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Open Free for All / Art Warshawsky did not rape anyone
« on: April 22, 2013, 07:48:17 PM »
I can't prove he didn't, but after all I've seen, I stand by that statement 100%

This in no way resolves anything other than that Art, but I've come to the conclusion that the allegation is unfounded at best, and an evil attack at worst

If I find out I'm wrong, I'll recant this statement, but I'm not going to perpetuate something that is IMO a lie, just to hurt you for other things we disagree (fight) about

In fairness, I only said you were accused and always maintained that the post was not found. I believe that is because it never happened

I apologize

Open Free for All / Art is a spineless fool
« on: April 20, 2013, 10:57:02 PM »
Did you think that the police would arrest me after I showed them your abusive and threatening posts?

You jackass

I told them about you and Danny's threats and false accusations and told them you both raped children and showed them my book. I showed them your post telling me to point a gun at them.

I asked them to arrest me so that I could tell a judge what you tw have been doing, but alas, it's not illegal. It's a civil matter. They also said I should sue you  :twofinger:

You dickless little ankle grabber

I'll see you real soon Art

Elan School / A few thoughts about Elan by Paul Morantz
« on: January 05, 2013, 05:39:48 PM »

"Elan was known of using such standards as haircut, pull- up, the game and humiliating signs; but added a boxing ring for resisters to be plummeted by bigger guys until a bloody confession was extracted, regardless of its truth. A former member of Elan wrote:

“Elan is best described as a, “sadistic, brutal, violent, soul-eating hellhole.” At Elan, the Game was transformed into constant screaming and degradation and the physically rough treatment became all day violence. We were beaten for the slightest infractions of the rules. Spankings with paddles often drew blood and Phil Williams was beaten to death in the ring. I was forced to watch twenty men and women beat a 14 year old girl in what we called a, “Cowboy Ass kicking,” for ten to twenty minutes. I had never been arrested nor done drugs. None of us were hardcore drug addicts. We were mentally ill.
“Chuck Dederich would not only envy the Money Elan made, but the protection they got. Joe Ricci, the owner, survived the state of Illinois pulling residents out because of the abuse and beat them in court. Joe was a thug and a gangster, but when a law abiding citizen said so, Joe sued his bank and won ten million dollars. Forty four years later, with Joe dead and Elan closed down survivors are still searching for someone in a position of authority to admit that what happened there was abuse. If CED had that kind of protection, he would have died a king.”


 Posted December 14, 2012 at 1:01 AM

CED had similar protection but blew it when he started ordering attacks and got caught on his tapes. Elan did not offer the same type of tapestry as Synanon and thus probably caused more injury to its members

Open Free for All / Tips on how to Detox and observe after your Colon
« on: August 10, 2012, 09:14:21 PM »
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Open Free for All / Normal Colon Detoxification Tasty recipes
« on: August 10, 2012, 09:00:47 PM »
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Open Free for All / Art and Sharon in an amazing gangbang!
« on: August 10, 2012, 06:15:16 PM »
Art did you really give Sharon the high hard one?  Just saying. ::OMG::  ::OMG::  ::OMG::  ::OMG::  ::OMG::

Open Free for All / Copyright 2012 Reddit Troubled Teens
« on: August 04, 2012, 04:56:22 PM »
Introduction: Gives new meaning to the term "Pick up game."

“Let’s head over to West 4th for a pickup game, whadda ya say?” It was a hot summer New York night, the kind where it doesn’t dip below 80 degrees and anyone and everyone is out and about, looking for something to do. The idea sounded like a great one to Ernesto; his friends, however, weren’t as enthusiastic.

“Whadda ya fucking crazy? It’s fucking hot as fuck. What the fuck do I want to fucking go all the way to fucking Manhattan for a fucking game of fucking basketball to further sweat my big, hairy fucking balls off at 10 o’clock at fucking night? Are you fucking kidding me?” Ernesto’s cousin Vinny had the vocabulary of a Soprano and the basketball skills of a third grade girl so there was no way in hell he was gonna go anywhere to play basketball at any time. He needed to play it off so he went on and on about how hot it was and about how it was too far to travel. The rest of the gang; Tony A., Tony M., and Joey, weren’t the worst basketball players in the world but they certainly knew enough to know that if they were going to go to W.4th Street for a pickup game, they would get spanked. They all moaned about how hot it was and dismissed the idea.

