ayedog
April 6th 2009
Leave the past behind, step into... The New Financial Year
March 31st 2009
"A year's come and gone since we heard the news 'bout Billie Joe..." - For the purposes of this comparison, I am Billie Joe and it wasn't the muddy waters off the Tallahatchie Bridge I jumped off into, it was the wonderful world of whoring. So yes, not actually a bridge, more a Mac keyboard, and not suicide, more prostitution and indecent exposure, a whole different branch of the law. Which is all a way of saying (as the comparison falls apart on closer inspection - who, for instance, is singing the song and what exactly do the black eyed peas and biscuits represent?) I've been at this for about a year now. I'm now 32 and a new financial year kicks off next Monday.
The plan is, to give the website a bit of a juggle in recognition of time passed and in celebration of my short attention span having not strayed for so long. We'll see, come next week.
| March 20th 2009 | |  | A couple of candid shots of me kilting/unkilting.
The dreaded sunny day today and the cemetery is chock full of pale boys in loose shirts and girls with chunky fringes hiding their eyes. I may have a shower and join them.
Or I could forego the misery and stick on the well polished rock of Liz Phair's much maligned fourth album and relive a youth of head shaking and hip snaking.
'Course I could also initiate an aggressive advertising campaign and drum up some cut price trade in these cash strapped times (HA HA 'strapped for cash' - Carry On Whipping My Cunt). If I knew how to spam I surely would - " Hello my name is rab I come to you most sincerely with cock in hand and dead husband's will from the democratic state of far away kind sirs i ask not for your bank details right now only your consideration and hot white cum".
In the end, I spend the afternoon lunging in shiny shorts, slenderising my waist some more.
(In the end, in truth, I spent fucking ages dicking about with those two images and this bit of text, trying to make it look alright in two different browsers and two different sized monitors - at my level of expertise, it can't be done.) |
March 6th 2009
5th Video - me sucking cock and taking a load in my face.
Artistically speaking I see it as a reply to Andy Warhol's Blowjob, which I seem to reply to a lot, sometimes without even meaning to and sometimes without there even being a camera present.
March 4th 2009
I learnt a new word a couple of weeks back whilst doing a crossword: prurience, as in the excessive interest of all things sexual. It's somewhat telling that my first thought was how I could work it into a profile name for one of the gay websites. Prurient_Sentient or PrurientDog or maybe prurient4prick, the wordplay goes on. While I write this I have a video playing of a guy in suspenders and bra getting his arse shagged and spanked by some domineering daddy type. The sound of squelchy buttocks and cocks seems to be the background noise of my time online.
In truth, this little riff on prurience is more in celebration than confession.
| February 24th 2009 |  | This has been the busiest weekend since records began.
"SINCE RECORDS BEGAN," I emphasized loudly.
Sandwiched in between the 'cash for cock' was a video and photo shoot with the good people at Xposeu. It's been almost a year since I last dropped my trousers for Nigel and John, and this time I had company. Click on the photo to the left to find out more (yes, that's me, sucking cock like a lipsticked 1970's sex doll complete with dodgy synthetic wig),
Today's Pancake Tuesday, all hail the flatness.
|
February 12th 2009
After the snow and the rain, a wee bit of sun and the park out the back is starting to dry out (the heavy rainfall and quick frost created a seagull ice rink yesterday morning). But what's all this got to do with whoring? Feck all, why d'you keep asking me that?
My balls, arse and face are freshly shaved, tea tree-d and talc'd in preparation for a meet this evening. I still contend to the unnaturalness of a taking a Bic orange disposable ti yer countenance. What sick cunt thought that up?
