I awoke finding teeth marks on my scrotum.
Top of the morning gents,
You've heard the proverb, "Never speak ill of the dead." Even if we miss them, loved them and have kept these friendships secret, I believe after our loved ones and lusted ones have past, it's okay to wax fondly and reminisce their finest aspects. And delicious body parts and smiles. The fact that these deceased are now pine-boxed turkey stuffing is irrelevant, our coworker's sisters or spouses deserve we proudly rain praise upon them. Outliving everybody in this 907 KPD diaper bin is sufficient encouragement to express our fond memories of holding, caressing and loving these dead souls. Our glowing compliments illuminate them in death and gives those of us still living, serious wood.
Since returning to Alaska I've been dabbling in futile hobbies like mining for the truths in Alaska history that you and I have concealed. Now before we die, we can reveal them. Both good secrets and awful secrets. You coppers only deal in hard facts and are students of the school of thought preferring Walter Cronkite's rational commentary behind First Nations Eskimos' child abuse and keeping it secret. Secrets I won't take part in burying and loudly publish police cases detailing the killing and raping of children. "Just the facts ma'am" (Sgt. Joe Friday-Dragnet).
Here's a seldom spoken idea: all native children should be removed from Alaska's villages for their safety and health. My wife sings great praise for shipping thousands of Eskimo children away to boarding schools. She and all her childhood friends and neighbors were saved from inhuman cruelty and witnessed wonderful growth in her native peers from all over Alaska and from the Indian Reservation System. Systemic rape occurs at home in rural Alaska and a native child's chances for survival improve greatly, once strapped in an airplane seat and wheels up. The "ancient one" absolutely loved boarding schools and felt the strict codes of conduct and behavioral teamwork refreshing, honorable and a gift from God. She believes Indian Boarding Schools saved her life and insists educated white folks can still do some things right. Don't that give ye something to chew on...
As wizened scholars of human behavior you likely understand that a simple, starved and superstitious band of Arctic humans have zero use for dumb Finns that just can't let dead dogs lie, or for that matter policemens' sexy wives. Instead of being angry with illiterate and ignorant human beings, we survived decades by understanding them, breeding with them, camouflaging our own brilliance and addiction to sleeping with our neighboring aborigine spouses unnoticed.
You boys have successfully blended your DNA with illiterate people lacking a written language desperately clinging to a culture and guttural speech that vanished centuries ago. From my anthropology class notes at Chukchi College I read a quote from a Professor McCarthy stating, "All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage." Native American author, M. Scott Momaday lectured that "As two worlds collide, the worst parts of the original culture is retained while the worst parts of the invading culture is absorbed."
The insinuation is that as Alaska Native culture was supplanted by modern world-views, thought processes, science, art and vastly overwhelming technology. Alaska has transitioned from an ancient obsolete complex subsistence epistemology to simpler patterns of behavior, greatly reduced starvation, obesity and much less fitness required for hunting. I'm guessing all the junk food, shitty television, cell phones, personal computers and the World Wide Web has dumbed down and stupefied Alaska's first residents. Another notion is that with the invasion of new-world thought, we've replaced a wicked ancient culture of rape and murder, myth and superstition, ignorance and hatred. Wake up fucks, I could be wrong and the facts may bite me in the ass. I'll show you the marks.
Of course I could be wrong. I dabbled in extraordinarily complicated subsistence fishing, hunting seal, walrus and polar bear. I even partook 15 seasons butchering whale, observing weather and ice flow patterns when my life depended on it and learned which plants and animals to eat. And not fucking die. At best, this farm boy scored below mediocre and would've puked green and expired poisoned blue had not the ancient one (bunnik), grandma Magdeline and her uncles in Barrow kicked my ass at every turn. As smart as I am in a symphony orchestra, electrician's workshop, physics lab or meth lab, if I traveled back in time a mere 2 centuries, I'd be unfit for survival in Arctic Alaska. Outside American and European college campuses, working 907 narc jobs or keeping secrets from cops, you're looking at a retard. And that's the truth.
Winston Churchill was famous for declaring "that if a sovereign wished to locate the truth, he must first determine the very best liar in all the kingdom, surreptitiously reach into his back pocket and snatch it." I just might be Alaska's very best liar. In my personal quest to shake loose hard historical facts blended in aggregate gossip scrabble, laced with deflecting opinions, over-simplified speculation and religious bullshit, I've discovered that Alaska's truths are coated with distasteful detritus and completely unappetizing to the modern ear. Plus, regardless of radio station staffing, nobody gives a shit. Except a bunch of fucking cops.
In our duties of public safety in a million fucking native villages, we've questioned child-rapists and child-killers and it sickened us to find out that most of them have come from typical Alaskan families, finding sexual excitement in infant cruelty, terrorizing toddlers and brutalizing dead children. I remember the uproar when KOTZ 720 AM broadcasted, word for word, child sex crime-scene details faxed from the District Attorney's Office. Apparently retarded natives listening to pubic radio are deeply offended when their own family and community members chew the scrotums of little boys leaving cuts, bruises and teeth marks. And end up indicted and imprisoned for it. Honest Injun. I shit you not.
Fucked up General Manager Suzie Erlich suffering too much blood in her alcohol system, was livid. She publicly lambasted her news crew for such blatant journalistic clarity and swore that she was never gonna miss another hungover Monday, barfing her dentures into the honey-bucket, brown bottle sick and heavy in the diaper. I was listening upstairs at the Arctic Sounder and busted a gut chuckling. When I ventured downstairs, Dean Tongen, Bill Murray and Al Sanders were laughing so hard, falling all over the front office at the radio station, they looked hyperventilated on nitrous oxide. Apparently they drew straws as to who was gonna cover the Crime Beat and Eskimo Foreplay Local News of Interest. Even Pierre Lonewolf found great humor in that news broadcast and coughed up a bull frog of phlegm while laughing and smoking a cigarette. "That's funny. Troopers busted a nad chewer. Shit."
They knew the nate-bitch piss-soaked boss Suzie Erlich was gonna hurl her cooked red demonic eyeballs to bursting, breathe flammable liquor, barf after-burners and were keenly aware of the impending doom she was gonna unleash upon her news crew for their brutal honesty announcing the true crime details surrounding a case of micro-gonad munching and child rape in the NANA Region. As a consolation, I gave each of those boys a bottle of Jim Beam and a handful of decent cigars. No LSD though. This generosity also greased the wheels allowing me to bunk with Al Sanders up at 894-D on Caribou Street.
As you can guess, shortly thereafter Al was looking for a roommate. Dean Tongen ditched Zoo Tagruk Radio and took work at the Red River Reservation Public Radio and Bill Murray took work in D.C. Hence, how me and bun became Al Sander's rotating roomies when I was bouncing back and forth for weekends, holidays and summer breaks at UAF. I was also fleeing back to Kotz, licking my own wounds and teeth marks and recovering from sex trauma and romantic hangovers from having righteous sex with way too many committed and married women. My middle name is Turd. The Finn with dentition scars on his leather pouch.
Exposing abbreviated truths broadcasting straight crime details faxed from the Kotzebue DA's desk only provided hilarious entertainment value and great comedy to the invading cultures. First Alaskans weren't amused. These cruel hard-boiled details of child-abuse makes for morbid screenplays but never finds local audiences. Locals already know and have the scars to prove it. Besides, repeating native child-crime details draws flies no better than a drink of Kobuk sick-butt bath water followed with a chaser of a Nome prostitute's douche bag vinegar. Aside from exposing the private sex lives of dark little monsters, I enjoy the dirty laundry faxed from the DA's desk that a free press and radio are supposed to print and announce. It seems John Erlich's pickled titty momma disagrees with accuracy in her news crews' radio drama, "The Case of the Native Gomer Nad Chewer." Fuck, I'm laughing at that stunt.
Suzie Erlich is such a drunk old hag. Shit, like natives NEVER chew the pubes of brown children or "put their cookoo in grandma's unnuk." Come on, that's Eskimo Dancing at it's finest. Come here little kid, let's take a boat ride to Pedo Heaven (Camp Siv) where I'm gonna bite yer gonads and rape yer ass. It's printed in the Inupiaq Illitquisait and Inupiaq Atigignik. Step one: honor your children and elders, then beat and rape them to death. That gomer defendant was doing more than merely munching mixed nuts. Ouch. Our cop-pals from WAY back will forever cackle evil at that nasty KOTZ broadcast and even to this day, whenever I email Tongen, Murray or Sanders, I open with "Hey pal, this is the Kotzebue District Attorney's Office, ya wanna chew on my gonads?" It's okay. Laugh till yer eyes water.
Secrets can be exposed with fact-based questions and an investigator must be prepared for the grim and awful truth that inevitably lies behind a lying felon's faulty protective cultural barriers and crumbling floors of bullshit. Under duress, an investigator can force a suspect to scream like an mud-fucker opera singer. Only if a KPD investigator is allowed to prompt a suspect with the right questions, rewarded with another round of basic electricity and impact trauma, his answers and reactions will clear dozens of unsolved cases but never win public interest. Now that we're old, we know that Alaska history is cruel and unimportant, unfit and sickening to lay people. "Truly bad playhouse" (Dan Ackroyd).