Ernesto couldn’t be dissuaded so easily. It was a hot Saturday night and he knew the courts would be packed. He needed to go. He just couldn’t see himself hanging out in the neighborhood, drinking 40s out of a brown paper bag, talking about bangin’ girls, listening to Tupac, and bitching about over how hard it is to be a white man in today’s society. Ernesto was different. Born in Tuscany, he’d moved to Brooklyn when he was 11 to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car crash. Twenty years later, he had lost his foreign accent but never quite acquired a New York one either. He stood out like a sore thumb in so many ways. He was the most worldly of the group always looking to experience new adventures, he’d even gone to out of state for college. Most of the guys around the way had never gotten past high school, let alone moved out of state. Truth be told, a few had never even been to the Bronx. He had a great job in Manhattan as a massage therapist; his friends thought that was some fairy shit. It was okay when his clients were hot chicks but they were disgusted by the idea of him rubbing on some sweaty dude. Ernesto even looked different. His complexion was naturally darker, his jet black hair just touched his shoulders, steel gray eyes, and a 6’2” body he worked on religiously all worked together to make him look like a Calvin Klein model. Most of his buddies stood about 5’10” with short hair and were getting beer bellies in their 30s.

For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted and loved in the community like he was no different at all. And he loved his family and his friends. They had taken care of him when he was at his lowest, most lonely point. While most people anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the neighborhood to help take care of his grandmother who had come from Italy 10 years ago because she was aging. His aunt and uncle both worked graveyard and didn’t have the time to care for her in the evenings and Vinny and Theresa, his other cousin, only knew how to curse in Italian so they couldn’t really communicate well with her. Ernesto loved his family and would do anything for them so leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was really out of the question.

“I’ll check you guys later, I’m heading to the city to play some ball.” Nobody was shocked and they barely looked up as Ernesto grabbed his gym bag and headed for the subway. He plopped down on the cool seat and pulled out the book he’d been reading, a collection of works by James Baldwin. He was fascinated by the social commentary and the descriptions of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a Black gay man in America. Being a gay man himself, a closeted gay man, he connected with the words, he connected with the struggle and the rage. His friends, even though he had sucked off most of them when they were younger, including his cousin, were as homophobic as they come. They had to be. It was part and parcel for the good fella’s persona that they had to carry off. It never occurred to them that Ernesto could be gay because he was masculine, athletic, and he had women swooning over him every time he walked in a room. The stuff that happened when they were younger was just boys being boys, and they would never admit it to anyone the experimentation they had done as kids so his secret was pretty safe.

As he emerged from the bowels of the train system, into the humid night air of Greenwich Village, except for the fact that it was dark, it could have been 11:00 in the afternoon instead of 11:00 at night. The streets were bustling with activity, packed with people out doing anything and everything you could think of. He made his way to the courts and just watched the first two games. Ever since he could remember, he’d loved Black men. As cliché as it sounds, after his first Black lover, he had no desire to be with another white man again so the old “once you go black” adage was true in his case. For the better part of 7 years he’d dated Black men exclusively. Sitting there, seeing all of those toned and muscled bodies, gave him an even further appreciation of the Black male form. It wasn’t a lustful appreciation, well, at least not in the overtly sexual sense. It was a profound and deep respect for not just their physical bodies, but for the struggle they endured that he read about in the pages of his book.

There’s an unspoken code that says that white boys who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get served so people were always looking to school them and make sure they play. Three on three, half court, to 21, shirt vs. skins. Ernesto was shirts and he was playing the team who had just won the last game. Skins got the ball first and scored three points right off the bat. He was guarding a guy who had dominated the previous game and he knew he had to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to toe under the rim. They were the same height, even the same body type, but his opponent was the color of caramel with a shiny bald head. It was a queer guy’s heaven, being able to publicly run his hands over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles, sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own. It was all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard, making sure everyone knew he was there to ball. The guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent him to the ground. There ain’t no fouls in street ball so he was right back up and in the game; he didn’t miss a beat. He got the ball and showed he had some skills. The other part of the unspoken code is, that when a white boy has skills on the court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite, getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines n’ everything.

The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and the shirts had the ball. Dude was blocking him, checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the paint. He pivoted and -- whoosh, nothing but net. In the split second right before the shot, he thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his cock. Not just body contact that happens during the course of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost caressing it. It happened so quickly and the score was tied so he couldn’t dwell on it. The two adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye contact. The court lights made every drop of sweat glisten on his opponent’s shirtless body. One of the other skins sank the final shot ending the game. The entire court erupted in cheers and back-slapping and kudos about the great game.

Ernesto sat on the bench and pulled out his towel. His book was on the top of the bag so he sat it next to him. While he was toweling off and catching his breath, drinking a little Gatorade, he saw a hand reaching out to him.
“Good game man, I’m impressed.”