With Joan of Arcadia now ended (the last couple of episodes picked up on Youtube after E4 stopped abruptly at Episode 16 of series 2, like a glorious hand job interrupted suddenly), with the show ended for over 2 weeks now, it's hold over me is slipping away. The beatific attitude I was taking, the belief that all I did was part of some larger connection, has started to wane, if not die completely. It was sort of the non-religious equivalent of 'Let go and let God', whatever that would be, some fuzzy belief in a unifying consciousness that we were all equally part of, no deity required. It doesn't sound as daft written there, but it could get a bit simpering at times, a bit up its own arse at the essentialness of the present experience. Its been replaced with something a bit messier and more realistic, I think, like when you switch from animation to live action. That maybe sounds like a loss, but I think it means feeling a real sun rather than a cartoon one.
Running the spell check over the above text, the computer still hasn't learnt the validity of arse and cunt as part of the english language. It prefers parse and count.
January 27th 2009
Burns' Night passed without haggis or the suitable address. I couldn't even get my disorganised arse back in the kilt for a few choice commemorative photos. Next year, next year I promise, to have actually read and understand some Burns, or at the very least have purchased a recording of the lovely Eddie Reader performing some of his work.
I recently acquired context. Not a great deal, but some, context in the real world. I met and played with some other whores. Over the past few weeks, on a few occasions, I got to see how the same half live. Brings to mind The Smiths' Vicar in a Tutu, "It was worthwhile leading a laughable life...", and although I'm fully aware this still isn't the full gamut of the prostitution experience, it's always good to crack open my own little world.
Today I will express my Scottishness by: watching The High Life on BBC4.
January 19th 2009
After being ridden (or rode) by the cold for the last few days, am now fit and able again. Injecting Lemsip directly into my sinuses and ramming tangerines up my arse worked a treat. I've never smelt more citrus-y and fresh.
Joan of Arcadia has become the methadone for the heroin that was the Gilmore Girls.
My winter hair is being slowly wittled away at, trimmed and clipped a little at a time in readiness for the oncoming Spring. Soon we'll be back to where we started.
January 6th 2009
After a glorious 6 months or so, the final episode of Gilmore Girls was shown today on E4. My sense of an era passing is not dampened by the fact that the whole thing kicks off again tomorrow morning right from the very beginning, as I will be stepping down or stepping back, I'm not sure which or exactly what from, and not watching. The programme defined and structured the second half of last year for me and I'm happy to leave it at that. God bless it, tears were shed.
The fetish of the day is: football kit.
December 25th 2008
With Oklahoma! on in the background, with the strains of "I'm just a girl who can't say no" still ringing in my ears, I thought it's about time to log in and ramble on.
I got back on Tuesday there, the 23rd, and have spent two days sleeping/doing dishes/watching Gilmore Girls/finally becoming a victim of the economic down turn when I tried to use a gift card in Zavvi only to be told that the company had gone into administration that morning and couldn't honour the credit on the card (I had the equivalent of a tenner on that card, a small amount considering some folk have lost their jobs, but still, it's nice to finally be part of a major news story that everyone's talking about).
For Christmas I got, an electric toothbrush and a biography of Marilyn Monroe (the biography was from my 5 year old nephew, so at least I know I don't have to have the talk with him about his uncle being a faggot.)
As good as this all is (and it is, and I haven't even got to the Doctor Who Christmas Special this evening), can't help but slap out a beat on the table and say, "roll on the holiday whoring". God speed an' that.
December 16th 2008
Christmas trip back to Glasgow, away from the 17th to the 23rd, the latter half of this advent will go unfucked, by me at least.
December 10th 2008
My plans for a lustrous winter coat took a set back a few days back when, to fully embrace my sub side for a bloke into verbal and caning, I offered to shave my balls, arse and face.
The balls were no problem (please see April 16th), but the other two, I haven't done either in over a year, and I'm now of the opinion that you should only have a blade in close proximity to your face if you are attempting self-harm or suicide. Out of the two, face and arse, it seemed less weird to be squatting over a mirror, looking at my arsehole in reverse whilst whipping off the bum fluff to reveal the rosebud underneath (note to self, my 'rosebud' looks more like a puckered bruise thanks to the gay aging process and a little help on this occasion to the splashings of ice cold water and nippy tea tree & witch hazel combo to stop me getting a shaving rash).