Another case that upset me was a tale from Pearl Griest. She's employed at the Native Village of Kotzebue and advocates for improving child safety. She was pissed off and ranting how the NANA Region has the highest rates of child and elder rape in the ENTIRE COUNTRY and that most of Anchorage's homeless inebriates are from NW Alaska. She went on stating that her brother Burt Griest was repeatedly raped at the age of 3 and required months of surgery at ANMC and Harborview Medical in Seattle. To this day Pearl expresses her anger and frustration how rape trauma and rape homicides are swept under the rug, saving the defendant rapist and inbred families from shame and incarceration. Fuck that shit. Well, not literally. The evidence indicates screams of a baby and the smell of poop make native men horny.
Now on to much more pleasant material and to contrast rape, with wonderful love-making. To further explain why humans lie and deceive, I've got more information I need to get off my chest. "To live outside the law, you must be honest" (Bob Dylan). I'm deeply troubled and have great difficulty sharing personal secrets and before we die, I have to explain myself. I also feel a little uneasy exposing my addiction to falling in love so easily and so often. Many times I've been warned that a woman I was seducing was married. My response was, "challenge accepted." You see, amidst all this child and elder abuse, I'm attracted to and enjoy sucking the brains outa really pretty married women that find me handsome and I never, ever let another human being make me feel ugly.
Once I start sensing soiled reflections of my handsomeness, resentment, insults or complaints simmering below the surface, I find work in another city, borough, state or country. Look at my resume and you'll see my hard-fallen romance escape routes and my flights from impending break-ups. Except in small town Alaska, I keep mum about my lovers to stay put and stay employed. Regarding my old smokey STD-infested coworkers in Dispatch and their caustic gossip who is fucking who's wife, it is a matter of regret that many low, mean suspicions turn out to be well founded.
"It is better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all" (Shakespeare). Come on, in your mind, make a list of the many girlfriends we've had to jettison or abandon. Some freshly impregnated and burping man-pollen. My list is pretty extensive cuz I can read people's minds and easily detect faltering and dwindling affection or a woman's growing frustration with this dumb Finn's wandering blue eyes. I transition from smitten, to infatuation, rampant delirium sniffing vaginas fragrant, I over-indulge, then my inevitable sex hangover kicks my ass and I've lost another friend. Alas, it is not impossible to become bored in the presence of a mistress.
The permanent scars and burns of lust don't make for solid foundations, life-long companionship nor team building till death do us part. Flings are delicious, satisfying and leave us drained of our sparkling essence and drenched in a gorgeous woman's scented, flavorful perspiration and lusted breath. Flings are also short-term by design and seldom more than a burst of organic discharge and a genetic super nova leaving us smoldering tragic ruins. Some lovers go so far as to kill themselves instead of enduring weeping upon wet pillows, shattering breakups and agonizing heartbreaks. I've considered Romeo's suicide after loosing a delicious babe like Juliet. But no, instead I booked to the airport. Fuck it. "Ain't nothing but a woman" (Robert Cray).
I ride romances like a roller-coaster drug. The acquisition, the preparation, the indulgent consumption and succulent partaking is absolute bliss. I smile and glow as I fall in love with another human female's smile, smell and body. I also get real irritable when we've overindulged and the toxic withdrawal poisons grate on my nerves, my self-esteem and my ears. Rarely, honeymoons last years, decades or entire lifetimes. Most last only weeks and months. Those are my specialty and why the Bethel Yupik chuckle heads in the UAF dorms, seeing my guests' comings and goings, called me, "Ootchuk Boy."
Being non-native, sex with me is a beautiful experience, never dirty. I've had brief love affairs that left me suffering what felt like one of my all-time 10 best hangovers. Just like a booze, blow and smoke hangover, love hangovers can be killers. After a sensational fling or multi-week, multi-night stand, there's nothing worse than getting dumped or the bleak dreadful feelings packing suitcases and catching the next plane or train when your radar detectors pick up the doom and gloom of impending heartbreak. Or lovers stinging our cheeks with just a peck and returning home to their spouse. Or your boss.
Crushed men suffering a cooling flame cannot be cured like a recovering sickness from hard partying by unleashing chemical warfare on a hangover. On a regular hangover we can consume multivitamin packets, coffee, bong hits, alka seltzer or laying in bed all day chewing Codeine pills and whining like a bitch. Often I have wished myself dead, but only while under my blankets, so that neither Death nor God could hear me. The hair of the dog can't cure a broken heart fer shit. A fat packet of good cocaine stirred into a full glass of brandy cures blinded red eyes and a stomped head, but diving back into bed with tomorrow's ex would invariably bring two former lovers to tears.
I can feel a romantic hangover long before the sun rises on break-up day. Like an alcoholic swearing off booze, then relapsing with a vengeance, I get drunk just ordering a drink and toasting it with another beautiful young lady. I'm fucked up on groin warmth, sparkling eyeballs and in-heat the second I start admiring, watching and flirting. If you coppers examine your own shitty behavior around really pretty women, it's no secret that since birth, falling out of a vaginal retard hamper, we've spent the rest of our lives aching to climb back in. Once I've totally relapsed, intoxicated and under the influence from kissing, touching, enthralled in naked embrace, breathing wonderful smells and imbibing atomized rare Earth aromatic feminine perfume droplets, my ass is toast.
At that moment, I'm a candidate for institutional rehabilitation and long-term recovery. Only men appreciate that once our nose and mouth get busy, our brains echo church bells and our breeding tool kits unfold and extend. You boys can feel the exact moment our hydraulics start cycling, our engines warming and firing on all cylinders. Our eyes and ears ring, our brains flood with euphoria and a brand new torrid romance accelerates out of control and rockets us out of our own homes, marriages and over the horizon. Illicit romances can also launch us out of our work spaces too. Wake up fuckers. There are several good protections against the temptations of bedding a married woman, but the surest is cowardice. I must have missed that memo.
Humans are funny creatures. We're constantly seeing our reflection in the eyes of other hominids across the gender divide and once that reflection becomes ugly, we flee. I've asked numerous lovers how on Earth we became entangled and the response was singular, "You make me feel so pretty." When I'm attracted to a woman, I can't stop telling them how beautiful they are. It just flows out my mouth, my hands and quite obvious in my arousal. Whenever human beings enter a room filled with strangers, every person in the room is immediately ranked from most attractive to least attractive. 20 seconds!
Here lies the flaw in my seduction. I tell so many women they're pretty, sexy and desirable that I've heard wedding rings flying out windows and the music ringing in chorus as these expensive wedding adornments bounce down the street, circle the drain spiraling into sewers. Heterosexual women are more promiscuous that hetero men, gay men and lesbian women. I'll bet your wives have had more sex partners than you've had. Knowing that secret allows me to steal married women, then send them back home to their stupid husbands. Gentlemen, start your engines. Eyes inflamed: check. Penis upturned and near-bursting: check. Gonads Up. Rings off. Numerous married women thoroughly enjoy how us men find them gorgeous and fantastically sexy and are enthralled examining and consuming our blinking one-eyed trouser monsters. We are so cool. In mere seconds, we're sleeping with a married or committed woman that's sworn a blood oath of secrecy. I like that about women.
It took me almost 30 years before I learned that women lie. They can deceive any man alive and also stay mum about their affairs for eternity. In the hominid food chain from chimps all the way to us humans, one out of every three children isn't from the father raising that family. When my anthropology professor announced this tidbit of prehistoric and modern human behavior, it seemed earth shattering information. I looked around and saw startled men showing complete shock and dismay. The girls in my class blushed, looked away and wouldn't meet the eyes of any swinging dick. Except mine. I smiled and nodded my guilty head in agreement, then raised my hand contrite. Ya see, I'm the father of that odd child. Oops, I shouldn't have revealed that.
You see, married people tire of flattering their spouses and after a decade of muted affection, I'm always there waiting with kind words, flowers and well, disarming smiles and delicious heavy equipment. As I revealed in previous postings, I'm destined to sleep with married women. The only time I'm not gushing compliments upon a pretty girl, is well, when I'm doing the lip-lock on their love muscle and feverishly cleaning a wedded woman's birth canal like a Hoover Vacuum with a long forked-tongue and one horse-power Roto-Rooter. And no, I've never left evidenciary teeth marks on a gorgeous woman's body for a jealous husband to discover.
Before the turn of the century and near the end of Spring Semester I had an explosive romance with a stunning 22 year old Ukrainian girl named Nadia. Shiny dark hair, bright eyes and absolutely curvy beyond my best game. She was so pretty I knew she was way above my pay grade and I was punching way above my weight class. She lived upstairs from me in the Skarland Hall Dormitory at UAF and was homesick, missing her boyfriend, yet enjoyed my affections, champagne and endless flattery. We were intense lovers for roughly a month and we lit up the whole building.