He extended his hand and looked up, “Yeah, congratulations, great game,” Ernesto replied, still trying to catch his breath.

“Name’s Flex. Anytime you want to play a little game of pick up, let me know, I’d love to have you on my team.” He smiled a gorgeous smile and Ernesto looked up and then down, his eyes resting on the crotch directly eye level in front of him.

“Your mom named you Flex,” Ernesto asked, trying to sound aloof but still out of breath and doing his best not to show it.

“My pops named me Eugene, Jr. but I’ll beat somebody’s ass if they call me that. So it’s Flex.” They both laughed.

“Yeah, my name is Ernesto and we got problems if anyone calls me Ernie, so I’m really feeling you. Here have a seat.” He moved his book out the way and slid down a half a foot to let Flex sit down next to him. They watched a little bit of the next game in silence.

“You from around here,” Flex asked?

“Nah, I live in Brooklyn,”
“Oh, I see.”

That sat in silence some more, watching the game and neither one of them willing to address what had happened on the court. Ernesto figured he’d been mistaken. It was a physical game and maybe Flex didn’t know he was grabbing his cock. Maybe he thought it was his arm or something. That had to be it.

“”Is this your book? Man, I love James Baldwin. ‘I am what time, circumstance, and history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that.’ Now that some deep shit right there.” Just then, it was as if the wall of ice had been broken. The two men started talking and sharing and letting down their guards. They had a connection more than sports and it was electric. “Are you busy right now, I mean, are you in a rush to head back to Brooklyn, because I only live around the corner from here. We can go to my place and hang out if you want. I’m not a serial killer . . . any more, I promise.” They both laughed and Flex flashed that gorgeous smile again and before Ernesto knew what was happening, they were walking towards 10th street and in a cute little studio apartment. Flex was a graphic designer for an advertising firm and had moved from his own roots in Queens to his little apartment 7 years ago.

Once inside the apartment, the only place to sit comfortably was the futon. Ernesto looked uncomfortable. He didn’t want to put his smelly, sweaty ass on the place where Flex slept and sat on a daily basis. He was really feeling this guy and wanted to be invited back and he didn’t think that would make such a great first impression to leave his scent, so to speak, so he was trying to figure out how he could sit on the floor without looking like a dork.

Flex came to the rescue before he could even process the thought completely in his head. “Hey, it’s pretty hot out there; you can take a shower if you want to cool off. Guests first. Here’s a towel and everything’s in the bathroom you should need.” Ernesto dropped his gym bag by the door inside in the small bathroom. He took off his sweaty clothes and stepped in the shower, feeling the warm water wash away the layer of sweat. Shutting his eyes, he thought back to the court. Had he gotten his signals mixed? Maybe Flex was just a nice guy who wanted to hang out; maybe he happened to like James Baldwin because he was a great writer, not because he was a great gay Black writer. Maybe that hand caressing his cock wasn’t really caressing it; maybe it was just part of the game, maybe to make him miss his shot. Whatever it was, Ernesto was deep in thought, remembering the feel of Flex’s hand on his cock, the same cock that he had in his hand now and was stroking, thinking about his sexy, sweaty new friend.

He shut his eyes tightly and started thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts, jerking off and fantasizing. A knock at the door shocked him back to reality.
“Hey, don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” Flex yelled through the door, but do you want something to drink? A martini, a beer, a glass of wine, water, Kool Aid. Anything? Iced Tea, maybe?”

“A beer’s cool, thanks,” he yelled back and quickly turned off the water to dry off. Ernesto wasn’t trying to put the same stinky clothes back on so he tied the towel around his waist and headed out to see if Flex had anything he could put on. His cock was still hard but he pushed it down and tried to will it to stay soft.

That thought lasted an entire 1.5 seconds because when he opened the bathroom door, he saw Flex, standing naked in front of the closet, grabbing for a towel to put around him. “Hey, how was the shower?” He turned, wrapped the towel around himself and, not waiting for an answer, he said, “Your beer is on the coffee table, make yourself at home, I’ll be right back, I need to take a shower myself.”

