The first time was Saturday… the Saturday before last. I quickly found myself fucking a lovely young-looking and extremely petite hottie who had just arrived that day from Mexico City. She said she was 21. Sure, baby…. whatever you say!

After that I walked down Revolución. Partook in a stimulating and totally non-sexual massage at VivaMex. Had a nice meal at the Hotel Nelson restaurant… the Combinación Mexicana is yummy and goes well with a Margarita or two or three or five.

Then back to Zona Norte for more fucking. This time a 19-year-old with lush supple tits. I fucked this whoregirl on a previous trip and had been looking forward to doing her again.

Outside Adelita Bar in TJ's Zona Norte

Always safe sex, always using a condom. I am not fucking stupid. One reason I am especially careful is that I’m only a level 5 or 6 Tijuana Whore-Mongerer. Some of these guys, by contrast, are up there at levels 8 and 9 and 10.

Anyway back to it…

I was only slightly worn out after the two fuck sessions and the one massage session and the scrumptious meal and tasty Margaritas. And it was still early. Real early- like 7PM! I have over-optimized this whole hedonistic process!!! Got all the pleasure I came for and the sun hadn’t even gone down yet!

So I stumble toward Hong Kong Bar. And there I realized that Hong Kong Bar was not only the finest strip club in North America– hands down– but that I had found a new religion: The dragon was my god, and the Hong Kong fuckbar was my temple.

Guy at the Hong Kong door demands $3.50 for a can of Tecate. Some sort of entry fee or cover charge or what-have-you. No fucking way! I object on the basis of principle. I try to tell him that I am a loyal customer and esteemed porn blogger but he’s Mexican and he’s just the doorman and he doesn’t give a shit.

So I give him a $5 and tell him he can keep his gross Tecate and I step inside. I take a little walk around; the place is fucking big after last year’s renovation and there’s always stuff going on in all different sections.

Oh my god.

Is that a three-way lesbian show?

Oh my god.

Are all three girls…. covered in whip cream?

Oh my god.

Are those lit candles on the stage?

She’s not going to pour the hot candle wax on… Oh yes she is!

And then she takes the burning candle and shoves it into her pussy. One of the lesbo girls licks her tits. The third girl gets behind Miss Tit-Licker and starts to eat out her ass.

Holy shit! I gotta see this up close!

The cream-covered girl with the candle burning in her pussy who is getting her tits sucked takes a bottle of beer that’s been half-drunk and raises it over her body, pouring it out onto her tits and her stomach and the beer splahes over Miss Tit-Licker’s face as she’s getting her ass eaten out.

Then the burning candle comes out of the pussy and into her…

Oh my! I don’t think I’ve even ever seen that in porn, much less live.

There’s a few minutes of additional three-way action that blow even my rather pornofied mind.

Then the girls line up. In a fucking chain. Each girl’s ass is in the face of the girl behind her. They’re all covered in whip cream and beer. They look all around and then they plunge, with their tongues, into each others’ assholes. A cream-and-beer covered chain of ass-licking hotties.

I sit down. Have a few beers– Dos Equis, thank you very much. I don’t always drink beer, you know, but when I do I prefer Dos Equis.

The wait staff all recognize me, of course. I ask one of them a burning questions that flashed into my mind; something that would really make the evening complete: “Can I buy a joint to smoke here?”

No. Can’t do that. You can buy marijuana outside, he tells me, but can’t smoke it in here. It’s illegal, he explains. Cops would shut us down.

The Dos Equis multiply and pretty soon they become 12 X’s all together. Combined with the Margaritas from Hotel Nelson I am toasted. All the while some of the most amazing debauchery has been going on around me. I look up at the dragon over the bar. God I could go for a toke.

I’ll take you, man. You can be my god. And this will be my temple.

My temple is the best strip club in North America. Even without the ability to light up.

I mean… really… there isn’t any comparison. Nothing in the U.S. qualifies because you can’t actually fuck the girls. Here you can fuck pretty much any one you want. What’s the point of a strip club where you can’t fuck the strippers???

There’s this blond-haired girl dancing on a mini-stage over near the north entrance. She’s got the most incredible tits that me and my 12 X’s and five Margaritas have ever seen. I slip a dollar in her crotch and grab her tits and smoosh them on my cheeks as I bury my face between them. I would fuck her if I were more sober and hadn’t already came twice.

But those perfect perfect titties! Oh so yummy. So yummy yummy yummy!!!

And I think that, in the annals of history, it might go down as one blog post that could change the world! Despite its potentially boundless impact, it will be appearing here on this esteemed porn blog between a photo(shopping) of the fucking Republican presidential ticket and a bunch of BDSM sluts presented with a cheesy ice cream joke.