I immediately felt sick to my stomach when she left me a note under my door informing me that her boyfriend was arriving shortly to fly home with her. She finished her degree program and left Fairbanks only weeks later. Here comes the hard part: 24 years later, she sent me photos of a strangely familiar handsome young man in uniform, looking exactly like my younger brother Tim. Nadia stated he was my son and had been killed last year fighting in the war. I may never come to terms with our lives, human emotions and human beings. Fuck me, despite my overlapping serial monogamy, I'm supposed to be one of the smarter ones.
I fell in love with a tall blond super model named Kristin from Norway. She was much younger than I, studied at UAF for a couple years and was married. Despite her marriage, we couldn't resist flirting nor resist our suicidal dance. We both knew our mutual adoration, flawed attraction, heat exchange and torrid affair was doomed. Regardless, we carried on like the most beautiful humans on planet Earth breeding feverishly to create a super Viking child. We were mating like we'd never see each other again and after her tenure at UAF and graduated her program, she flew back to Norway. Get this, we couldn't bring our self-destructive naked ballad to conclusion and our excitement was pert near Scandinavian pornography whenever we met up on my trips to Europe. Kristin cried tears of joy declaring "our meetings make December, June."
In 2003, at the age of 41, I got married at the Barrow Court House. Kristin emailed me later that year and told me she was freshly divorced, free from her tired spouse and recommended we meet in Helsinki, Finland and get re-acquainted. Dudes, Helsinki is the best place in the world to wine, dine and sparkle naked. Living Barrow sober and monogamous forced me to grow up and the fallout was a killer. I decided I wasn't going to breach my contract nor violate the agreement I signed in the presence of Judge Michael Jeffreys. Ironically, I was forced to tell Kristin I was a married man and couldn't make our rendezvous. I felt like a shitty hypocrite reeking double standard.
We crushed each other discussing the hard realities of our changed lives since our delicious honey-blond entanglements. I've been sick over that poorly timed mismatched, tearful and catastrophic episode ever since. I still dream about her and awake nauseated from that romantic hangover. A heartbreak I've not recovered from, and that's over 20 years ago. Take note you fuckers, being married only once is far easier on you than acting upon every wonderful female fancy and feminine fantasy that wears a short skirt, tosses her hair in the sun and ignites yer heart with the brightest smile on Earth. Then disrobes on your face.
Take note: married women carry flawed self-images and unflattering reflections from years enduring a burnt out husband. I've fallen hard for married women that thrived on my flattery, affections and passion loving them. No husband could ever compete with a younger and hungrier charming man. I've seduced wives so thoroughly that when my girlfriends chat at dinner or bedside discussions with their husbands, my name mistakenly sneaked out. Most husbands overlook or completely miss these unconsciously leaked name droppings, but when a human falls in love with an extra-marital paramour, yer name will be uncontrollably sung. I firmly believe husbands are toast. And blind to newly excited wives.
I fell in love with a married lady a couple years my senior named Paula. She was a French woman enrolled in the exchange student program for the Russian Studies at UAF and quickly fell under my spell. I'm lying. I was under her spell. She was terrifyingly pretty, brilliant smile, wore professional attire in classroom and after we met, she loosened her top buttons eventually wearing tight pullover turtleneck tops and tight form-fitting slacks that couldn't restrain her stunning figure. She was a petite curvy woman with killer legs, ass and hips, yet built like Dolly Parton up top. When she unleashed her buxom figure and smothered me, I was a goner. Large breasted women drown men with their delicious over-sized flotation devices. I licked, slobbered, chewed and fucked everything and was amazed her entire body was all mine. Even decades later, thinking about Paula's abundant round flesh and replaying her naked memories, I just might sneak off and choke out a load. Men are such wonderful pigs. Pigs with dicks.
We wined and dined, spent her husbands entire net worth buying dinners, drinks and clothes for each other, then practiced undressing and voraciously consuming each other. I ain't kidding, I was in way over my head. When my little dorm room became too cramped, we sneaked into the backstage of Schaible Auditorium for labial snacks and broke apart office furniture. We unlocked the computer lab after hours for rampant desk bend-overs and even drove to Central Hot Springs for a swim and wreck the hotel sheets. When all us saints are naked and inflamed, we can do miracles, but none of us can repair a hotel. Paula was truly in love with me, and I her. We even discussed the notion of marrying. As stated before, romantic novels are so icky and gay when compared to our own record-setting passions.
We were catching our breath in bed one night when Paula told me that she had to travel to Russia and complete some coursework at the St. Petersberg State School. I was cool with that, I could monkey my next trips overseas for the International Exchange Program and make a stops there. She was ecstatic. I did my campus visits in Copenhagen, Denmark and Helsinki, Finland, handed out piles of UAF shwag, delivered presentations of my MBA thesis on the Energy Markets in the Nordic Region. With my penis stowed in an extra-large suitcase, I was off to Paula's big boobs and curvy delicious theme park. Besides, there are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's pulse. With yer mouth.
I took the train from Helsinki to St. Petersberg and when crossing the Finland/Russia border at Vainikolai, the security guards gave me the third degree. I'd place 2 bottles of Jack Daniels Whiskey and 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes on the top of my clothing so that when I opened my suitcases for inspection, it's the first thing these underpaid border guards spotted. They grinned and asked me if I had the correct paperwork and duty fees for these items, whereupon I pulled out a couple American 20's. The guard smiled at me, put the money in his pocket, reached down and grabbed ALL the whiskey and cigarettes. He then radioed my complete name, my multi-entry academic visa and passport numbers, then we shook hands and off I went with the contents of my suitcases untouched.
Paula met me at the train station in St. Petersberg, Russia. We spent a few weeks there kissing, wining and dining, loving, drinking champagne and walking all over town. On one of our dinners out, I noticed we were being followed. The followers wore suits and long coats, watching us as we ate our dinner and shadowed us back to her apartment. Shortly after we settled in for the evening, we heard a knock on the door. Paula opened it, chatted with a man in Russian, then turned towards me and told me they wanted to talk to me.
I was arrested for suspicion of espionage. My detainment lasted almost 10 months. Well, actually 9 months, 3 weeks and 2 days. Inmates remember minor details like that. I was transported all over Russia and held in a hunnert jails, finally settling at a prison in Moscow. I was questioned, punched on, questioned again, beat on, then dragged back to my cell. A cell that held other suspected intelligence officers from numerous countries.
We couldn't talk about anything related to work because all the jails were monitored and recorded. We did talk about our lives, our romances and families we've lost contact with. You see, that's the worst part of prison: vigorous interrogation, shitty food and isolation. I missed Paula and also worried that nobody in Alaska missed me. I was right. Nobody missed me. I'd graduated and was done with my studies and anybody that would've missed me assumed I was up to my usual tricks, bringing married women to spastic orgasms and breathless seizures. Which I've detailed in my last two composts.
I really missed Paula. She was upset and crying when I was arrested, but in Russia, you'll never see any visitors in jail. So I resigned to the fact that I was stuck behind bars for a while and adjusted my concerns to the matters at hand. That meant staying alive, not succumbing to my shitty health, lost weight and bruises all over my arms, legs, abdomen, back, face and head. I've been beaten on since birth and was used to it. Some shit never changes.
My cellmates had been in the clink for much longer than I and explained the patterns I should expect. What to eat, what to say under duress, places to travel in your mind to avoid disclosing sensitive information and how to use commonly available tools to defend myself. That usually entailed my brains, wits and limbs. I'd never fought so much and so hard in my life. The guards placed wagers on pre-arranged fights and my cellmates kept eyes and ears open for me. You see, I only spoke English and a smattering of gibberish from Norway, Finland and Spanish from earlier travels. I quickly picked up important bits of Russian when my life and safety depended on it.
My cellmates only understood TV and Radio English from BBC Broadcasts, which meant straight English without a single slang word, nigger jargon, stoner bullshit, drug speak nor village mish-mash-Inupiaq I unleash on you coppers. Here's the saddest aspect of jail, my mates wanted me to tell them my stories of "falling love with beautiful American girls." So during my vacation behind bars, I detailed my romances in high school, band tour, swim teams, Kotzebue, Anchorage, my deafening trysts and dorm-flooding romances at UAF, leading me to Russia.
At night after lock down, I'd roll back the clock and calendar and retell my cell mates about girlfriends in Seattle, Mountlake Terrace and even the ladies that stripped naked and loved me in Kotzebue. These romances include the naked bliss I've concealed from you guys because I'm such a heel and bastard. I told them about sleeping with my coworker's sister and supervisor's wife and went into detail the delightful aspects of being the outside man for hire. Those boys would close their eyes and follow my tales all the way back to Brenda's extra-large breasts, Lorena's fine hips, round ass and feverish affection for me and how she "felt so wonderful and pretty laying in my arms."