It all sounds a bit horrific, and terribly unsexy, but the upshot of all that preening was an (almost) alabaster arse and a baby scrubbed face. Add to that, white socks, collar and a hood, and a good evening was had by all (well, by me and the bloke).
NB the (almost) alabaster arse is now a little red and tender... Prostitution, just money for old rope? Or in this case, old bamboo.
| November 30th 2008 | | | |
| | In last minute recognition of Saint Andrew's Day, here's photos of me in a kilt.
Slightly more authentic than my 'Made in Scotland' Aussiebums, I had planned to take some photos wearing those whilst drinking out of a glass bottle of Irn-Bru and wanking over a picture of 1970s era Kenny Dalglish. But a kilt surfaced and they're horny as fuck, so aye, kilt me ya cunt.
Maybe it's a bad thing, that I've reduced the national day of Scotland to one more reason to take half naked photos of myself, but to be honest the day never had positive connotations in the first place; if it fell on a school day it meant having to go to a special St Andrew's Day Mass (that's church, twice in one week, TWICE), and it was basically a day in remembrance of a bloke who got diagonally crucified, which we were assured was just as bad, if not worse, than the run of the mill crucifixion made famous by Jesus. ('Course now the St Andrew's Cross has more fun S&M associations. I know a man in Clapton who made one himself.) |
November 25th 2008
The folk next door have the workmen in, as do about four other houses in the street and about two more in the street round the corner. My neighbourhood is hoaching with Hard Hat Honeys...
Hard Hat Honeys, similar in sexual attractiveness to Hi-Vis Honeys - both with their musty, callous-handed-ness - but differentiated from each other by their apparel, that is, one in yellow fluorescent waistcoat, the other in Bob the Builder style chapeau.
This afternoon, with a meeting already planned for the evening, I'm a tad louche and fidgety. Sure, there'll be stuff to do in a couple of hours (wash ma cock and fix ma hair), but until then it's a little difficult to stay focused on anything else.
I'm beginning to realise this page, the written stuff, it's not about 'the exploits of a high class call girl' and all the juicy details of saucy escapades. It's about the times in between, the malaise and mental meanderings that happens when my cock's safely in my pants, the mid-afternoon lull in the Lidl of Escorting. There was a bloke who used to write for the Batman comics, who was talking about Batman's adventures, how it's not just adventure after adventure, like first the Joker, then quick on his heels the Penguin, then just as fast after that Catwoman, then Killer Croc, Scarecrow and on and on. He was saying (and I can't remember his name, maybe Alan Grant) that he thought that it wasn't all constant, there was time in between the end of one adventure and the beginning of the next, that wasn't shown in the comics, when nothing happened, when things were a bit on the quiet side...
I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but I think I'm trying to suggest that if Batman had a little downtime, he might (or may even already do so under another secret identity) have an outlet similar to the one you are reading now. Yes, yes I agree, it is a bit of a leap to compare myself to Batman, and that the unbelievable part of that leap isn't even that I'm a fictional character and he's the real deal (or the other way around, whatever).
If you're interested, I also have a riff that compares my resignation from a great wee office job in Glasgow to the death and resurrection of Superman. It's a beezer.
November 17th 2008
Sequel - another fucking, thanks again to Keith (keithnjg@btinternet.com) and Bluemount (cameraman with a fondness for the 'up the arsehole' camera shots).
(NB If you do click on to watch it, you might want to pause it for a bit at the start - the buffering's a bitch.)
November 7th 2008
November spawned a monster, and that monster was a network error.
The guestbook is now working, as is the email function, and I'm able to upload files again. All I need to do is figure out how to fix the counter on the home page and everything's back to normal.
This problem and resolution with the website does seem to have coincided with a dip and resurgence of the horn (my horn, your horn, a'body's horn, tho mostly my horn). It's the seasonal adjustment, the shifting around and faffing about that makes you (okay, me) too irritable to fuck. But now, I'm all hunkered down for Winter, cock in hand. Bring on the S.A.D., I have the weapon of choice.
