The following is a little gem I found on the web, I've blatantly copy/pasted it in the hope that it might amuse others as much as it amused me.
It mildly reminds me of an outcall I had with a Jade from Famtasme about two months ago.
Pasted mercilessly from elsewhere.
"This spring vacation, I went to San Francisco, or more specifically, I made a side trip with my friends Peter and Anna to Reno, Nevada, or more specifically still, I made a second side trip with Anna to Virginia City, Nevada, home of the Bunnyranch, a word that will ring loud and clear in my subconscious for the rest of my life.
The Bunnyranch is a brothel, which we all know are as legal as gambling in the state of Nevada. Peter had alerted me to the Bunnyranch's existence (apparently upon recommendation by a fellow Arthur Andersen employee), and his wife Anna navigated as I drove his pickup truck along the dusty roads of Virginia City, back and forth through a mix of desert, industrial ruin, and ramshackle houses, in search of the myth of the Bunnyranch. Finally, we noticed a road sign that pointed to our destination ("This Way to the Bunnyranch"). We eventually pulled into a lot in front of a motel-like building with a sort of paint-peeling-from-the-aluminum-siding quality, which displayed a sign that read "Bunnyranch" over the door (it also had a locked, electronically releasing gate).
Now, I feel that I should stress here that I really wasn't sure what my intentions were; I thought that maybe it would be nice, if anything, to take some pictures. Either that, or fuck a bunny simply for the sake of the experience. I rang the Bunnybell, and the gate clicked open. A bunny came out, and said "We don't allow cameras in here, hon." I went to go put it back in Peter's truck, which blended in nicely (save for the little Japanese girl reading a book inside) with the rest of the trucks parked as the owners received Bunnyservices. Now, my intentions were mapped out for me: what else was I to do? I had no camera; all I had was myself, as I dragged it into the ranch.
Once inside the foyer (which was also a bar), I was greeted by a lineup of bunnies, all dressed in some sort of lingerie or bikini or something intended to be provocative, but which in fact had the effect of presenting a crass, shoddy, cheap, imitation sexuality, like a glowing-in-the-dark, plastic replica of sex. I was given a pamphlet explaining some sort of Bunnyservices, which I pretended to read, being too nervous and vaguely disturbed to do much but glance at it. I was told to select a bunny, which I did based on the fact that one was smoking a cigarette and looked kind of cute in her "freshly showered" costume consisting of one towel wrapped around her body and one wrapped around her head. She was also very poorly lit.
I followed her into what looked exactly like a hotel corridor that looked quite a lot like the one in "The Shining," as I was trailed by yet another bunny (Anna and I later surmised that this was done out of concern for the safety of the bunnies - imagine if a single bunny was in a room negotiating prices with a great big slobbering trucker and he chose to violently acquire services in advance.)
Now came the fun part. The two bunnies grinned and slinked around, periodically making lewd gestures or popping out one or more of their huge, obviously false breasts, pressing the cold, silicon inflated flesh, nipple squeezed permanently into lifeless erection, into the side of my head in a unique marketing technique. As I got a closer look at my bunny of choice, I realized, in this better light, that her eyes sort of looked in two different directions, one of her legs had an unusual pattern of scarring running along its length, and that her particular injections of silicon were not quite right; her breasts seemed to be these perfectly round protuberances jutting out from her shoulders, leaving an unnaturally wide gap between, in which I could see the starved lines of her ribcage.
Bunny #2 wasn't a portrait of loveliness either. She was one of those women whose hair is lighter than their skin; a wonderful coupling of tanning salon cancer blemishes and bleached blonde hair arranged in porn-star poof (she told me during the course of the interview/negotiations that she was a "porn star" - I think "porn actress" might have been more appropriate.)
As I talked with them about prices, I believe that two things I did threw them off guard. One was the variety of tax and income questions I kept throwing at them, including "What benefits do you get?," to which the response was "Orgasms for a living, baby...what's a better benefit?" (I was speechless). These diversions were really only a way of making conversation (what else does one say to a porn star whose breasts are jutting out of her underwear?). The second thing that I think may have disarmed the bunnies was the fact that I continued to stare mechanically into their eyes, ignoring their attempts to draw attention to their crucial body parts. To tell the truth, sex was the last thing on my mind.
Anyway, they told my that their sercives cost $2,500 an hour, but that one of them might be able to give a hand job for $200. I wasn't to take any pictures of my original bunny, but I could take ones of the porn star tagalong for $1,000. I explained, using my nicest sales associate/administrative assistant set of mannerisms, that that was a little more than I had been prepared to spend, and I was sorry if I had offended them, but $100 was the highest I could go, and that for this sum I would demand actual sex.
I thanked them for their time, and walked out the door, fully content to retreat back to San Francisco without the experience. I heard the bunnies following me, and whispering amongst themselves, something like "Do you want him?" "I don't know...do you?" The porn star waited until I had reached the payment booth, and then made it clear that she would comply for $100. I gave the Madame (seriously!) my credit card, and signed the receipt for $100. This was it...no turning back now...