Those fellow intelligence officers wanted honest details. So I replayed how Lorena gasped, "Karl, no man has lifted me off the ground and made love to me standing up even while carrying me from the sofa to the bed." Throwing freight alongside Nush and hefting totes of fish alongside the Burnors and Meltons was a ball-buster, picking up Roy Field's sister and carrying her to bed like a cave man was easier than lifting air. Being a professional home-wrecker I never pried into the personal details of the married ladies loving me. Safer that way and I'm still alive today.
Married women in love can't keep quiet. Lorena confided with me that her husband abandoned his first wife and kids but was a good place-holder. Wow, place-holder. Women are honest and brutal. Place-holder hubby married to a really pretty woman who sneaked out to devour my overwhelming girth, charm and brute strength. "My word, you are a lady killer." "Karl, it's been so many years since a man has told me I was pretty. If you're afraid of loneliness, don't marry." Every woman needs both a husband-and a lover. I'm a lousy husband. Get over it.
I told my cellmates that many months later, I got a job at the local PD and training with Edith, Kathy, Diane and Effie I learned that my new boss was Ed Ward. That caused me considerable stress. I'd learned my occasional romantic visitor had the last name of Ward, so I tread lightly, never discussing my romance with a single soul. Fucking the wife of the Chief of Police wouldn't do me any good, likely make me a bullet dump and abbreviate my new career mopping puke in the old jail.
My recurring thought was how odd that couple was. One short fat chain-smoking cop and a tall pretty lithe woman that preferred over-heated affairs with a Finn that got a really big nose etc. For a brief time I thought I was fucking Kathy Ward's mom. I also knew NOT to mention any personal details to them old native gossips, tobacco phlegm garglers and mucous swallows I worked with in Dispatch next to me. Years later I learned which Ward my temptress was married to and this discovery only added immeasurable enjoyment (and depth) loving that woman. I'm such a fuck. Little else.
It wasn't until much later it donned on me that she was Art Field's daughter. I would've given my left nut to sack Helen Bolen and chase Tom out of town ashamed of his tiny cookoo. Helen would've been a highly arousing woman to partake and consume. I wasn't interested in Carolyn, she wasn't pretty, an odd duck, and like her sisters, married really shitty. Besides, I might've caught brain cancer from her husband City Manager Jeff Smith. A man that never had brains to spare. Alas, a tumor the size of a lemon, growing on the end of Mr. Wobbly would've likely gone unnoticed and only improved my personality.
Back to my late night tales I told to my cellmates. I relayed tales of dozens of pretty Eskimo girls brave enough to climb under the blankets with me. In a Russian detention center, I was a live romance announcer and sex-talk radio broadcaster spinning wonderful tales of my hunnert lovers and girlfriends. My cell mates likely sprouted wood when I retold of my naked engagements and cried when I sobbed separations. My comrades subsequently put maximum prison value on my hour's long tales. I'd earned a place in the prison hierarchy and those soldiers put a protective armor around me.
I cried aloud telling these dying prison creatures of my break-ups. I wept in my jail cot as I explained in detail of my crushed love affair with Nadia, my radioactive love affair with Kristin and told of my agony missing Paula who'd not seen me since my arrest in her apartment. My inmate dudes guffawed at my poor KPD job evaluations after my boss realized I'd fucked his wife before and after my hiring, and laughed hysterically at hearing of John Erlich's arrest freeing his wife Brenda for my super-sized organ harvesting, huge breast inflation, vaginal vacuum and pushing over-sized heavy equipment way too deep.
You'll laugh yourselves because I told these poor souls about my uncountable girlfriends that visited, shared way too much blow and booze with me and spent many nights naked with me at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Most had husbands and boyfriends at home and hid in my bedroom for a drug and sex vacation. I must've doubled in size due to painful swelling yet lost my ass giving away so much valuable product.
I got a round of laughter and applause when I told them about Madeline Barger falling asleep in my bed and awaking to me climbing in next to her. She was startled to realize she'd fallen asleep drunk in a strange bed and had zero intention of having a tall Finn climb on top of her and break her hips like wishbones. She grabbed her jacket, slapped me, put on her boots, hat and gloves, slapped me once more and booked out the front door. She returned and knocked on my front door. I knew I was gonna git some but when I opened the door, she slapped me again.
One evening I was drinking 151 rum at David Burnor's, smoking a ton of green bud when Sara nudged me and said it time to go home. I staggered to the door and was blinded by the bright midnight sun blazing Kotzebue hotter than hell. Walking towards Burnor's house was Flo (Florence Luther) in just panties and wife beater muscle shirt. She approached me and said she really needed a piece of ass, just one good fucking from me.
I looked at Sara weighing the possibilities, whereupon Sara gave that Eskimo look of disgusted understanding. She told me she was going home and rudely made tracks towards home, leaving me to fuck Flo standing up in the middle of the open field that would eventually become Pilitauq Center. Paula Burnor and Roberta Brower came out and scolded Flo to get in the house and leave Karl alone.
Whew! I would've never lived that one down. My Eskimo name would've been "tall fucker reams out bent over scary drunk native woman all the way to the Manilaq OB-Gyn clinic fer stitches." Telling my cellmates this story, I didn't skimp on her big boobs, thumb sized nipples, round ass, bare feet and threadbare panties. I omitted the busted rotten teeth that would've left teeth marks all over my scrotum, yet unseen while bent over getting a painful womb stretch. Funny, like most of my delicious lovers from Kotzebue, she's dead now. And in all likelihood, so are all my cellmates and cop-pals.
I told my prison roomies about another weird romance that doesn't seem real, my 2 day sleep-over at Merla (Marilyn) Gallahorn's place. We drank and fucked, drank more, fucked more. I went into detail how I pinned this girl down, put her legs on my shoulders and impaled that poor little thing way too deep and way too fast. I didn't care if I hurt anybody and was pleasantly surprised that my brutal rape brought a compliment, "Adii, you sure make me hungry for sex." Whereupon I forced her into all sorts of impossible animal mating postures and broke all her bones, the glass and furniture in her bedroom. Her jealous sister Linda K. put the kibosh on my brutal raping and told bun. Shucks, I was just getting started. So much penis, such a small human population.
Get this, one of the guards sat outside our door and keenly listened to my tales. He even wept when me and my mates did. He even laughed loudly at my Mr. Potato Head stunt on that biker on I-5 we launched from Lem's. Something about my innumerable romances and break-ups that touch even cruelest jailers speaking rudimentary English. I must be getting better at being honest, despite parts of my love triangles dying. Wrapping up my tales every night I quote phrase from The Jew of Malta. "Thou has committed Fornication: but that was another country. And besides, the wench is dead." Highly educated prison convicts can laugh and cry at the same time. So do cops.
Some prison evenings I went on with far-reaching stories of getting burned taking counterfeit money, lousy cocaine and growing marijuana in house 676 Caribou Street that'd kill any of us starving to death in that foul stinking prison. All the same tales I've written to you coppers, I practiced and polished over a 9-month period, orating these same stories about growing up on a farm, butchering pets, pipe bombs, shooting bikers offa their bikes with potatoes, fighting and killing 3 robber niggers and incinerating their remains to dust and inhaling tonnage of product on narc jobs all over the state of Alaska. Even the work I did with you coppers on the Capones and wrestling drunks at KPD. I knew I was being recorded, and my recitations matched the same testimony I spoke while cuffed and getting my face and head beaten in. After my preliminary softening up, my interrogators would just smoke and listen. For hours, days and months. I must have bored them to death and hastened my exchange.
Some nights I'd stop talking for a minute and could only hear snores from all my comrades. You see, like my nightmares and erotic dreams I have today, I was painting these same tales upon canvas in the minds of my cell mates, with paints that smell like gunpowder and pussy. I've a suspicion I do the same thing with you coppers. My candid and honest recitations of my stupid, humorous adventures likely ring loudly through your minds for days after reading them. There are an awful lot of drunken wife charmers and home wreckers about these days and it wouldn't really surprise me if I turned out to be one myself. Take heart, you boys will all wake up in your own bed, in your own homes tomorrow, not sleeping in jail and fuming a filthy stink. Being so old, blind and toothless, your wives won't leave teeth marks on your scrotum.
After my release and hospitalization, I finally got back home to Fairbanks. Paula abandoned me in Russia, left her husband and married a man on the East Coast and was surprised I survived to email her almost a year later. She was gentle when she told me that we were over, broken up and she was happily married.
Upon hearing her news of remarrying, I scolded myself for mentally orchestrating another affair with her, behind her next husband's back. I painfully missed her curvy hips and ass. I also missed horribly, her over-sized melons from Dolly World. Memories of fine delicious women never give us respite. I'm missing those overstuffed mammalian pillows and romantic souvenir bite marks right now.
Let's stop lying to ourselves, all the women we truly fell for will echo through our minds for years to come. I replay these recorded memories almost daily and especially, nightly.
To quote Diane Henry, "you haven't lived until a native woman takes her teeth out for you." One problem, I've never fucked a toothless native woman before. Besides, I'm kind of partial to perfect straight teeth marks on my ball bag.
Humans want to feel pretty and desired. All married women love to be charmed and seduced. Zero native children actually want to be fucked.