October 29th 2008
Seasonal adjustment, the switching from summer to winter wardrobe, or in this case, winter hair. After the shearing I gave myself earlier this month, and now with what feels like the onslaught of cold death, I've decided there will be no more trimming or body hair removal until Spring rolls around (except for ma shoulders 'cause that's just unsightly).
The fuzz on my balls is now a fur, and tho I'm sure it's just a trick of the brain, my bollocks do feel warmer for it, seems to take less cupping, squeezing and tugging to get them low hanging and swinging.
...After trying to access the website to upload this page, I find, again, that it's playing silly buggers. Can this page become any more unaccessed and unread? Not unless your computer blows up and blinds you in the process.
| October 12th 2008 | After some problems updating the website, I finally got to upload the pictures below.
3 days of enjoyable hair growth have passed, and I now have a nice, soft to the touch fuzz on my belly and bits. It's like fast forwarding thru puberty, but with proper porn to wank over instead of a Kays catalogue or a shirtless photo of Vanilla Ice in my sister's copy of Smash Hits. |
| October 9th 2008 |  |  |  |
| | I was once advised by a bloke giving me a massage and fingering (which I replied to later with a hard fucking) never to shave off my furry belly hair, my treasure trail, as it gave me character. I agreed. Today, however, I found myself desperate to fill that empty time between the end of Woman's Hour and the beginning of Gilmore Girls and, as such, am now somewhat smoother (I was horny as a monkey, but on a promise not to wank, and what started out as a trim and tidy up, kept going and going and getting me off). On the plus side, my cock looks fucking huge.
Update: I'm informed my cock feels fucking huge as well. It's fantastic what shaving can do. |
September 21st 2008
4th Video - fucking, thanks to Keith (fuckee) and Bluemount (cameraman).
September 15th 2008
Thought for the day: Choice is just Choc-ice without the c (and the hyphen).
After 6 hours of car, train, train, underground, train, the above revelation seemed a great deal more insightful. And so I returned to London, pledging again never to leave, or at least not until teleportation is thoroughly researched and realised. Your own bed should only ever be only a short walk away.
Also, on Saturday, whilst wearing a cock ring to a wedding reception 'cause the trousers I was wearing weren't giving enough 'frontage', I suffered some unfortunate chaffing to the underside of my balls. All's well and my bollocks have returned to their top form, but a lesson has been learned: in the instance of prolonged formal events, best wear a rubber cock ring, rather than metal, for maximum comfort and minimum damage. You have been educated.
September 9th 2008
I said I wouldn't, but I am, leaving London, all be it for just a few days, 5 to be precise, back on Monday. The city shall go unwhored 'til I return, 'cept of course for all those other whores, the half dozen hundred or so, throbbing and on the meter.
Also of note this week is the return of Secret Diary of a Call Girl (I've set the timer on the freeview box). I would like to add my voice to the debate and criticisms surrounding this show by saying it is the sole reason I am doing what I'm doing. If it wasn't for Billie Piper's muff and her sassy, yet vulnerable, straight to camera delivery, I wouldn't be whoring my cock today. Similarly, I have adopted a teenage daughter to enjoy some quick fire banter a la Gilmore Girls and have become sexually repressed and whiney (again) so as to take after all those handsome young buck teenage boys littering American teen dramas, them with their coming-of-age-just-discovering-their-sexuality-who-am-I?-who-am-I?-how-come-none-of-them-are-getting-blind-drunk-of-a-weekend?-end-up-shagging-a-string-of-similarly-drunk-dirty-old-men-in-a-bid-to-work-out-which-way-their-cocks-point? Aye, them. Cunts.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the drunk dirty old men who I shagged in my formative years, with particular mention to James(?) in Ibrox. You gave me a new appreciation for men with moustaches.