I followed the porn star down the hall, who upon request told me that she was "called Amy", after which I said "But that's probably not your real name" - probably a social gaffe, upon reflection. Once inside the designated room, I was told to take off my pants (I took off everything - I would've felt silly otherwise). "Amy" went to work, squeezing a condom onto my limp penis before beginning a variety of oral manipulations. She was clearly in a hurry. Then came the digital manipulations. At this point, the most I could manage was about half-erect. She knelt on the bed, saying "We're going to do it doggie-style." "Can we do it any other way?" "No." "Why are you touching me?" "I dunno..." "Here, lemme take care of that..."
Now came the most amusing part: apparently, "Amy"'s prostitute/porn-star brain apparently sort of kicked into automatic when she serviced clientele, and she started spewing all of these ridiculous porno-movie lines with accompanying squeals and grunts. Some of the classics were "I'm gonna suck the cum out of you" and "Your the best I've ever had, baby." This last one was especially amusing: here I am, semi-rigid, halfheartedly pumping away in a sort of depressed, obligated rhythm, and I'm the best she's ever had?
I guess she started to get frustrated after a couple of minutes, because she said "Lie down", proceeded to take off the condom, and attempted to jerk me off once more. It was a losing battle. She eventually said "You're not gonna get off; jerk yourself off" and went into the bathroom to change or wash up or do whatever its is bunnies do in bathrooms. I followed her instructions more out of respect and a desire not to offend than anything else, but became distracted by a commercial for a truck dealership or something on the television (intended for pornographic supplements, some of which apparently starred "Amy"). when she returned from the bathroom, I was lying naked on the bed, erectile tissue devoid of blood, spaced out and watching TV.
She cleaned me off with a moist towlette or something (a very nice service), and after this I asked "Are we done here?" "Yep." "Please don't take it personally…" "Take what personally?" "The fact that I didn't come." "Oh, don't worry, I won't." I think she was a little miffed, though. I followed her out of her little hotel room. I smiled politely at everyone, and went back to the truck, where Anna was still perched on the passenger seat, reading her book. "That was quick," she said.
For the next two days, all I could say to Peter and Anna was "I had sex", it being of course, the first time I had done so in over five years. But that wore off, and was replaced by slight depression, which wore off, and was replaced by nothing. Anyway, I got what I wanted; an experience...perhaps even one worth $100.
My advice to men is that I don't recommend this for any sort of sexual gratification; the whole experience just goes to further prove what a crucial component emotional involvement is to sex. However, I do recommend it to those out for a novel experience, or in search of fodder for gonzo-journalism." - End of Paste.
It mildly reminds me of an outcall I had with a Jade from Famtasme about two months ago.
Pasted mercilessly from elsewhere.
"This spring vacation, I went to San Francisco, or more specifically, I made a side trip with my friends Peter and Anna to Reno, Nevada, or more specifically still, I made a second side trip with Anna to Virginia City, Nevada, home of the Bunnyranch, a word that will ring loud and clear in my subconscious for the rest of my life.
The Bunnyranch is a brothel, which we all know are as legal as gambling in the state of Nevada. Peter had alerted me to the Bunnyranch's existence (apparently upon recommendation by a fellow Arthur Andersen employee), and his wife Anna navigated as I drove his pickup truck along the dusty roads of Virginia City, back and forth through a mix of desert, industrial ruin, and ramshackle houses, in search of the myth of the Bunnyranch. Finally, we noticed a road sign that pointed to our destination ("This Way to the Bunnyranch"). We eventually pulled into a lot in front of a motel-like building with a sort of paint-peeling-from-the-aluminum-siding quality, which displayed a sign that read "Bunnyranch" over the door (it also had a locked, electronically releasing gate).
Now, I feel that I should stress here that I really wasn't sure what my intentions were; I thought that maybe it would be nice, if anything, to take some pictures. Either that, or fuck a bunny simply for the sake of the experience. I rang the Bunnybell, and the gate clicked open. A bunny came out, and said "We don't allow cameras in here, hon." I went to go put it back in Peter's truck, which blended in nicely (save for the little Japanese girl reading a book inside) with the rest of the trucks parked as the owners received Bunnyservices. Now, my intentions were mapped out for me: what else was I to do? I had no camera; all I had was myself, as I dragged it into the ranch.
Once inside the foyer (which was also a bar), I was greeted by a lineup of bunnies, all dressed in some sort of lingerie or bikini or something intended to be provocative, but which in fact had the effect of presenting a crass, shoddy, cheap, imitation sexuality, like a glowing-in-the-dark, plastic replica of sex. I was given a pamphlet explaining some sort of Bunnyservices, which I pretended to read, being too nervous and vaguely disturbed to do much but glance at it. I was told to select a bunny, which I did based on the fact that one was smoking a cigarette and looked kind of cute in her "freshly showered" costume consisting of one towel wrapped around her body and one wrapped around her head. She was also very poorly lit.