Am I missing something?
Karl.
You've heard the proverb, "Never speak ill of the dead." Even if we miss them, loved them and have kept these friendships secret, I believe after our loved ones and lusted ones have past, it's okay to wax fondly and reminisce their finest aspects. And delicious body parts and smiles. The fact that these deceased are now pine-boxed turkey stuffing is irrelevant, our coworker's sisters or spouses deserve we proudly rain praise upon them. Outliving everybody in this 907 KPD diaper bin is sufficient encouragement to express our fond memories of holding, caressing and loving these dead souls. Our glowing compliments illuminate them in death and gives those of us still living, serious wood.
Since returning to Alaska I've been dabbling in futile hobbies like mining for the truths in Alaska history that you and I have concealed. Now before we die, we can reveal them. Both good secrets and awful secrets. You coppers only deal in hard facts and are students of the school of thought preferring Walter Cronkite's rational commentary behind First Nations Eskimos' child abuse and keeping it secret. Secrets I won't take part in burying and loudly publish police cases detailing the killing and raping of children. "Just the facts ma'am" (Sgt. Joe Friday-Dragnet).
Here's a seldom spoken idea: all native children should be removed from Alaska's villages for their safety and health. My wife sings great praise for shipping thousands of Eskimo children away to boarding schools. She and all her childhood friends and neighbors were saved from inhuman cruelty and witnessed wonderful growth in her native peers from all over Alaska and from the Indian Reservation System. Systemic rape occurs at home in rural Alaska and a native child's chances for survival improve greatly, once strapped in an airplane seat and wheels up. The "ancient one" absolutely loved boarding schools and felt the strict codes of conduct and behavioral teamwork refreshing, honorable and a gift from God. She believes Indian Boarding Schools saved her life and insists educated white folks can still do some things right. Don't that give ye something to chew on...
As wizened scholars of human behavior you likely understand that a simple, starved and superstitious band of Arctic humans have zero use for dumb Finns that just can't let dead dogs lie, or for that matter policemens' sexy wives. Instead of being angry with illiterate and ignorant human beings, we survived decades by understanding them, breeding with them, camouflaging our own brilliance and addiction to sleeping with our neighboring aborigine spouses unnoticed.
You boys have successfully blended your DNA with illiterate people lacking a written language desperately clinging to a culture and guttural speech that vanished centuries ago. From my anthropology class notes at Chukchi College I read a quote from a Professor McCarthy stating, "All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage." Native American author, M. Scott Momaday lectured that "As two worlds collide, the worst parts of the original culture is retained while the worst parts of the invading culture is absorbed."
The insinuation is that as Alaska Native culture was supplanted by modern world-views, thought processes, science, art and vastly overwhelming technology. Alaska has transitioned from an ancient obsolete complex subsistence epistemology to simpler patterns of behavior, greatly reduced starvation, obesity and much less fitness required for hunting. I'm guessing all the junk food, shitty television, cell phones, personal computers and the World Wide Web has dumbed down and stupefied Alaska's first residents. Another notion is that with the invasion of new-world thought, we've replaced a wicked ancient culture of rape and murder, myth and superstition, ignorance and hatred. Wake up fucks, I could be wrong and the facts may bite me in the ass. I'll show you the marks.
Of course I could be wrong. I dabbled in extraordinarily complicated subsistence fishing, hunting seal, walrus and polar bear. I even partook 15 seasons butchering whale, observing weather and ice flow patterns when my life depended on it and learned which plants and animals to eat. And not fucking die. At best, this farm boy scored below mediocre and would've puked green and expired poisoned blue had not the ancient one (bunnik), grandma Magdeline and her uncles in Barrow kicked my ass at every turn. As smart as I am in a symphony orchestra, electrician's workshop, physics lab or meth lab, if I traveled back in time a mere 2 centuries, I'd be unfit for survival in Arctic Alaska. Outside American and European college campuses, working 907 narc jobs or keeping secrets from cops, you're looking at a retard. And that's the truth.
Winston Churchill was famous for declaring "that if a sovereign wished to locate the truth, he must first determine the very best liar in all the kingdom, surreptitiously reach into his back pocket and snatch it." I just might be Alaska's very best liar. In my personal quest to shake loose hard historical facts blended in aggregate gossip scrabble, laced with deflecting opinions, over-simplified speculation and religious bullshit, I've discovered that Alaska's truths are coated with distasteful detritus and completely unappetizing to the modern ear. Plus, regardless of radio station staffing, nobody gives a shit. Except a bunch of fucking cops.
In our duties of public safety in a million fucking native villages, we've questioned child-rapists and child-killers and it sickened us to find out that most of them have come from typical Alaskan families, finding sexual excitement in infant cruelty, terrorizing toddlers and brutalizing dead children. I remember the uproar when KOTZ 720 AM broadcasted, word for word, child sex crime-scene details faxed from the District Attorney's Office. Apparently retarded natives listening to pubic radio are deeply offended when their own family and community members chew the scrotums of little boys leaving cuts, bruises and teeth marks. And end up indicted and imprisoned for it. Honest Injun. I shit you not.
Fucked up General Manager Suzie Erlich suffering too much blood in her alcohol system, was livid. She publicly lambasted her news crew for such blatant journalistic clarity and swore that she was never gonna miss another hungover Monday, barfing her dentures into the honey-bucket, brown bottle sick and heavy in the diaper. I was listening upstairs at the Arctic Sounder and busted a gut chuckling. When I ventured downstairs, Dean Tongen, Bill Murray and Al Sanders were laughing so hard, falling all over the front office at the radio station, they looked hyperventilated on nitrous oxide. Apparently they drew straws as to who was gonna cover the Crime Beat and Eskimo Foreplay Local News of Interest. Even Pierre Lonewolf found great humor in that news broadcast and coughed up a bull frog of phlegm while laughing and smoking a cigarette. "That's funny. Troopers busted a nad chewer. Shit."
They knew the nate-bitch piss-soaked boss Suzie Erlich was gonna hurl her cooked red demonic eyeballs to bursting, breathe flammable liquor, barf after-burners and were keenly aware of the impending doom she was gonna unleash upon her news crew for their brutal honesty announcing the true crime details surrounding a case of micro-gonad munching and child rape in the NANA Region. As a consolation, I gave each of those boys a bottle of Jim Beam and a handful of decent cigars. No LSD though. This generosity also greased the wheels allowing me to bunk with Al Sanders up at 894-D on Caribou Street.
As you can guess, shortly thereafter Al was looking for a roommate. Dean Tongen ditched Zoo Tagruk Radio and took work at the Red River Reservation Public Radio and Bill Murray took work in D.C. Hence, how me and bun became Al Sander's rotating roomies when I was bouncing back and forth for weekends, holidays and summer breaks at UAF. I was also fleeing back to Kotz, licking my own wounds and teeth marks and recovering from sex trauma and romantic hangovers from having righteous sex with way too many committed and married women. My middle name is Turd. The Finn with dentition scars on his leather pouch.
Exposing abbreviated truths broadcasting straight crime details faxed from the Kotzebue DA's desk only provided hilarious entertainment value and great comedy to the invading cultures. First Alaskans weren't amused. These cruel hard-boiled details of child-abuse makes for morbid screenplays but never finds local audiences. Locals already know and have the scars to prove it. Besides, repeating native child-crime details draws flies no better than a drink of Kobuk sick-butt bath water followed with a chaser of a Nome prostitute's douche bag vinegar. Aside from exposing the private sex lives of dark little monsters, I enjoy the dirty laundry faxed from the DA's desk that a free press and radio are supposed to print and announce. It seems John Erlich's pickled titty momma disagrees with accuracy in her news crews' radio drama, "The Case of the Native Gomer Nad Chewer." Fuck, I'm laughing at that stunt.
Suzie Erlich is such a drunk old hag. Shit, like natives NEVER chew the pubes of brown children or "put their cookoo in grandma's unnuk." Come on, that's Eskimo Dancing at it's finest. Come here little kid, let's take a boat ride to Pedo Heaven (Camp Siv) where I'm gonna bite yer gonads and rape yer ass. It's printed in the Inupiaq Illitquisait and Inupiaq Atigignik. Step one: honor your children and elders, then beat and rape them to death. That gomer defendant was doing more than merely munching mixed nuts. Ouch. Our cop-pals from WAY back will forever cackle evil at that nasty KOTZ broadcast and even to this day, whenever I email Tongen, Murray or Sanders, I open with "Hey pal, this is the Kotzebue District Attorney's Office, ya wanna chew on my gonads?" It's okay. Laugh till yer eyes water.
Secrets can be exposed with fact-based questions and an investigator must be prepared for the grim and awful truth that inevitably lies behind a lying felon's faulty protective cultural barriers and crumbling floors of bullshit. Under duress, an investigator can force a suspect to scream like an mud-fucker opera singer. Only if a KPD investigator is allowed to prompt a suspect with the right questions, rewarded with another round of basic electricity and impact trauma, his answers and reactions will clear dozens of unsolved cases but never win public interest. Now that we're old, we know that Alaska history is cruel and unimportant, unfit and sickening to lay people. "Truly bad playhouse" (Dan Ackroyd).