Such is the way of the world: If you want fucking wisdom, you gotta take the fucking too.

Anyway, I should not toot my own blogging horn until I have blogged something to toot about. So let me begin back in Europe. I left there on Tuesday. Early morning flight. And right before I left my Copenhagen apartment for the airport, I was posting galleries. In particular, I got this Red Hot! gallery up–

–on my esteemed porn portal at the last possible moment, then I packed up my laptop and grabbed my already-packed-up luggage and within two minutes of posting that Sizzling! gallery I was out the door on on my way back to America.

Sizzing Red Hot girl was all I could think of as I passed through the lovely Porn Capital of Europe and through the isle of Amager to the modern little airport, then on the plane and back to America! I couldn’t wait to have a yummy fucking Starbucks triple grande wet cappuccino. And maybe I would fuck a Tijuana street whore when I got back too. Ahhh… the comforts of home!

So I get to Chicago. Had to wait a couple of hours for the next plane- the one to San Diego. I get my coveted cappuccino– unfortunately there are no barely-legal Mexican street whores at O’Hare so I couldn’t fulfill the other part of my desires– and I sit down in one of the laptop stations and plug in and log on to the fucking pay-to-play airport internet.

Hmmm… the little light on the side of my Mac is not on- the one that shows the power is flowing… Let’s see… it’s plugged in… WAIT! What’s that?

I see smoke rising.

I follow the trail of smoke with my eyes down to… the power supply! My Mac’s power supply is… RED-HOT! Sizzling! ON FUCKING FIRE!

Yikes! That Red Hot, Sizzling! gallery really fucking was!

So I unplug the power supply and pack my juice-less laptop away, then wander around in some semi-stupid boredom for two hours, looking at idiotic books in idiotic airport bookstores as I kill time… DIE TIME! DIE! DIE! DIE!… and finally get on the flight to San Diego.

When I get to San Diego in the late afternoon, I realize that I’ve got to go to the fucking Apple fucking Store to fucking buy a fucking new fucking power supply for my fucking laptop. As I’m thinking about this, exiting the airport, I pass the limo driving dudes with my energy sapped by a very long day so far that begun nine time zones ago… And then I notice that one of the limo dudes is holding a sign that says…

“PORN.”

What? I squint. Look again. He’s holding a sign and the name on the sign is…

“PORN.”

Huh? I was going to ask him about it… I was going to say “hey that’s me but I didn’t order a fucking limo”… But would that be rude? Would it be obnoxious to inquire? Maybe there is… somewhere… a real guy who’s real last name is Porn. I had a neighbor at 666 Up Ass Street whose last name was “Deatherage”. Actually it was a couple– Mr. and Mrs. Deatherage. They were fighting every time I saw them. I understand they are in divorce proceedings now.

I decide to leave Mr. Porn’s driver alone and just go drop my fucking bags off and then go get that fucking power fucking supply.

So I get to Fashion Valley. That’s a fucking mall in the fucking Mission Valley shopping area of fucking San Diego.

I hate Fashion Valley. It’s so fucking fashionable. As I walk through the mall to the Apple Store, a bunch of 90210-looking girls are woman-ing a table and they are soliciting shoppers to come over and suck on their luscious sales pitch… “We’re helping missing kids,” the tall blonde girl says. Sure you are, honey. Sure you are.

Actually, you bitch, you are selling something… I don’t know what… and I don’t want to find out… but you’re selling something and you are using “missing kids” to do it. Nice. How fucking Fashion-Valley-ish of you.

Some 90210-looking dude is over there at their pitch table talking to them. Yeah, like you care about missing kids, bozo… you just want to fuck the airhead blondes, don’t you, California Boy???

Oh no matter. I get to the Apple Store and the place is like a lush geek oasis in the middle of Vapidland. Gawd, I love the Apple Store. Busy as hell too. Lots of Russians. There are tons of Russians in San Diego, but that’s another story for another time…

I get the replacement power supply and as I’m leaving Fashion Valley I pass by the same “missing kids” table and airhead 90210 blonde gives me the same “Do you want to help missing kids?” spiel that she did the first time, unaware that she already subjected me to her attempted trickery. UGH! I’m frustrated now and compounding the frustration is the fact that since I’ve come to Fashion Valley I’ve seen lots and lots of really hot blonde California girls and I’m really getting sexually charged and having been going for so long is compounding the horniness I’m feeling. And then there’s the warm California weather which of course brings all that testosterone to the head…

There is only one solution: I MUST go and fuck a barely-legal Tijuana street whore.

18 years old. 19 would be OK too. Not too thin and not too short because I want to fuck her up fucking deep and I don’t want one of these girls who is not capable of being penetrated intensely.

