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My back hurts because I thought I was a porn star.

So we’re going on about day 9 of this pain in my lower back because last weekend I decided to go out and feel every oat I do not possess and I am too old for that type of foolishness.

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***Usual disclaimer about gay sex and more info than some of y’all want to know about me.

So we’re going on about day 9 of this pain in my lower back because last weekend I decided to go out and feel every oat I do not possess and I am too old for that type of foolishness.

Sean made banana bread on St. Patrick’s Day, so obviously that Friday started out so calm and so relaxed.  Yes, I was using Jameson to spike my iced coffee (also made by Sean, apparently he’s more domestic than I thought) all day, but I had no plans to turn up.  We ordered in from some Peruvian place in his hood and watched crime documentaries.  Nighttime came and we’re both like, “Hmm…maybe we should go out and have a drink in a bar.”  The closest bar was a hotel bar at the Holiday Inn, so we sat around sipping margaritas and caipirinhas with a 44-year-old straight Black man from Panama who had control of the music for some reason.  (I never knew I needed to hear JJ Fad followed by Pternsky, but cheers to new experiences.)  At some point, Sean and I both were heading toward tipsy and decided to go out out, meaning go to gay bars in Jackson Heights and flirt with boys.  And therein lies the beginning of my ordeal.

Y’all.  I don’t know how to flirt with gay men.  It’s not in my DNA and I’ve only recently accepted that fact as being perfectly OK.  I don’t pick up boys in bars and boys don’t pick me up in bars.  So my plan for the night was to drink cheap whiskey, talk shit with Sean, stuff a dollar or two in a jockstrap, and be home at a reasonable hour.  We got to some bar and I immediately locked eyes with a (dyed) bright blonde Latino getting his life on the dancefloor.  The music was calling me, his hips were definitely speaking to me, so I walked up to him.  I was excited!  Some very cute boy was showing me mad interest, so whatever I had to do, I was going to capitalize on that situation.

The way the bar is set up, you have to walk up 3 steps to get onto the dancefloor.  I walked in his direction with the intention of going up the steps to dance with him, but I never got the opportunity because he jumped down on me like a spider monkey.  Two things were off about our perceptions of each other.

One, I thought he was a twink because he was short and he looked thin in his baggy black clothes.  No.  This was one of those short Latinos who lifts everday so that little man was a fucking brick and heavy as all get out.

Two, he must have thought I was stronger than I am – because why else would you jump on someone you don’t know?  I will admit that though I have a deep aversion to the gym, my fat does generally deposit itself in a way that I can give the resemblance of being in some sort of shape.  That’s smoke and mirrors bitch.  I have the muscle tone of an Olsen twin.  I am not equipped to pick up, catch, carry, or swing anybody around who is larger than a toddler.

Given these two pieces of information, you would think that we immediately crashed to the floor, but not so!  Regardless of his weight and my lack of muscles, I have a deep fear of public humiliation and I refuse to be that drunk bitch falling over on the floor.  Y’all, he jumped on me and I definitely pitched forward because  we were absolutely going to hit the floor, but my spirit just wouldn’t let me do it.  I don’t know where I pulled the strength, but just as the back of my hands brushed against the dance floor – that’s how close we were to falling – I pulled him back up, and by then he had his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, so this bitch is thinking I’m extra strong now after that severe ass dip to the music.  So he is ready to forreal wind it up.  I don’t know how long we went at it, but we were dipping, grinding, he was jumping on me, I was picking him up – it was so much of everything I never wanted and wasn’t prepared for, but the boy was hot and he had a phat ass and I was living my best life.

After awhile, my body finally said “pick that lil boy up one more time and I can’t save you” so I made my exit from the dancefloor but I exchanged numbers with that lil thotcrobat first (that’s a thot who does acrobatics, keep up).  When I went back to the dancefloor he wasn’t there anymore, but I amused myself with this thick Latino cub with beautiful lips who had seen me dancing earlier and decided he wanted a spin.  No, he did not jump on me, thank God.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I was in midtown waiting on my train transfer to take me home to Harlem.  The Thotcrobat text me while I was on the platform.

“Hey don’t you live in Harlem?”
Yes.
“I’m on 137th, wanna meet?”
(Interally, HELL YES ARE YOU KIDDING ME!) Sure.  Should be about 30 minutes.

Keep this in mind y’all – I’m a top, and I can be an aggressive top if it’s the right bottom, but I’m not a dom top.  I don’t smack or spit or pull hair because if somebody does that to me, we fightin.  That little Mexican had it in his mind that I’m a dom top because of the dance routine we had just put together earlier.  Our fuck session quickly went from my comfort zone to “what the hell are you doing right now, Rafi?  Who is you?”  

At one point, I was fucking his (very fat, round, perfect) ass doggy with my hands around the back of his neck because he likes to be choked.  He kept telling me to do it harder and harder and I’m like…are you kidding me?  The energy in my arms is finite, especially after the previous few hours, and I don’t have any more pressure to give this man.  So I made a 30 degree turn to the left, put my foot up on the side of his neck, and basically stepped on his head for awhile and he CAME in that position.  I caught myself in the mirror standing on a thot’s face and started laughing because GIRL WHO AM I RIGHT NOW!  Is this Macho Fucker?  I mean I did have a baseball cap on and everything, but that was to keep the hair out of my eyes, not for any trade fantasies.