August 29th 2008
This week I've mostly had 'Come to Jesus' by Mindy Smith playing in my head and I can't sing along without it sounding dirty, 'Cum to Jesus and let him hold you in his arms'. I figure it's just my way into the song, like with that Townes Van Zandt song 'When He Offers His Hand', which I take to be about an experienced older gay passing on his sexual wisdom rather than Christ recruiting Apostles. It's when I get to the more literal religious stuff, full on Gospel, that real skill is required, creative lateral thinking and a re-reading of the lyrics so far from reason as to make a Holocaust denier blush. I could always not bother my arse and just enjoy the music. There you go, problem created and solved.
All of this, of course, has nothing whatsoever to do with anything at all ever.
August 14th 2008
I dropped my luggage at my feet, dropped my jeans and pants to my ankles and shuffled to the computer, "Come to mama, let's never leave London again." Turns out I don't travel well, I'm like a delicate fruit.
Back in the game, all texts and phone calls appreciated (tho with the usual caveat 'Don't rip the piss').
August 3rd 2008
As of tomorrow I'm away, back up to Glasgow, then Edinburgh, for a bit. Picture me turning the sign hanging off my cock from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED', tho, 'course, it's never really 'CLOSED', it's never really the case that I've 'GONE FISHIN' or any other euphemism to suggest that my cock's getting dusty and unused in a store room, waiting for me to come back, wipe it down and re-attach it. I'm always happy to get the glad eye, even better if it's followed by "Can I cum on your face for an extra fiver?" (please note, all spunk facials are included in the original quoted price, no hidden extra costs, I spend nothing on advertising to pass the savings onto YOU). As Liz Phair once said, and I'll keep saying 'til the pound signs are rubbed off my arse thru excessive friction, "It's nice to be liked, but it's better by far to get paid."
So aye, away from Monday 4th August to Wednesday 13th August. Cheers.
| July 31st 2008 |  |
July 25th 2008
I toyed with being topical, write about flying ants and Glasgow by-elections, but after spending a quiet, muggy afternoon reading up on Wikipedia about Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Kate and Allie, Third Rock from the Sun as well as Maude, Bea Arthur, the Star Wars Holiday Special and, as ever, the entry for the Gilmore Girls where I tease myself by trying not to look at what happens in the five seasons I've still to see... after spending this quiet, muggy afternoon doing that, I decided the real world can get to fuck, I want to live in my fantasy world of sassy TV and cock for cash. In this fantasy world, I will also be nude all the time, nude without explanation, footnote or relevant back story, and I will get comedy hard ons at inappropriate moments that will be sign posted with the sound of a sliding whistle and a shrug of my shoulders.
I was in leather yesterday, leather in hot weather. On Tuesday I was rimming, tongue tied on Tuesday. Rubbered up and baw deep, sucking socks on Saturday. Today? Today, not so much.
July 13th 2008
Been fucked twice in the last two days, three times in total this week, and that's not counting the 45 minute massage and arse stretching session on Friday and the impromptu fingering and wanking on Wednesday. My prostate has been left switched on, and this is a bug-eyed Sunday of slavering at blokes on the street. I think I need another good dicking to flick it off, or for the little compartment in my back to be opened up and the batteries taken out for a bit.
The bits and bobs tally for the week (not counting my own) is: 4 cocks, 3 arses, 4 sets of lips, 1 pair of feet and over 7 hours of Tube time clocked up in the name of cheap sex and exhibitionism.
A friend critiqued the website over dinner, saying it wasn't as raw and ready as he was used to from me, 'raw' in the unpolished, vulnerable sense of the word rather the 'slip it in and hang the consequence' meaning. So in a bid to meet this, I'm now trying to write straight into the website rather than into a word document first, in a kind of Truman Capote baiting "call that writing? that's not writing that's just typing, Kerouac ya cunt" attempt to capture something... more?... else? Fuck, writing about writing, making art about art, I may as well be doubled over staring straight into my jap's eye* with occasional glances at my navel.
A new era of self obsession has begun.
I found a chest expander in the cupboard.