Ernesto was impressed with the tiny apartment. Flex’s music collection was eclectic but mostly all Black: jazz, blues, R&B, hip hop, and some gospel. The art on the walls was amazing and inspecting further, he saw that most were signed with the name Flex. Because the place was so small, every square inch of space was utilized. Oddly enough, the place didn’t look cluttered at all; it might have been small on space but it was big on style. The timer on the oven went off and Flex was still in the shower so he decided to take out whatever was in there. Opening the oven door, a fantastic aroma came wafting out. He pulled out the dish and it was some sort of dip that had been heated to go with the tri colored chips that had been put out on a platter. Ernesto was blown away. “This guy can play ball, he can quote James Baldwin, he has a great apartment, he’s creative, he can cook, and he’s sexy as hell. Damn, I think I just met my future husband,” he said under his breath.
“What did you say? Oh good, I’m glad you pulled that out. Thanks.” Flex looked even more amazing fresh from the shower with his towel around his waist. Ernesto didn’t bother answering his question and instead took the tray and set it on the coffee table while Flex was opening up the futon. “Here, this will be more comfortable. Have a seat, take a load off.”
The two men lounged on the futon, talking about everything under the sun, sharing details about their lives, drinking beer, listening to music, and eating. It was soon very apparent that Flex was gay, out, and very confident in his sexuality, so much so, he didn’t even make it an issue. Because Ernesto had been ruled by his hidden identity, everything had more impact on him, he had to analyze and dissect everything as if there was a hidden meaning behind it. When Flex offered to let him spend the night, he didn’t know if it was a sexual invitation or not; he didn’t know how to respond.

Flex could sense his hesitation and he left the question open for him to decide. He got up, turned off all the lights, lit a few candles and came back, this time, taking off his towel and letting it fall to the floor. He stood there for a few seconds, letting his new friend take everything in. “Does this make you uncomfortable?” Ernesto shook his head but didn’t say a word. He climbed back on the futon, this time even closer. His heart started beating faster, the blood started pumping in his veins; he was being seduced. Flex reached out to kiss him softly; Ernesto forgot to close his eyes; he wanted to see everything. The kiss was soft and gentle and in many ways atypical of most of kisses Ernesto had ever shared with someone. Usually the men he was with were closeted, intent on proving their masculinity, on dominating the proverbial white boi behind closed doors, playing up the thug/Mandingo role. He let his eyes close gently, experiencing the kiss with the rest of his senses. He could smell the clean scent of Flex’s skin, still fresh from the shower; he could feel the softness of his lips against his own. He could taste his tongue gently exploring his mouth and he could hear the soft moan escape from his own lips in awe of the sensations he was feeling.

“Okay, Mr. Massage therapist,” Flex said, “let me check out some of your magic,” as he pulled away from the sensual kiss. He stretched out on his stomach, adding, “Let’s see if you can work out some of this tension I have in my shoulders.”
Ernesto said, “Hold on, let me get my bag.” He returned a few seconds later with a special blend of massage oil he used for work. This time, he also took off his towel and let it fall to the floor as well, exposing his cock that had been half hard since they left the courts. Flex didn’t even look, he had his head resting on his arms and his eyes closed, waiting for his massage. Ernesto straddled his legs and looked down at the gorgeous body he was about to caress. He warmed the oil on his hands and started at the shoulders, aroused by the contrast in skin colors. Flex let out a moan and shifted a little but he didn’t say a word. Working his way downwards, he found the spots that were tight and loosened them; he rubbed the sore muscles and left that smooth brown skin glowing in the candlelight. He worked his way further down, hesitating for a few moments before he started massaging the full, round ass cheeks of his new friend. Flex let out more of a moan and started grinding his hips, even adjusting himself to make his thickening tool more comfortable under him. Grabbing the bottle of oil, he drizzled it on his skin and started massaging those magnificent mounds of flesh. He wanted to stroke his own cock, now fully erect, but he didn’t, he was intent on doing a good job, better than he’d ever done before.

He worked his way down Flex’s thighs and even used a few reflexology techniques on his feet. “Here, do the fronts of my legs now, I’m sore from that workout you gave me earlier.” He turned over and Ernesto couldn’t move. Flex flashed that gorgeous smile yet again but that paled in comparison to the body of perfection before him. Shoulders that were broad leading down to muscular toned arms, a hairless, well-developed chest and six pack abs that looked like a washboard. His dick stood up straight and tall and his balls were resting on his thighs. Ernesto didn’t even want to look at the rest of him; he just wanted to drink in the beauty of that magnificent hard dick.

Flex teased him, stroking it casually with his other arm behind his head. “You like that? Go ahead, touch it.” He put his other arm behind his head and repeated, “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”

Ernesto swallowed hard and held the shaft in his hands. The heat from it was incredible and the thickness was impressive to say the least. He grabbed it at the base and brought his hand all the way to the top, twisting his hand just a bit for a little more stimulation. Flex moaned his approval and licked his lips. “Don’t stop,” was all he said. Putting more oil on his hands, Ernesto started stroking more, bringing him to full hardness, coaxing out precum from the head of that delicious piece of meat.