I followed her into what looked exactly like a hotel corridor that looked quite a lot like the one in "The Shining," as I was trailed by yet another bunny (Anna and I later surmised that this was done out of concern for the safety of the bunnies - imagine if a single bunny was in a room negotiating prices with a great big slobbering trucker and he chose to violently acquire services in advance.)
Now came the fun part. The two bunnies grinned and slinked around, periodically making lewd gestures or popping out one or more of their huge, obviously false breasts, pressing the cold, silicon inflated flesh, nipple squeezed permanently into lifeless erection, into the side of my head in a unique marketing technique. As I got a closer look at my bunny of choice, I realized, in this better light, that her eyes sort of looked in two different directions, one of her legs had an unusual pattern of scarring running along its length, and that her particular injections of silicon were not quite right; her breasts seemed to be these perfectly round protuberances jutting out from her shoulders, leaving an unnaturally wide gap between, in which I could see the starved lines of her ribcage.
Bunny #2 wasn't a portrait of loveliness either. She was one of those women whose hair is lighter than their skin; a wonderful coupling of tanning salon cancer blemishes and bleached blonde hair arranged in porn-star poof (she told me during the course of the interview/negotiations that she was a "porn star" - I think "porn actress" might have been more appropriate.)
As I talked with them about prices, I believe that two things I did threw them off guard. One was the variety of tax and income questions I kept throwing at them, including "What benefits do you get?," to which the response was "Orgasms for a living, baby...what's a better benefit?" (I was speechless). These diversions were really only a way of making conversation (what else does one say to a porn star whose breasts are jutting out of her underwear?). The second thing that I think may have disarmed the bunnies was the fact that I continued to stare mechanically into their eyes, ignoring their attempts to draw attention to their crucial body parts. To tell the truth, sex was the last thing on my mind.
Anyway, they told my that their sercives cost $2,500 an hour, but that one of them might be able to give a hand job for $200. I wasn't to take any pictures of my original bunny, but I could take ones of the porn star tagalong for $1,000. I explained, using my nicest sales associate/administrative assistant set of mannerisms, that that was a little more than I had been prepared to spend, and I was sorry if I had offended them, but $100 was the highest I could go, and that for this sum I would demand actual sex.
I thanked them for their time, and walked out the door, fully content to retreat back to San Francisco without the experience. I heard the bunnies following me, and whispering amongst themselves, something like "Do you want him?" "I don't know...do you?" The porn star waited until I had reached the payment booth, and then made it clear that she would comply for $100. I gave the Madame (seriously!) my credit card, and signed the receipt for $100. This was it...no turning back now...
I followed the porn star down the hall, who upon request told me that she was "called Amy", after which I said "But that's probably not your real name" - probably a social gaffe, upon reflection. Once inside the designated room, I was told to take off my pants (I took off everything - I would've felt silly otherwise). "Amy" went to work, squeezing a condom onto my limp penis before beginning a variety of oral manipulations. She was clearly in a hurry. Then came the digital manipulations. At this point, the most I could manage was about half-erect. She knelt on the bed, saying "We're going to do it doggie-style." "Can we do it any other way?" "No." "Why are you touching me?" "I dunno..." "Here, lemme take care of that..."
Now came the most amusing part: apparently, "Amy"'s prostitute/porn-star brain apparently sort of kicked into automatic when she serviced clientele, and she started spewing all of these ridiculous porno-movie lines with accompanying squeals and grunts. Some of the classics were "I'm gonna suck the cum out of you" and "Your the best I've ever had, baby." This last one was especially amusing: here I am, semi-rigid, halfheartedly pumping away in a sort of depressed, obligated rhythm, and I'm the best she's ever had?
I guess she started to get frustrated after a couple of minutes, because she said "Lie down", proceeded to take off the condom, and attempted to jerk me off once more. It was a losing battle. She eventually said "You're not gonna get off; jerk yourself off" and went into the bathroom to change or wash up or do whatever its is bunnies do in bathrooms. I followed her instructions more out of respect and a desire not to offend than anything else, but became distracted by a commercial for a truck dealership or something on the television (intended for pornographic supplements, some of which apparently starred "Amy"). when she returned from the bathroom, I was lying naked on the bed, erectile tissue devoid of blood, spaced out and watching TV.
She cleaned me off with a moist towlette or something (a very nice service), and after this I asked "Are we done here?" "Yep." "Please don't take it personally…" "Take what personally?" "The fact that I didn't come." "Oh, don't worry, I won't." I think she was a little miffed, though. I followed her out of her little hotel room. I smiled politely at everyone, and went back to the truck, where Anna was still perched on the passenger seat, reading her book. "That was quick," she said.
For the next two days, all I could say to Peter and Anna was "I had sex", it being of course, the first time I had done so in over five years. But that wore off, and was replaced by slight depression, which wore off, and was replaced by nothing. Anyway, I got what I wanted; an experience...perhaps even one worth $100.
My advice to men is that I don't recommend this for any sort of sexual gratification; the whole experience just goes to further prove what a crucial component emotional involvement is to sex. However, I do recommend it to those out for a novel experience, or in search of fodder for gonzo-journalism." - End of Paste.