Another case that upset me was a tale from Pearl Griest. She's employed at the Native Village of Kotzebue and advocates for improving child safety. She was pissed off and ranting how the NANA Region has the highest rates of child and elder rape in the ENTIRE COUNTRY and that most of Anchorage's homeless inebriates are from NW Alaska. She went on stating that her brother Burt Griest was repeatedly raped at the age of 3 and required months of surgery at ANMC and Harborview Medical in Seattle. To this day Pearl expresses her anger and frustration how rape trauma and rape homicides are swept under the rug, saving the defendant rapist and inbred families from shame and incarceration. Fuck that shit. Well, not literally. The evidence indicates screams of a baby and the smell of poop make native men horny.
Now on to much more pleasant material and to contrast rape, with wonderful love-making. To further explain why humans lie and deceive, I've got more information I need to get off my chest. "To live outside the law, you must be honest" (Bob Dylan). I'm deeply troubled and have great difficulty sharing personal secrets and before we die, I have to explain myself. I also feel a little uneasy exposing my addiction to falling in love so easily and so often. Many times I've been warned that a woman I was seducing was married. My response was, "challenge accepted." You see, amidst all this child and elder abuse, I'm attracted to and enjoy sucking the brains outa really pretty married women that find me handsome and I never, ever let another human being make me feel ugly.
Once I start sensing soiled reflections of my handsomeness, resentment, insults or complaints simmering below the surface, I find work in another city, borough, state or country. Look at my resume and you'll see my hard-fallen romance escape routes and my flights from impending break-ups. Except in small town Alaska, I keep mum about my lovers to stay put and stay employed. Regarding my old smokey STD-infested coworkers in Dispatch and their caustic gossip who is fucking who's wife, it is a matter of regret that many low, mean suspicions turn out to be well founded.
"It is better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all" (Shakespeare). Come on, in your mind, make a list of the many girlfriends we've had to jettison or abandon. Some freshly impregnated and burping man-pollen. My list is pretty extensive cuz I can read people's minds and easily detect faltering and dwindling affection or a woman's growing frustration with this dumb Finn's wandering blue eyes. I transition from smitten, to infatuation, rampant delirium sniffing vaginas fragrant, I over-indulge, then my inevitable sex hangover kicks my ass and I've lost another friend. Alas, it is not impossible to become bored in the presence of a mistress.
The permanent scars and burns of lust don't make for solid foundations, life-long companionship nor team building till death do us part. Flings are delicious, satisfying and leave us drained of our sparkling essence and drenched in a gorgeous woman's scented, flavorful perspiration and lusted breath. Flings are also short-term by design and seldom more than a burst of organic discharge and a genetic super nova leaving us smoldering tragic ruins. Some lovers go so far as to kill themselves instead of enduring weeping upon wet pillows, shattering breakups and agonizing heartbreaks. I've considered Romeo's suicide after loosing a delicious babe like Juliet. But no, instead I booked to the airport. Fuck it. "Ain't nothing but a woman" (Robert Cray).
I ride romances like a roller-coaster drug. The acquisition, the preparation, the indulgent consumption and succulent partaking is absolute bliss. I smile and glow as I fall in love with another human female's smile, smell and body. I also get real irritable when we've overindulged and the toxic withdrawal poisons grate on my nerves, my self-esteem and my ears. Rarely, honeymoons last years, decades or entire lifetimes. Most last only weeks and months. Those are my specialty and why the Bethel Yupik chuckle heads in the UAF dorms, seeing my guests' comings and goings, called me, "Ootchuk Boy."
Being non-native, sex with me is a beautiful experience, never dirty. I've had brief love affairs that left me suffering what felt like one of my all-time 10 best hangovers. Just like a booze, blow and smoke hangover, love hangovers can be killers. After a sensational fling or multi-week, multi-night stand, there's nothing worse than getting dumped or the bleak dreadful feelings packing suitcases and catching the next plane or train when your radar detectors pick up the doom and gloom of impending heartbreak. Or lovers stinging our cheeks with just a peck and returning home to their spouse. Or your boss.
Crushed men suffering a cooling flame cannot be cured like a recovering sickness from hard partying by unleashing chemical warfare on a hangover. On a regular hangover we can consume multivitamin packets, coffee, bong hits, alka seltzer or laying in bed all day chewing Codeine pills and whining like a bitch. Often I have wished myself dead, but only while under my blankets, so that neither Death nor God could hear me. The hair of the dog can't cure a broken heart fer shit. A fat packet of good cocaine stirred into a full glass of brandy cures blinded red eyes and a stomped head, but diving back into bed with tomorrow's ex would invariably bring two former lovers to tears.
I can feel a romantic hangover long before the sun rises on break-up day. Like an alcoholic swearing off booze, then relapsing with a vengeance, I get drunk just ordering a drink and toasting it with another beautiful young lady. I'm fucked up on groin warmth, sparkling eyeballs and in-heat the second I start admiring, watching and flirting. If you coppers examine your own shitty behavior around really pretty women, it's no secret that since birth, falling out of a vaginal retard hamper, we've spent the rest of our lives aching to climb back in. Once I've totally relapsed, intoxicated and under the influence from kissing, touching, enthralled in naked embrace, breathing wonderful smells and imbibing atomized rare Earth aromatic feminine perfume droplets, my ass is toast.
At that moment, I'm a candidate for institutional rehabilitation and long-term recovery. Only men appreciate that once our nose and mouth get busy, our brains echo church bells and our breeding tool kits unfold and extend. You boys can feel the exact moment our hydraulics start cycling, our engines warming and firing on all cylinders. Our eyes and ears ring, our brains flood with euphoria and a brand new torrid romance accelerates out of control and rockets us out of our own homes, marriages and over the horizon. Illicit romances can also launch us out of our work spaces too. Wake up fuckers. There are several good protections against the temptations of bedding a married woman, but the surest is cowardice. I must have missed that memo.
Humans are funny creatures. We're constantly seeing our reflection in the eyes of other hominids across the gender divide and once that reflection becomes ugly, we flee. I've asked numerous lovers how on Earth we became entangled and the response was singular, "You make me feel so pretty." When I'm attracted to a woman, I can't stop telling them how beautiful they are. It just flows out my mouth, my hands and quite obvious in my arousal. Whenever human beings enter a room filled with strangers, every person in the room is immediately ranked from most attractive to least attractive. 20 seconds!
Here lies the flaw in my seduction. I tell so many women they're pretty, sexy and desirable that I've heard wedding rings flying out windows and the music ringing in chorus as these expensive wedding adornments bounce down the street, circle the drain spiraling into sewers. Heterosexual women are more promiscuous that hetero men, gay men and lesbian women. I'll bet your wives have had more sex partners than you've had. Knowing that secret allows me to steal married women, then send them back home to their stupid husbands. Gentlemen, start your engines. Eyes inflamed: check. Penis upturned and near-bursting: check. Gonads Up. Rings off. Numerous married women thoroughly enjoy how us men find them gorgeous and fantastically sexy and are enthralled examining and consuming our blinking one-eyed trouser monsters. We are so cool. In mere seconds, we're sleeping with a married or committed woman that's sworn a blood oath of secrecy. I like that about women.
It took me almost 30 years before I learned that women lie. They can deceive any man alive and also stay mum about their affairs for eternity. In the hominid food chain from chimps all the way to us humans, one out of every three children isn't from the father raising that family. When my anthropology professor announced this tidbit of prehistoric and modern human behavior, it seemed earth shattering information. I looked around and saw startled men showing complete shock and dismay. The girls in my class blushed, looked away and wouldn't meet the eyes of any swinging dick. Except mine. I smiled and nodded my guilty head in agreement, then raised my hand contrite. Ya see, I'm the father of that odd child. Oops, I shouldn't have revealed that.
You see, married people tire of flattering their spouses and after a decade of muted affection, I'm always there waiting with kind words, flowers and well, disarming smiles and delicious heavy equipment. As I revealed in previous postings, I'm destined to sleep with married women. The only time I'm not gushing compliments upon a pretty girl, is well, when I'm doing the lip-lock on their love muscle and feverishly cleaning a wedded woman's birth canal like a Hoover Vacuum with a long forked-tongue and one horse-power Roto-Rooter. And no, I've never left evidenciary teeth marks on a gorgeous woman's body for a jealous husband to discover.
Before the turn of the century and near the end of Spring Semester I had an explosive romance with a stunning 22 year old Ukrainian girl named Nadia. Shiny dark hair, bright eyes and absolutely curvy beyond my best game. She was so pretty I knew she was way above my pay grade and I was punching way above my weight class. She lived upstairs from me in the Skarland Hall Dormitory at UAF and was homesick, missing her boyfriend, yet enjoyed my affections, champagne and endless flattery. We were intense lovers for roughly a month and we lit up the whole building.