We were fucking off and on from 5am to 1130am, mostly on.  When I decided I had no more to give, he put a cockring on me and we went at it some more.  Now, a week and two days later, I still cannot touch my toes.  That Mexican Thotcrobat wore me out harder than any workout of my life and I might never be right again.  The universe is either telling me I am too old for that life or I need to go to the gym.  Either way, she gotta wait until I can stand up and sit down without mimicking a pregnant woman.

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Insider: OnlyFans seeks funding, plots to move away from adult content

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Adult-entertainment site OnlyFans is reportedly in talks to raise new funding at a valuation of more than $1 billion, sources familiar with the matter told Bloomberg on Wednesday.

The online platform, which charges users a subscription to view pictures and videos of celebrities, influencers, and adult-film stars, was teaming up with an advisor to bolster interest from investors, one of the sources told Bloomberg. The source wanted to remain anonymous because the talks were private.

The source also said the advisor was helping OnlyFans become a more mainstream online media site, and that it hoped to move away from its reputation for adult content.

(cont.)

Did everyone at OnlyFans forget how quickly Tumblr became obsolete after they banned adult material? And that was a *free* platform.

Does OnlyFans really think there are enough people who will “pay for access” to their favorite celebrities? When we’re living in an era with the MOST access to stars because they’re all posting social media every five minutes?

 

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“Happy anniversary to this great moment in incel history”

They all just wanna be Chad.

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He’s mad at her for not thinking he’s a hot enough Chad to swipe right on and also mad at her for engaging with him for being funny and interesting, despite the fact that he’s not hot. 🤣🤣

Incel rage at women is just misplaced jealousy toward hot men. They all just wanna be Chad.

If women are shallow for only going after hot, mean, alpha guys, but they’re ALSO shallow when you’re able to grab their attention for your personality, then the problem isn’t women! The problem is men wanting women to fall at their feet because women should be so taken with a man’s hotness and sexual prowess regardless of what that man looks like.

 

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Email: rafi@soletstalkabout.com
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I love to eat.

Even if you wouldn’t spend $300 on one meal, even if you would rather cook for yourself 100% of the time, you have a frame of reference for it and you can understand why a person who is perfectly capable of feeding themselves would pay someone else a lot of money for a truly memorable experience.

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I cook for myself a lot. If there’s something I want to eat, I can usually find a way to make it. Sometimes I cook with other people who have varying levels of skill, but we can find our way through it and the meal (usually) turns out pretty well. A few days ago I was like, “I really want guacamole and it’s pretty simple to make.” I made plans to hang out with my friend and he brought all the ingredients to my house. It was surprisingly good and then I made dinner after…which wasn’t a RESOUNDING success (because I cooked the chicken a little too high) but it was still edible and enjoyable. All in all, the whole culinary experience was maybe a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10 — not the best meal I’ve ever made, but better than average. Most of the meals I cook, whether by myself or with another person, aren’t the best meal I’ve ever had, but they’re always edible.

Back when I had a good job, I wanted a really good steak and I found a friend who wanted one too. We were willing to shell out some big bucks because we literally wanted the best steak we had ever had. We didn’t want to experiment, mess it up, and possibly disappoint ourselves. We wanted a chef who knew exactly what he was doing to make us the best steak we had ever had. We went to Quality Italian in Midtown and spent over $300 on dinner, which is A LOT of money for someone in my income bracket, but you know what? I still talk about that steak. I think about that steak. I can’t wait until the day I can afford that steak again because I will absolutely pay for that entire meal all over again.

Even if you wouldn’t spend $300 on one meal, even if you would rather cook for yourself 100% of the time, you have a frame of reference for it and you can understand why a person who is perfectly capable of feeding themselves would pay someone else a lot of money for a truly memorable experience.

Apply that logic to sex.

I saw this image on Twitter

…and I’m just annoyed at the idea that we’re still trying to shame people who pay for sex, that there is something inherently wrong with paying someone to do a service they like to provide.

If I get hungry, I can cook for myself, by myself.
If I want to get off, I can pleasure myself, by myself.

If I get hungry and I want to eat with someone, I can find someone to come over and cook with me.
If I want to get off with someone else, I can find someone to have sex with.

If I want the best meal I have ever had from someone who has studied exactly what I want, I can find a chef who specializes in that and pay them a lot of money to give me a memorable experience I could not replicate by myself or with any of the people who would cook with me.

If I want the best sex I have ever had from someone who has studied whatever kink or possesses whatever body type I want, I can find a sex worker who specializes in that or looks like that, and I can pay them a lot of money to give me a memorable experience I could not have through masturbation or through my own ability to find and seduce that.

The most ridiculous thing about this movement to shame prostitution is the fact that the same men behind these ideas masturbate — frequently! — to porn. They are masturbating to imagery of people who were paid to have sex or be sexual. Even if they didn’t pay directly, somebody did because everybody’s not out here jacking off to leaked nudes or free cam footage. If you are making money (working) from sex, you are a sex worker. If you are consuming sex produced for money, you are paying sex workers. If you are shaming people who have sex with clients for money, you’re a dummy jacking off to a screen who could have just paid someone directly to cook you the best meal of your life.

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twitter.com/RafiDAngelo
Email: rafi@soletstalkabout.com
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