Is this TMI? I hope not. I mean… there really is a difference between fucking and FUCKING, between a nice little gentle rhythmic “intercourse” and a fucking all-out voraciously intense and somewhat rough mega-penetration. I wanted the latter. Since I don’t like MILFs, who are generally pretty good at that sort of thing, I decided to turn to a young female professional and a small transaction of international trade. Plus my passport was already in my back pocket.

I decide that I will take the trolley to the Tijuana border. I drop off the power supply at the apartment and hop on the trolley toward the Mexican border… and I soon find myself surrounded by bunches of Mexicans.

As the trolley rolls through National City and Chula Vista on the way to the City of Debauchery, I start thinking. I think about how I had previously resolved to not fuck any more Tijuana street whores.

But that was a long time ago, I reason. That was in an “up” real estate market. Now we are in financial turmoil. Everything changes in a down market!!! Ergo, I can go ahead and fuck a street whore.

Or another line of reasoning: I’m a fucking post-modernist. Post-modernists don’t believe in rules. So I should be breaking my own rules first of all. Only thing is that a rule about breaking rules would itself still be a rule. And certainly we can’t have a rule about that.

So I start thinking about rules. What is this rule that I came up with so many months ago… this idea that I should not be fucking barely-legal Tijuana street whores??? Where did it come from? Who is enforcing this rule? Who is going to put me to judgment based on this rule?

The answer comes to mind right away. And the answer is God.

That’s fucking right! God gave this rule to me. God is going to enforce it through some divine dishing out of bad luck or something like that if I break it.

God. God. God.

What a giant boatload of smelly shit that is.

Of course this rule… this idea… did not come from God. It came from me and my own feelings. I might not be able to elucidate those feelings so well, and I might not even understand their complexity. But it’s all there- I could delve into it, say with the help of a therapist, if I wanted to.

And the reason I think God is going to enforce this rule of my own making is that I don’t have anyone else who I can say is going to enforce it. A rule needs to be enforced, right? So I invent a personification to do what I need somebody to do, just to keep together the logical consistency of the thoughts in my head… and I call that personification “God”.

Oh my God! Finally it dawns on me: God is just a fucking kludge! And I don’t need no kludge!

That’s all God… all that religion… is: Just a first-order approximation! A fudge factor! God is what we use to fill in the blanks when we have something that we don’t understand, or when we need a personification to allocate something to in order to keep together the logic of the thoughts we have in our head! God is the first term in a power series expansion! God is the C when we + C to the equation. God is the first guess that we offer towards the world in our childlike and unevolved way of viewing it.

And isn’t this what we have always done, throughout history: We don’t know how the Earth beneath our feet came into being, so we say that it was the work of God. We don’t know why the sun appears to travel around the Earth, so we say God makes it so. We don’t know how to resolve the unavoidable sense of our continued existence with our knowledge of inevitable death, so we say God gives us an afterlife. We don’t know what meaning to ascribe to suffering, so we say that God will give us that meaning in time.

But it’s all fudge! It’s all just a placeholder for a better explanation that we could have with greater knowledge or greater awareness or both!

This reminds me of the time in Freshman Physics Lab in college when my lab partner Jim Delaney and I were supposed to measure the speed of light. There was some experiment with a mirror rotating at high RPM… and we really fucked up the experiment. So when it came time to do the calculation, we were screwed. We ended up with a speed of light that was half of what it should be, but with a margin of error double that! So the speed of light could have been negative but of equal magnitude.

We followed the procedure. We propagated the error of measurement through to the final calculation. We got a ludicrous result. We were too lazy to go back into the lab and redo the experiment. We got C’s on that report. We should have gotten F’s.

But we were lazy and it was a first approximation and we didn’t really care to get a better result.

And so it is with God!

Come hither the Übermensch! He has no need for such silliness! The Übermensch doesn’t need to resort to the God superstition as a first guess… he skips it altogether because he knows it’s never the right answer!

So it was with this great realization that I disembarked the train at the Tijuana border and made my way to the Zona Norte, where I proceeded to quickly find and fuck an entirely unsuitable 20-year-old. Thought she would be close enough to 18… but no. Wasn’t any good at all. And I thought about physics and religion the whole time and couldn’t even cum. Terrible. Terrible.

I went to Hong Kong Bar and had a drink and a girl with a very ugly face but some of the best tits I have ever seen danced on the stage in front of me. Hong Kong Bar was renovated while I was in Europe. It goes all the way though the block now. It’s huge. A huge beautiful den of debauchery.

I had a Kaluha. And I realized that I… like you, my friends… don’t need no fudge-factor first-order-approximation God no more. He is no use to us. Let us take one step towards the Übermensch and not invoke such silliness in our thoughts any more.