I immediately felt sick to my stomach when she left me a note under my door informing me that her boyfriend was arriving shortly to fly home with her. She finished her degree program and left Fairbanks only weeks later. Here comes the hard part: 24 years later, she sent me photos of a strangely familiar handsome young man in uniform, looking exactly like my younger brother Tim. Nadia stated he was my son and had been killed last year fighting in the war. I may never come to terms with our lives, human emotions and human beings. Fuck me, despite my overlapping serial monogamy, I'm supposed to be one of the smarter ones.
I fell in love with a tall blond super model named Kristin from Norway. She was much younger than I, studied at UAF for a couple years and was married. Despite her marriage, we couldn't resist flirting nor resist our suicidal dance. We both knew our mutual adoration, flawed attraction, heat exchange and torrid affair was doomed. Regardless, we carried on like the most beautiful humans on planet Earth breeding feverishly to create a super Viking child. We were mating like we'd never see each other again and after her tenure at UAF and graduated her program, she flew back to Norway. Get this, we couldn't bring our self-destructive naked ballad to conclusion and our excitement was pert near Scandinavian pornography whenever we met up on my trips to Europe. Kristin cried tears of joy declaring "our meetings make December, June."
In 2003, at the age of 41, I got married at the Barrow Court House. Kristin emailed me later that year and told me she was freshly divorced, free from her tired spouse and recommended we meet in Helsinki, Finland and get re-acquainted. Dudes, Helsinki is the best place in the world to wine, dine and sparkle naked. Living Barrow sober and monogamous forced me to grow up and the fallout was a killer. I decided I wasn't going to breach my contract nor violate the agreement I signed in the presence of Judge Michael Jeffreys. Ironically, I was forced to tell Kristin I was a married man and couldn't make our rendezvous. I felt like a shitty hypocrite reeking double standard.
We crushed each other discussing the hard realities of our changed lives since our delicious honey-blond entanglements. I've been sick over that poorly timed mismatched, tearful and catastrophic episode ever since. I still dream about her and awake nauseated from that romantic hangover. A heartbreak I've not recovered from, and that's over 20 years ago. Take note you fuckers, being married only once is far easier on you than acting upon every wonderful female fancy and feminine fantasy that wears a short skirt, tosses her hair in the sun and ignites yer heart with the brightest smile on Earth. Then disrobes on your face.
Take note: married women carry flawed self-images and unflattering reflections from years enduring a burnt out husband. I've fallen hard for married women that thrived on my flattery, affections and passion loving them. No husband could ever compete with a younger and hungrier charming man. I've seduced wives so thoroughly that when my girlfriends chat at dinner or bedside discussions with their husbands, my name mistakenly sneaked out. Most husbands overlook or completely miss these unconsciously leaked name droppings, but when a human falls in love with an extra-marital paramour, yer name will be uncontrollably sung. I firmly believe husbands are toast. And blind to newly excited wives.
I fell in love with a married lady a couple years my senior named Paula. She was a French woman enrolled in the exchange student program for the Russian Studies at UAF and quickly fell under my spell. I'm lying. I was under her spell. She was terrifyingly pretty, brilliant smile, wore professional attire in classroom and after we met, she loosened her top buttons eventually wearing tight pullover turtleneck tops and tight form-fitting slacks that couldn't restrain her stunning figure. She was a petite curvy woman with killer legs, ass and hips, yet built like Dolly Parton up top. When she unleashed her buxom figure and smothered me, I was a goner. Large breasted women drown men with their delicious over-sized flotation devices. I licked, slobbered, chewed and fucked everything and was amazed her entire body was all mine. Even decades later, thinking about Paula's abundant round flesh and replaying her naked memories, I just might sneak off and choke out a load. Men are such wonderful pigs. Pigs with dicks.
We wined and dined, spent her husbands entire net worth buying dinners, drinks and clothes for each other, then practiced undressing and voraciously consuming each other. I ain't kidding, I was in way over my head. When my little dorm room became too cramped, we sneaked into the backstage of Schaible Auditorium for labial snacks and broke apart office furniture. We unlocked the computer lab after hours for rampant desk bend-overs and even drove to Central Hot Springs for a swim and wreck the hotel sheets. When all us saints are naked and inflamed, we can do miracles, but none of us can repair a hotel. Paula was truly in love with me, and I her. We even discussed the notion of marrying. As stated before, romantic novels are so icky and gay when compared to our own record-setting passions.
We were catching our breath in bed one night when Paula told me that she had to travel to Russia and complete some coursework at the St. Petersberg State School. I was cool with that, I could monkey my next trips overseas for the International Exchange Program and make a stops there. She was ecstatic. I did my campus visits in Copenhagen, Denmark and Helsinki, Finland, handed out piles of UAF shwag, delivered presentations of my MBA thesis on the Energy Markets in the Nordic Region. With my penis stowed in an extra-large suitcase, I was off to Paula's big boobs and curvy delicious theme park. Besides, there are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's pulse. With yer mouth.
I took the train from Helsinki to St. Petersberg and when crossing the Finland/Russia border at Vainikolai, the security guards gave me the third degree. I'd place 2 bottles of Jack Daniels Whiskey and 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes on the top of my clothing so that when I opened my suitcases for inspection, it's the first thing these underpaid border guards spotted. They grinned and asked me if I had the correct paperwork and duty fees for these items, whereupon I pulled out a couple American 20's. The guard smiled at me, put the money in his pocket, reached down and grabbed ALL the whiskey and cigarettes. He then radioed my complete name, my multi-entry academic visa and passport numbers, then we shook hands and off I went with the contents of my suitcases untouched.
Paula met me at the train station in St. Petersberg, Russia. We spent a few weeks there kissing, wining and dining, loving, drinking champagne and walking all over town. On one of our dinners out, I noticed we were being followed. The followers wore suits and long coats, watching us as we ate our dinner and shadowed us back to her apartment. Shortly after we settled in for the evening, we heard a knock on the door. Paula opened it, chatted with a man in Russian, then turned towards me and told me they wanted to talk to me.
I was arrested for suspicion of espionage. My detainment lasted almost 10 months. Well, actually 9 months, 3 weeks and 2 days. Inmates remember minor details like that. I was transported all over Russia and held in a hunnert jails, finally settling at a prison in Moscow. I was questioned, punched on, questioned again, beat on, then dragged back to my cell. A cell that held other suspected intelligence officers from numerous countries.
We couldn't talk about anything related to work because all the jails were monitored and recorded. We did talk about our lives, our romances and families we've lost contact with. You see, that's the worst part of prison: vigorous interrogation, shitty food and isolation. I missed Paula and also worried that nobody in Alaska missed me. I was right. Nobody missed me. I'd graduated and was done with my studies and anybody that would've missed me assumed I was up to my usual tricks, bringing married women to spastic orgasms and breathless seizures. Which I've detailed in my last two composts.
I really missed Paula. She was upset and crying when I was arrested, but in Russia, you'll never see any visitors in jail. So I resigned to the fact that I was stuck behind bars for a while and adjusted my concerns to the matters at hand. That meant staying alive, not succumbing to my shitty health, lost weight and bruises all over my arms, legs, abdomen, back, face and head. I've been beaten on since birth and was used to it. Some shit never changes.
My cellmates had been in the clink for much longer than I and explained the patterns I should expect. What to eat, what to say under duress, places to travel in your mind to avoid disclosing sensitive information and how to use commonly available tools to defend myself. That usually entailed my brains, wits and limbs. I'd never fought so much and so hard in my life. The guards placed wagers on pre-arranged fights and my cellmates kept eyes and ears open for me. You see, I only spoke English and a smattering of gibberish from Norway, Finland and Spanish from earlier travels. I quickly picked up important bits of Russian when my life and safety depended on it.
My cellmates only understood TV and Radio English from BBC Broadcasts, which meant straight English without a single slang word, nigger jargon, stoner bullshit, drug speak nor village mish-mash-Inupiaq I unleash on you coppers. Here's the saddest aspect of jail, my mates wanted me to tell them my stories of "falling love with beautiful American girls." So during my vacation behind bars, I detailed my romances in high school, band tour, swim teams, Kotzebue, Anchorage, my deafening trysts and dorm-flooding romances at UAF, leading me to Russia.
At night after lock down, I'd roll back the clock and calendar and retell my cell mates about girlfriends in Seattle, Mountlake Terrace and even the ladies that stripped naked and loved me in Kotzebue. These romances include the naked bliss I've concealed from you guys because I'm such a heel and bastard. I told them about sleeping with my coworker's sister and supervisor's wife and went into detail the delightful aspects of being the outside man for hire. Those boys would close their eyes and follow my tales all the way back to Brenda's extra-large breasts, Lorena's fine hips, round ass and feverish affection for me and how she "felt so wonderful and pretty laying in my arms."
Those fellow intelligence officers wanted honest details. So I replayed how Lorena gasped, "Karl, no man has lifted me off the ground and made love to me standing up even while carrying me from the sofa to the bed." Throwing freight alongside Nush and hefting totes of fish alongside the Burnors and Meltons was a ball-buster, picking up Roy Field's sister and carrying her to bed like a cave man was easier than lifting air. Being a professional home-wrecker I never pried into the personal details of the married ladies loving me. Safer that way and I'm still alive today.
