replace 'posting dick pics' with placing a strategic picture of your breasts on your profile page. Your evenings would THEN be spent answering instant messages.

I hope I've been of some help to you. Your inquiries can be sent below or to my 'private mailbox'.

Getting laid is simple. Honesty and an open, humble display of who you are, are what others look for. Do you have what it takes to 'church' yourself up, become an altruist and get fucked? 🤔

FrankeeZee... Hurdies With Skirts... and The Bloggers Union... 😊 ❗
Posted:Mar 10, 2021 8:56 am
Last Updated:Apr 14, 2021 8:00 pm
Last Saturday was a bright, crisp winter's day, and reeleee fricken cold. FrankeeZee (a close friend from ANOTHER social site) and I were leisurely tracing the icy shore by the lake. I was startled when Frankee grabbed my arm and pointed. "Paul, THAT asshole is going to fall through the ice."

We watched with casual amusement. Frankee adjusted his scarf and tightened the hat over his ears. The guy on the ice gingerly trudged forward.

"So how are things going, over at YOUR sex site Paul. Anything exciting happening?"

"Nope, same old... you?"

"Oh yeah. We've got a 'hurdie' who wants to start a bloggers union. He's affectionately labelled us bloggers — as a 'community' — and appointed himself to manage inappropriate behaviour. Last week someone posted a preference for men who wear size 33 pants. The 'hurdie' was offended, so he called that blogger out."

"Hmmm..." I nodded.

"He used all the popular slogans. You know... played the race card, called him a bigot, a bully, a narcissist and a drunk; all those tags no one can fight. It's like trying to answer that question; Didja stop beating your husband, or are ya still struggling with a coke addiction? "

(*Although in Poland, 'Polo-Cocta' is very popular. My mind... had drifted for a second* )

"I'm going to write a sardonic blog and put MY name in the hat for President," FrankeeZee grinned.

"Frankee, no one understands your messed up sarcasm. People won't comment, and you'll be ostracized and ignored."

"Paul, if I cared about comments, I'd do what this faux 'king' practices on OUR site. He and his Bolshevik assistant dole out free bridge tokens to the hopelessly insolvent, and THAT bridge was torn down ten years ago", he laughed.

"What's the 'hurdie' going to say ?" I asked.

"Who cares, Paul? He's not my type. He wears a silk jupe and a t-shirt, with a grandpa prank smeared on it."

I looked at FrankeeZee with a confused squint.

"Some of 'hurdie's' ganglia might get offended. A few of them blathered on with smothering adulation at what he'd posted. And there's this sullen scribbler who totes a cracked microscope; he'll have an axe to grind. In any case, none of them read my stuff."

"Frankee, what's the whole point of your blog.?"

"I don't know, Paul; I'll have fun? And as President, I promise an espresso machine in the 'Bloggers Lounge'."

"You have a 'Bloggers Lounge'?" I looked at Frankee wide-eyed.

FrankeeZee took an exasperated breath.

"Don't you guys have one? Hey Paul, why does anyone post anything on a blog? Everyone has their reasons, and you can either pause and read it or move on. You don't have to create FAKE drama every time someone farts, and claims they prefer smaller pants — do ya?"

"You might be a hypocrite Frankee. If you highlight the drama, don't you BECOME the drama? So... you guys have a 'Bloggers Lounge'? How did you ..."

FrankeeZee interrupted my thought and yanked my shoulder. "THERE, he's fallen through the ice."

Sure enough, that guy had wandered out about 20 feet and had plunged into the water — up to his hips. He flayed his arms wildly in the air and began to holler for help.

His friends, who were all waiting on shore, laughed and yelled back with a suggestion that he fuck himself. They taunted him with a shark sighting and waved beer cans as an incentive to get his ass out of that freezing slush. It worked; he was soon back on land laughing and chugging a lager.

"Must be spring break, right Paul? Hey, you wanna cross the lake? I know a spot where the ice is 2 feet thick."

I looked at Frankee and blinked... and wondered if he was serious or not. With FrankeeZee, you could never tell.

*Disclaimer: Any resemblance of characters described by FrankeeZee to real persons, alive or dead — is purely coincidental.
Russian Stimulants... Locusts and Their Connection With... Cheating Girlfriends... 😮
Posted:Feb 16, 2021 10:49 am
Last Updated:Mar 13, 2021 11:08 pm
The trails of an intrepid vagabond aren't always smooth. I once took a tedious three-week business trip that spilled across Eastern Europe with a terminus in Moscow.

I'd concluded my exhaustive meetings one day sooner than expected and was anxious to get back to Montreal - so I booked the first available flight. I was high in the sky when things unravelled with a frightening clatter.

Our plane hit a swarm of locusts, or was it volcanic ash? I don't recall. (I'd swallowed a Russian stimulant to help me through the 16-hour trip, and THAT sucker was the size of a grape.) Iceland was where we rerouted and waited 10 hours for our new jet.

There's not much to do in Keflavik if you're stuck in the terminal.

I found an eclectic coffee and gift shop which displayed an extensive collection of lopapeysur (woollen sweaters) and a repertoire of Steven King novels. And, they served the national dish - Hákarl - which is a fermented shark.
Did you know they dry it for five months? It has a very potent ammonia-rich smell; it's an acquired taste. In 10 hours, I fell short of acquisition.

It was 5 in the morning by the time we crossed the Atlantic, and I'd cleared customs; a fierce tailwind had clipped an hour off our flight. I hadn't told anyone I was flying in - hoping to surprise everyone - so of course, no one was there to greet me. Thankfully I had no cumbersome luggage to drag around; the airline had lost it. I opened the door to my home and quietly stepped in; I was startled to find what I saw.

My living room was festooned with a mass of balloons in all shapes and colours, and a banner hung on my ceiling - 'Welcome Home.' My loving Lynn had planned a surprise party. I had to admit; I was surprised.

As I crept in, I clumsily brushed the table and knocked a clump of magazines from their perch. Seconds later, I heard a male voice call.

"Lynn, is that you?"

A half-naked man approached me from the shadows of my hallway. My heart stopped as a chill ran through my soul. The worst possible thoughts flooded my head; I couldn't believe what was happening. I visualized my relationship with Lynn - completely oxidize. Then, he spoke again.

"Lynn...? Whadja forget?"

I still couldn't see the man's face, but I recognized his voice. It was Lynn's brother - for fuck's sake - he lived in Toronto.

"Hey, Robert. What are YOU doing here? Where's Lynn?"

"Hey, Paul. What are YOU doing here? Your flight's not supposed to land till 6. The airline called, they found your bags. Lynn went to the airport to surprise you. I'm sleeping over; she invited me to your party."

We both started to laugh. Me, from relief and at the irony of the situation. Robert, because... I have no clue why he laughed; he was easily amused.

And that's how things went that early morning. Poor Lynn had made all these plans, and those locusts and I had messed them all up.

We blasted the party that night. I feigned surprise as I walked through the door, carrying my lost luggage and a 'lopapeysa' under my arm. And, I entertained my friends with tales of 'The Kremlin' and locusts and fermented sharks. I never mentioned those Russian stimulants or how I freaked out when I saw Robert in my hallway.

You don't have to share every detail of a road trip, do you?

Images of Iceland. What a beautiful country.

To link to this blog (Paulxx001) use [blog Paulxx001] in your messages.

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