“Go ahead, suck it, you know you want to, suck my dick.” The confidence that oozed from Flex made the situation that much more intense, more erotic and Ernesto felt light headed. He wasn’t being rude or domineering, he was just sure of himself, uninhibited.

Ernesto positioned himself between Flex’s legs, stroking him some more, teasing him, and Flex spread his legs to accommodate him. Fingering his balls and holding them up, he started his mouth job there, licking and gently sucking his nuts. Rolling them around in his fingers, he was getting them wet with saliva and licking the sensitive sacks. Flex appreciated the attention to his balls and let him know how good it felt. “Oh shit, it’s been a long time since someone paid attention to my nuts like that. Damn, that feels so good. Ohhhh yeah.” He grabbed his knees, pulled them to his chest, giving Ernesto better access. Stopping momentarily to catch his breath, he put one testicle in his mouth and started flicking his tongue back and forth rapidly. Flex could barely breathe it felt so good. “Damn, if you suck my balls that good, I can’t even imagine how good it’s going to feel when you suck my dick and eat my ass.”
Anxious to get to both of those tasks, he said, “Which of those things would you prefer I do first?” Flex’s dick jumped at those words, his mind reeling with all the erotic possibilities.

Flex grabbed his dick at the base, tapping the head against Ernesto’s lips, teasing him. His instructions were clear. “Suck my dick.”

Not needing any more of an invitation, Ernesto set about his task. He replaced Flex’s hand with his own and started stroking it, using massage techniques to stimulate spots that would make Michelangelo's David squirm. Using his tongue, he began softly licking the head, swirling it around and flicking it gently at the hole. Flex moved his hands down to Ernesto’s head, but not to face fuck him or force him down on his swollen member, but to hold his hair out of the way in order to see the expert job he was doing. He licked up and down the sides, getting the shaft wet, running his tongue over every vein. Flex couldn’t help but show his appreciation by moaning. Lowering his mouth on that beautiful column of flesh, he took just half of it in his mouth. He started sucking it like a baby would suck a nipple making sure to grip the base of the cock firmly in his hand. He took his tongue and started swirling it around the head and shaft and increasing the suction on his sucking. Moving his hand away, he started bobbing up and down on the cock, taking it further and further into his mouth each time. He was getting it wetter and wetter, taking the head to the back of his throat. Flex could do nothing but grip the sheets for dear life and moan, “Holy fuck, damn, shit, that’s some good shit. Oh my god that feels so good.”

Just when he thought it couldn’t feel any better, Ernesto relaxed his throat muscles and let the head of Flex’s thick cock go several inches down. His lips could feel the tickle of his hair so he knew he had accomplished his mission of taking his full length. Then, he decided to perform his magic, he started bobbing up and down, from the head to the base, taking him deep in his throat every time. Spit was dripping down his balls and Flex was breathing so hard he thought he might hyperventilate.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. I can’t take much more of that. Damn, where did you . . . oh shit, you are going to make me cum before the party even starts.” Flex sat up a little bit and the look of sheer panic on Ernesto’s face was evident. “Hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I just wanted to make you feel good, that’s all.” What he really wanted to say was, “I am used to guys using my mouth as many times as they want and I feel like I’ve failed if I didn’t make you cum.”

“You did make me feel good. Too good in fact, that was incredible. I just didn’t want to nut too soon. I like to make things last, go slow, you know.” He leaned over and kissed Ernesto again, as gently and as tenderly as before. Flex lay down on the bed, pulling Ernesto on top of him. Their kissing became more urgent, more passionate. Their tongues and lips were sucking and licking, their dicks were sensually rubbing against one another. Flex was caressing his hands along Ernesto’s spine, grabbing his ass, spreading his cheeks and teasing his hole with his fingertips.

Ready to take things to the next level, Ernesto said, “I want to feel your big cock in my ass. Fuck me.” Quickly repositioning himself, he crawled to the foot of the bed, got on his knees, and looked back over his shoulder and said in a lust-filled daze, “Fuck me.” He gripped the frame of the futon tightly, prepared to get his asshole savagely fucked but what he felt was entirely different than the searing pain/pleasure he was anxiously anticipating. “Nooo,” he hollered out.