* After some discussion and a little contemplation on the bus, I've decided I probably shouldn't be comfortable using the phrase 'jap's eye'. So please replace it with any of the following words or phrases: urethra; piss slit; bell end vagina; tiny toothless vomiting sideways mouth (I stole that one from the Welsh bloke that used to review stuff on Vids on STV). I stand by my use of the word 'cunt'. 'Cunt's a fucking great word.
July 10th 2008
This week I made 40 quid as a life model.
I am meat for the charcoal, flesh for the sugar (paper).
A very enjoyable experience, tho there was one horrible moment when I got a funny, tingling feeling thru out my body and I thought an unwanted hard on was imminent, not even my "think unsexy thoughts think unsexy thoughts think unsexy thoughts" Simpsons mantra (Homer picturing Barney in a bikini dancing to I Dream of Jeanie) was doing any good. Thankfully it turned out to be a strained calf muscle (from holding too many poses without sufficient warm up stretches) making the blood run wonky and the problem was resolved with a brief bit of toe stretching and clenching to get said muscle at ease.
This is the drama of my life.
Also, I was overly aware of my bollocks moving. The room was quite warm, all well and good with regards to cock size, giving me a nice lazy ‘show-er’ of a softie, but it meant my balls were hanging low and loose. Not a problem you’d think, but with each deep breath, I could feel them rising and adjusting themselves, then lowering again slowly. They could have been used to measure time.
Also this week, I had more photos taken, and in some of them I'm smiling.
June 24th 2008
Bouncing between websites and profiles, firing out emails, the online equivalent of standing on a street corner, jiggling my keys. Ah, such a nostalgic 1950s view of walking the street. I’m picturing them in tweed rather than fishnets, a pearl necklace is just that. They talk like continuity announcers and cum with the restraint of a ration book. They run the risk of cold ankles, the only flesh on show what with all the gloves, hats, collars and buttons. I run the risk of jittering into another dimension due to the vast tea intake of sitting on my arse. I go de-caf after 6pm.
June 14th 2008
On Wednesday June 11th, in a flat in North London, without a hint of irony and with complete sexual sincerity, I wore a leather Stetson.
And I liked it. A mash up of Erotica-era Madonna and Don't Tell Me-era Madonna, with just a dash of bearded Scottish faggotry, we thought we were onto a moody Brokeback winner.
Unfortunately it soon became apparent that I don’t have a head for hats and in many of the photos taken it appeared as if a bird made entirely of cow hide had fallen from the sky and landed, squashed and askewed, upon my head.
However, if you do like the hat, and you would like photos taken in the hat, or even if you don’t like the hat, but do like the new photos (and could maybe be coaxed into wearing the hat, even if just to hang it off your hard on), contact Ian Campbell-Harris. |  | |
June 9th 2008
In shining good health, with my fat cock vein throbbing, I push forward and pierce the anal hymen of June, 9 days late.
May 28th 2008
I’d like to say that I’ve been away, on sabbatical, on retreat, meditating, learning how to be a better whore, but in truth…
In the recent heat (see previous entry) I walked around with my forearms brazenly exposed, walked by rivers and long grass, thru fields and by tall trees, and got bitten or burned I’m not sure which. I failed to pay due care and attention to the small red mark that had appeared on my arm (think the size of a bite mark from a stapler) and as such, during the course of an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable shower, I managed to exasperate it with a scrubbing brush. After that, my little red mark became a nasty wound (think about the size of a 2p coin and the same colour) that I decided to treat using Witch Hazel, a fine product if used correctly and sparingly. I did not, instead pouring it on as if trying to raze the ground to spite Mother Earth. After that, my nasty wound became a vicious burn (think the size of Greenland on a standard sized globe and the colour of a strawberry Mullerice), which left me feeling as sexy as a pre-Messiah leper and tho it didn’t exactly keep me housebound and virginal, it did make me a little hesitant to flash my wears.
But now, thanks to the happy healing process, and having stared at my burn constantly for about two weeks, my even keel is restored. Hurray. Buy my cock.