Married women in love can't keep quiet. Lorena confided with me that her husband abandoned his first wife and kids but was a good place-holder. Wow, place-holder. Women are honest and brutal. Place-holder hubby married to a really pretty woman who sneaked out to devour my overwhelming girth, charm and brute strength. "My word, you are a lady killer." "Karl, it's been so many years since a man has told me I was pretty. If you're afraid of loneliness, don't marry." Every woman needs both a husband-and a lover. I'm a lousy husband. Get over it.
I told my cellmates that many months later, I got a job at the local PD and training with Edith, Kathy, Diane and Effie I learned that my new boss was Ed Ward. That caused me considerable stress. I'd learned my occasional romantic visitor had the last name of Ward, so I tread lightly, never discussing my romance with a single soul. Fucking the wife of the Chief of Police wouldn't do me any good, likely make me a bullet dump and abbreviate my new career mopping puke in the old jail.
My recurring thought was how odd that couple was. One short fat chain-smoking cop and a tall pretty lithe woman that preferred over-heated affairs with a Finn that got a really big nose etc. For a brief time I thought I was fucking Kathy Ward's mom. I also knew NOT to mention any personal details to them old native gossips, tobacco phlegm garglers and mucous swallows I worked with in Dispatch next to me. Years later I learned which Ward my temptress was married to and this discovery only added immeasurable enjoyment (and depth) loving that woman. I'm such a fuck. Little else.
It wasn't until much later it donned on me that she was Art Field's daughter. I would've given my left nut to sack Helen Bolen and chase Tom out of town ashamed of his tiny cookoo. Helen would've been a highly arousing woman to partake and consume. I wasn't interested in Carolyn, she wasn't pretty, an odd duck, and like her sisters, married really shitty. Besides, I might've caught brain cancer from her husband City Manager Jeff Smith. A man that never had brains to spare. Alas, a tumor the size of a lemon, growing on the end of Mr. Wobbly would've likely gone unnoticed and only improved my personality.
Back to my late night tales I told to my cellmates. I relayed tales of dozens of pretty Eskimo girls brave enough to climb under the blankets with me. In a Russian detention center, I was a live romance announcer and sex-talk radio broadcaster spinning wonderful tales of my hunnert lovers and girlfriends. My cell mates likely sprouted wood when I retold of my naked engagements and cried when I sobbed separations. My comrades subsequently put maximum prison value on my hour's long tales. I'd earned a place in the prison hierarchy and those soldiers put a protective armor around me.
I cried aloud telling these dying prison creatures of my break-ups. I wept in my jail cot as I explained in detail of my crushed love affair with Nadia, my radioactive love affair with Kristin and told of my agony missing Paula who'd not seen me since my arrest in her apartment. My inmate dudes guffawed at my poor KPD job evaluations after my boss realized I'd fucked his wife before and after my hiring, and laughed hysterically at hearing of John Erlich's arrest freeing his wife Brenda for my super-sized organ harvesting, huge breast inflation, vaginal vacuum and pushing over-sized heavy equipment way too deep.
You'll laugh yourselves because I told these poor souls about my uncountable girlfriends that visited, shared way too much blow and booze with me and spent many nights naked with me at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Most had husbands and boyfriends at home and hid in my bedroom for a drug and sex vacation. I must've doubled in size due to painful swelling yet lost my ass giving away so much valuable product.
I got a round of laughter and applause when I told them about Madeline Barger falling asleep in my bed and awaking to me climbing in next to her. She was startled to realize she'd fallen asleep drunk in a strange bed and had zero intention of having a tall Finn climb on top of her and break her hips like wishbones. She grabbed her jacket, slapped me, put on her boots, hat and gloves, slapped me once more and booked out the front door. She returned and knocked on my front door. I knew I was gonna git some but when I opened the door, she slapped me again.
One evening I was drinking 151 rum at David Burnor's, smoking a ton of green bud when Sara nudged me and said it time to go home. I staggered to the door and was blinded by the bright midnight sun blazing Kotzebue hotter than hell. Walking towards Burnor's house was Flo (Florence Luther) in just panties and wife beater muscle shirt. She approached me and said she really needed a piece of ass, just one good fucking from me.
I looked at Sara weighing the possibilities, whereupon Sara gave that Eskimo look of disgusted understanding. She told me she was going home and rudely made tracks towards home, leaving me to fuck Flo standing up in the middle of the open field that would eventually become Pilitauq Center. Paula Burnor and Roberta Brower came out and scolded Flo to get in the house and leave Karl alone.
Whew! I would've never lived that one down. My Eskimo name would've been "tall fucker reams out bent over scary drunk native woman all the way to the Manilaq OB-Gyn clinic fer stitches." Telling my cellmates this story, I didn't skimp on her big boobs, thumb sized nipples, round ass, bare feet and threadbare panties. I omitted the busted rotten teeth that would've left teeth marks all over my scrotum, yet unseen while bent over getting a painful womb stretch. Funny, like most of my delicious lovers from Kotzebue, she's dead now. And in all likelihood, so are all my cellmates and cop-pals.
I told my prison roomies about another weird romance that doesn't seem real, my 2 day sleep-over at Merla (Marilyn) Gallahorn's place. We drank and fucked, drank more, fucked more. I went into detail how I pinned this girl down, put her legs on my shoulders and impaled that poor little thing way too deep and way too fast. I didn't care if I hurt anybody and was pleasantly surprised that my brutal rape brought a compliment, "Adii, you sure make me hungry for sex." Whereupon I forced her into all sorts of impossible animal mating postures and broke all her bones, the glass and furniture in her bedroom. Her jealous sister Linda K. put the kibosh on my brutal raping and told bun. Shucks, I was just getting started. So much penis, such a small human population.
Get this, one of the guards sat outside our door and keenly listened to my tales. He even wept when me and my mates did. He even laughed loudly at my Mr. Potato Head stunt on that biker on I-5 we launched from Lem's. Something about my innumerable romances and break-ups that touch even cruelest jailers speaking rudimentary English. I must be getting better at being honest, despite parts of my love triangles dying. Wrapping up my tales every night I quote phrase from The Jew of Malta. "Thou has committed Fornication: but that was another country. And besides, the wench is dead." Highly educated prison convicts can laugh and cry at the same time. So do cops.
Some prison evenings I went on with far-reaching stories of getting burned taking counterfeit money, lousy cocaine and growing marijuana in house 676 Caribou Street that'd kill any of us starving to death in that foul stinking prison. All the same tales I've written to you coppers, I practiced and polished over a 9-month period, orating these same stories about growing up on a farm, butchering pets, pipe bombs, shooting bikers offa their bikes with potatoes, fighting and killing 3 robber niggers and incinerating their remains to dust and inhaling tonnage of product on narc jobs all over the state of Alaska. Even the work I did with you coppers on the Capones and wrestling drunks at KPD. I knew I was being recorded, and my recitations matched the same testimony I spoke while cuffed and getting my face and head beaten in. After my preliminary softening up, my interrogators would just smoke and listen. For hours, days and months. I must have bored them to death and hastened my exchange.
Some nights I'd stop talking for a minute and could only hear snores from all my comrades. You see, like my nightmares and erotic dreams I have today, I was painting these same tales upon canvas in the minds of my cell mates, with paints that smell like gunpowder and pussy. I've a suspicion I do the same thing with you coppers. My candid and honest recitations of my stupid, humorous adventures likely ring loudly through your minds for days after reading them. There are an awful lot of drunken wife charmers and home wreckers about these days and it wouldn't really surprise me if I turned out to be one myself. Take heart, you boys will all wake up in your own bed, in your own homes tomorrow, not sleeping in jail and fuming a filthy stink. Being so old, blind and toothless, your wives won't leave teeth marks on your scrotum.
After my release and hospitalization, I finally got back home to Fairbanks. Paula abandoned me in Russia, left her husband and married a man on the East Coast and was surprised I survived to email her almost a year later. She was gentle when she told me that we were over, broken up and she was happily married.
Upon hearing her news of remarrying, I scolded myself for mentally orchestrating another affair with her, behind her next husband's back. I painfully missed her curvy hips and ass. I also missed horribly, her over-sized melons from Dolly World. Memories of fine delicious women never give us respite. I'm missing those overstuffed mammalian pillows and romantic souvenir bite marks right now.
Let's stop lying to ourselves, all the women we truly fell for will echo through our minds for years to come. I replay these recorded memories almost daily and especially, nightly.
To quote Diane Henry, "you haven't lived until a native woman takes her teeth out for you." One problem, I've never fucked a toothless native woman before. Besides, I'm kind of partial to perfect straight teeth marks on my ball bag.
Humans want to feel pretty and desired. All married women love to be charmed and seduced. Zero native children actually want to be fucked.
Am I missing something?
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 12:54 PM
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