Flex had repositioned himself as well. He was laying between Ernesto’s thighs underneath him and started sucking his dick. He wrapped his arms around Ernesto’s back and held him in place while he delivered some equally spectacular head to his new lover. Try as he might, Ernesto could not pull away and he felt his body succumb to the oral pleasures he was receiving. “No, no, no, no,” was all he could say. He thought to himself, “Can’t he tell that I’m a bottom whose only use and purpose is to serve and please?” Flex was fucking with the entire fabric of the universe. Ernesto was in the closet and he was sub to Black men, meaning he got his pleasure, alone, in the solitude of his bed in shame and in silence, long after the sexual experience was over, reliving it in his mind, jerking off to how he had pleased his lover, how he had been the perfect bottom, never expecting any pleasure in return whatsoever. Flex couldn’t hear any of that internal dialogue; all he was doing was focusing on tasting Ernesto’s dripping precum and returning the sensual favor.

The roles had changed again, this time with Ernesto trying to change the direction of things. He was able to pull away and this time he lay back on the bed and spread his legs, holding them up and pleading with his new lover to be fucked. “Ram that big dick in my pussy, fuck me hard. FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF ME. Come on, daddy, I need it so bad. Pound that meat in my slutty asshole and make me beg for more. I’ll be your little whore and your bitch daddy. Spit on that hole and make it nice and wet and shove that fucker in me and make it hurt.”
What happened next sent a chill of panic and pleasure through Ernesto’s body. Before he could realize what was happening, he felt the soft, gentle tongue of Flex exploring his hole, kissing it, licking it, tongue fucking it. He’d never felt that sensation before in his life. He grabbed his knees and pulled them closer to his chest, exposing his hole even more. All he could feel was the warm, wet sensation of that probing tongue and while his head wanted to say, “Stop.” His mouth was saying, “Oh shit, that feels so fucking good, don’t you dare stop.” As many times as he’d rimmed his lovers before, he never imagined that being on the receiving end could feel so damned sexy.

Flex, inspired by his lover’s words, didn’t disappoint. He licked and sucked and tongue fucked that hole, making it wet and ready. He got on his knees and aimed his bloated dick at that sexy hole. He teased it, teased him, by rubbing his head on that hole. Just before he pushed it in, he leaned down and whispered in Ernesto’s ear, “I want you so fucking bad.” They kissed again and Ernesto felt the head of Flex’s cock enter him. It was slow, steady, calculated and giving him pleasure in every cell of his fucking body. They were grunting and sweating again as the pace was slow and agonizingly sensual. Ernesto was being made love to and he knew it. He used his fingertips to softly explore Flex’s body while the two worked out a rhythm. Flex stroked, Ernesto squeezed, they fucked each other like gorgeous wild animals. The pounding became more intense, the stroking harder, deeper. Their moans grew wilder and their kissing more frenzied.

Flex pulled out and replaced his dick with his mouth, tonguing out that gaping, well-fucked hole. Ernesto made a sound that couldn’t be described. It was the singular most erotic, nasty, sensual feeling he’d had in his life. He grabbed his cock and started pounding it furiously, ready to spew his load then and there. Flex had other plans. Grabbing the bottle of massage oil, he flipped the top open and poured it on Ernesto’s prick. Ernesto held his breath, almost sure he knew what was going to happen next but terrified to think about it.

Flex moved into position and straddled his body. He could feel his cock rubbing between those full, round ass cheeks. In that moment, in his mind, Ernesto outted himself. He knew that he could no longer remain in the closet; he realized that he had handicapped himself by not being able to love whomever he wanted freely. He knew that he could not keep his secret any longer to anyone. In the darkness of his self-imposed closet, he was a submissive bottom. In the glaring light of his sexual freedom, he was a man who loved other men. The feel of his cock penetrating Flex’s tight asshole distracted his revelation. He felt the ring of Flex’s ass gripping every millimeter of his erection, squeezing it, riding it up and down. He looked up to see a look of sheer pleasure and ecstasy on his lover’s face, unencumbered by roles of top or bottom, just expressing his sexuality freely and genuinely.

With his ass settled down on Ernesto’s body, Flex started grinding and working his ass, using his ass muscles to milk that hot cock. Ernesto grabbed Flex’s hips and started thrusting, fucking him back, working his dick in harder, trying to go deeper. Flex started bouncing up and down on his dick, riding him hard. The look on his face was one of pure bliss. Ernesto shut his eyes and got lost in the sensation, “Oh Flex, I love . . . this, I love this.” He really wanted to say I love you. It was as if every fiber of his being wanted to profess his love for the man who was giving him pleasure in ways he’d never imagined.

Flex leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I love you too.” Both of them knew it was the lust talking, both of them knew intellectually that it couldn’t be love based on a couple of hours. Both of them knew that there was a connection there that would last well past a one night stand or casual sex as well.