In other news, I’ve now added dominant top to my sex CV. Feel free to make believe my recent injuries where inflicted during a manly bar fight. The police broke up the fight early and I’ve come round to see you to take out my unfinished anger on your arse.
May 10th 2008
What with the blistering sun an’ all, I’m now offering a ‘Summer of 69’ special where we, that’s you and I, replenish the salt lost from our bodies due to excessive heat by licking the sweat off each other’s bollocks. I’m also up for simultaneous mutual armpit licking all in the name of pro-active dehydration prevention.
Please note: the ‘Summer of 69’ special will in no way involve Bryan Adams and has no basis in biological fact (unless you know otherwise).
New photos hopefully soon.
May 5th 2008
3rd Video - I can wear this, I can wear that.
Deleted Scene (feet) - for the completists, and my attempt to ingratiate myself with the foot fetishists.
May 4th 2008
In the competitive market of cute Eastern European lads, throbbing twenty one year olds, porn stars, experienced older gentlemen and guys whose hotness could make a lesser man vomit with jealousy, frustration and lust, I have repositioned and rebranded myself as an opportunistic, socialist whore. Prices are now worked out on the basis of what you're after, whereabouts you are and how much you can afford to pay.
The message is thus: come haggle and discuss, but don’t rip the piss.
April 28th 2008
Put your lips back onto Glasgow and sook. In other words, I'm away north for a week.
There's really no reason for making this previously unseen outtake from '2nd Video' available, except to satisfy my 'not particularly new but new to the world of online video' need to exhibit and mythologise my cock. No load unshot.
30 sec demo
April 21st 2008
Now have two very low quality, self-shot 'whip it out and wank it' videos on Gaytube. As much as I'd like to believe that there's a radio star lying bleeding somewhere, I'm pretty sure he's running around safe and well.
1st Video (watch out for the sudden sound on this one)
2nd Video
We can't rewind, we've gone too far. Well, not quite yet.
April 16th 2008
I shaved my balls today.
My Shaved Balls, a triptych by ayedog.
April 11th 2008
Collar marks and popper burns. There's no other way to get on the leash, so I can happily live with neck chaffing, but no more to red, chapped nostril rims like I'm a four year old with a runny nose. So, to save on Sudocrem, I'm now (tho obviously not right now, if it was right now I'd be wanking) I'm now tipping popper juice onto some tissues, popping the tissues in a trainer and clamping the trainer over my mouth and nose like a Reebok gas mask. 'Course it doesn't stop the nausea and retinal discoloring, but it's a small price to pay for a sphincter like a sex doll's mouth and 30 seconds of touching the cum face of God.
April 4th 2008
I would like to take this opportunity to celebrate the birthday of Scott Tracy, born on this day in the year 2039. At the time of recording the original Thunderbirds TV series, Scott was a mere 26 years old, and tho most people prefer Virgil, for the name alone, his birthday is on the 15th August and that's ages away. (Source: The Little Book of Thunderbirds, page 44, Carlton Books Limited 2003)
I've not quite settled on the tone for this part of the website. I could tell you that I'm hot to cock with a hairy peach of an arse, that I can take and give in whatever measures you ask for, or I could tell you that I went swimming yesterday evening and swallowed too much water, which left me breaking a foul wind of chlorine gas for the rest of the night. But maybe it's best keeping that to myself, 'less I encourage the flatulent fetishists. I've nothing against farting for cash, but as I've stated before, I will not follow thru, and it's a fine line, isn't it?
March 28th 2008
Previously, on The Further Adventures of ayedog...
After 31 years, and now mid-way thru season six or seven, your best bet is to just dive straight in and hope that you pick up the backstory as you go along.
As a marketing strategy, a rambling, intermittently updated, personal diary is perhaps the equivalent of a used car salesman engaging you in conversation about the state of the Middle East - it's either a genuine attempt to foster a personal bond with a potential customer, or an annoying distraction from the quality of the chasis. You decide.
'Course, he could also just like the sound of his own voice.