Using his muscular arms, Ernesto flipped Flex over and placed him on his knees. Flex looked back and said, “Fuck me, ram that dick in me.” They both groaned as Ernesto pushed the entire length of his cock in that hot hole and started pounding away. It was pure, unbridled, sensuous fucking. He gripped that brown flesh and pulled him closer, he could see the contrast in skin color, the way Flex’s asshole would grip his cock as he slid in and out, faster, harder, deeper, faster still, harder, using every muscle in his body to give pleasure. He was hitting that hot spot, making Flex moan like a little bitch. The way his cock felt, surrounded by that hot, tight ring, he was cursing in a string of Italian and English and what seemed like another primal language only understood by lovers.

He could feel the cum about to explode from his cock. He began pistoning his cock in and out, harder than he thought he was capable of doing. Flex was taking it all and begging for more. He crushed Flex beneath him and used his ass to pump and pound, His fingers intertwined with Flex as he unloaded his cum deep inside him.

Six months later, Flex and Ernesto stood as a testament to true interracial gay love. They didn’t flaunt their sexuality but they certainly didn’t hide it either. All of his friends in Brooklyn disowned him, wouldn’t speak to him again. They would have been a little more tolerant of the idea if Flex hadn’t been Black but they couldn’t get it out of their minds that their friend, their paesano, was the bitch to a black guy. It was beyond their comprehension that the two were far more than top and bottom, they were reciprocal, versatile lovers with no roles or labels.

Copyright 2012 Reddit Troubled Teens

Open Free for All / 33
« on: July 18, 2012, 01:39:45 PM »
Truth is 33. The 33rd parallel, masonic line of death. Why? The Salton Sea and the Dead Sea are the only land features of the kind found on Earth and are located approximately along with the Giza Plateau at the 33rd parallel. Both are in remote areas controlled/owned by Jews. Both are below sea level. Both have deep craters at the bottom. Both have salt pillars, fused mineral deposits that only occur as the result of massive nuclear fusion reactions, BOOM! The resulting fallout will rise/has risen before encircling the Earth above the 33rd parallel. This is how N America gets covered with an ice sheet 2 miles thick. This lasts 5-10 years, incinerates the garbage and the population, creates new mineral wealth, and fertilizes the Earth anew. This IS the forbidden knowledge, this HAS occurred many times before. It's the script of the ages, the epitome of our human condition and how the status quo maintains control infinitely, ie reptilians that have never changed through antiquity.  Yes this is born of small minded cowards that have controlled the Earth for millennia. Be your best, do your best, stay positive one day at a time!
Any given Sunday!

Open Free for All / Avocagno The Child
« on: July 09, 2012, 07:31:26 PM »
Avocagno The Child.
Trisha K.'s picture
published by Trisha K. on Wed, 07/04/2012 - 11:01

Re: abstinance or moderation

"Postby Avo » Wed Jun 27, 2012 10:19 am
I've been able to put all thinking in regards to Suboxone being "using" out of my mind. It no longer bothers me that I regularly take an opiate "like" medication. I'm glad that I've been able to do this because it really helps my PAWS. I am functional and much more productive. Happier even :D
I know that in terms of moderating opiate use I likely wouldn’t be successful. Besides it being against the law, which nowadays is a deterrent for me, I have never once used this drug with exercising an ability to control my intake. For this reason as well, I'll likely always need to refrain from recreational opiate use. I have decided that if I'm ever in need and able to take pain killers that I will do it without qualms. Another of the hundreds of pet peeves I have about the program is the so called expectation that addicts or even "alcoholics" need to suffer pain in order to maintain their clean time. The decision seems to be made for others and instilled by others into their brains at a time that they themselves are not suffering. Kind of unfair, don’t ya think?"

"Postby Avo » Sat Jun 30, 2012 10:58 pm
I've thought a bit about how different I would do things and now that I'm on the Sub I wish that I had tried this route years ago. It had been offered but I was determined to be "clean" by program standards. It's difficult to know how it might have been better for me or not. Since I'm on a higher dose atm and slowly working my way down, I am questioning it again now, :lol: Since the paws were so awful for me all I do is have to remember the times when life didn't seem worth living and the questions get answered right away."

"Postby Avo » Wed Jul 04, 2012 7:04 am
My bit about the PAWS was for me a way to keep it in perspective. The Sub has caused some issues of concern and I was prepared to face them. But for now, comparing the two is night and day. Living like life it was a disaster when in fact I have much to live and be happy for (like you), wasn't living. I needed to make a change and go in a different direction. Now I feel good. Normal, and happy. Thanks!"

Trisha wrote:
Avocagno, has not even finished her recovery yet. She is still using Suboxone to treat her PAWS. Which in and of itself is a good thing, but this chick is still a puppy when it comes to being able to stay clean and sober on her own. Yet here she is harassing other members who don't agree with her naive views about AA.
Girl try this, when you and your doctor think you are ready get off of suboxone and the ambien you are taking everyday. Then come back here and talk all shit you want, but I don't think you will.
Avo, you are not fully rid of opiates yet, you are still dependent. I am not saying this is wrong because it isn't. I just think you should tell everyone before you run off at the mouth about opinions concerning sobriety, how sobriety should be achieved, who is making the decisions about the quality and consistency of anyone's sobriety. FINISH YOUR RECOVERY PROGRAM!!!
I also believe that after you have been clean for a while, all this Missouri trailer trash shit you have been talking about that has to do with me and these other people, whether real or fancy, will end. You will finally grow the fuck up and realize your lies are not necessary.
Avo, most of us here are not in recovery, recovering or even in NA, AA, SMART, HAMS or any other form of recovery program. We have left it all in our past. I am talking decades ago.
Suboxone wasn't even available when I was banging dope. You either kicked it cold turkey or you went on methadone. I never considered methadone as a viable alternative, just my opinion.
Yes my way was painful (probably beyond anyones belief) but I saw many before me do it and they succeeded.
Avo, you lied about me. Now whether you want to call me Danny, Trisha, Claude or who ever, it still doesn't wash away the fact you lied about me calling your home and threatening your son.
This never happened because if it did, I would not be here, writing on this site. I would be in jail, awaiting trial for a prison sentence.
So why don't you quit with all this other bullshit and tell everyone here what a piece of shit you were to accuse me of such a horrible allegation.

(Here are your contradicting statements, actually you are the liar. Talk about feeling guilty Avo, how about being a mother and using your son in a plot to frame someone else on a AA web site)

Avo wrote:
Wed, 06/13/2012 - 18:27
"Well Trisha, I've decided to take you up on your offer to get the police involved because I am taking it that seriously. Internet investigation has shown that you are using a proxy IP address on this site. Further investigation has revealed your actual personal IP address however. If you would please just confirm that your IP address is, I will forward this to the police and we will let them take this further. Because I am not a lowlife like you I will not post your full home address."

Avo wrote:
Tue, 07/03/2012 - 22:17
"Here is another one that you left in your trail of harassment around the web as Calinda, TraceLIn, Perplexity: . I've never accused you, Trisha, of the phone call made to my house, I didn't say a word to you about it. It was you that came to the thread either because you ARE guilty or you FEEL guilty probably because of the mass of abuse that you have put others through over the years."

Open Free for All / New Here
« on: June 23, 2012, 10:45:46 AM »

I am new to this board.  I am 37 year old survivor of Straight in Detroit. I was there from 89/90 - 93 (long time).  As a newcommer I held the record of escaping (or copping out) six different times.  The last time I escaped my family decided I would complete the program or become a "Ward of the State" (in Detroit that would be really bad).  I eventually was re-programmed and became a "Straightling" and spent the next 26 months moving up through the phases to graduation and finally JR. staff.

Sometime during the (6) months of "Aftercare" I left Straight behind and started to build a life.

I haven't thought about the program or my experences there in many years, as its almost like a bad dream that I left behind or somebody else's life but I found my grad pin a couple weeks ago and now this is all I can think of???

I remember the "Raps" and "Movating" and helping other kids by restaining them, WTF was that??

Are there any other "Straightlings" out there who has or is going through this?

Open Free for All / Re: BTW
« on: June 20, 2012, 12:08:46 AM »
Niggers and chinks

Ba da boom. Ba da Binks

Open Free for All / I am writing a book please tell me your stories!
« on: June 14, 2012, 01:23:40 AM »
Hello People!

More than 25 years ago I was a troubled teen.
My parents under intimidation from the high school I was attending and a quack psychologist sent me to a state run teen mental health clinic.
It was Rutgers Psychiatric Hospital in Piscataway New Jersey.
For MANY years after I left there, I suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
While my negative experiences would seem like a "holiday in the sun" for those of you who endured the so called Christian trouble teen facilities, I want to document our experiences.
I was saved from going to a "Christian" facility only because I turned 18 and I went to legal aid to find out my rights.
I am writing a book and I would like to hear what you endured and how you coped both during and after.
During WW2 when the Nazis were liquidating the Riga Ghetto, a ghetto historian urged everyone he met to "write it down and record it", this is what I intend to do.
Thank you and hang in there!

A good Catholick observing the sacraments. Amen ::deadhorse::

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