The Trash Whore Diaries (2001-2011): Ten Year Anniversary Special Part II
In Japan, mums have been giving their sons blowjobs rather than let them have girlfriends.
With that pithy statement, so began the opening line of the opening blog of The Trash Whore Diaries. As inaugural lines go, December 16th 2001’s entry was an emphatic one: when a weblog has been born into this world screaming incestuous fellatio, it’s impossible to advance to writing haikus about snowflakes and serendipity.
Once a trash whore, always a trash whore.
As I sat typing those words in a Robert Gordon University computer room on St. Andrew Street in Aberdeen, I had no idea what I was about to set in motion: a sprawling, putrid tale that would encompass sperm donation, meatpaste, perjury, imprisonment and national media coverage. Had I known, I would probably have settled for a 17-syllable snowflake eulogy.
A decade on however, I’m glad that stubborn, spiky-haired bastard foolishly struck out on the path he chose, for had he elected otherwise, who knows where I’d be right now? Probably mortgaged up with an oil industry job and a Range Rover in the driveway. Even as I write these words, I can feel the bile rising up in my stomach. Blogging about blowjobs is fine, but suburban bliss? It’s a step too far.
As it was, I aimed for the gutter and struck sewage from day one.
Of course, once you’ve gone down that cum-spattered path, you can never go back: no regrets, no retractions and no recriminations. If The Trash Whore Diaries were to be encapsulated in a single sexual act, they would be a rough, hard fuck: spitting, slapping, biting and choking - the works. Dirty, disgustingly satisfying sex, but the sort of sex that should carry a health warning: once you’ve fulfilled a woman’s rape fantasy, you can’t go back to love-making. That’s just how it goes.
Back in the early days of this weblog, Bob and I were almost interchangeable, frequently popping up to finish each other’s sentences and even DJing at the band nights we held at Dr. Drakes to promote our Flowback fanzine.
Such was our camaraderie, my partner-in-slime even launched Trash Whore 2 as a short-lived sister blog to The Trash Whore Diaries. These days, of course, we’ve forged our own separate identities in separate cities; he’s Bob and I’m Kai (or is it the other way round?), while The Trash Whore Diaries have been largely supplanted by my new blog, which sprang up in February of this year. It continues where TWD left off, although its rage is now directed largely at insipid chain restaurants and pish-scented nightclubs. (Sample quote: "Doing your thing in Cav generally consists of trying to do the opposite sex’s thing; fingering, fumbling and frigging it on the dance floor, in the toilets and even at the bar. If you don’t come home with fingers smelling of Scampi Nik-Naks, you’re clearly a double amputee.")
In a week that heralds the ten-year anniversary of The Trash Whore Diaries, their successor has symbolically peaked at ten times the TWDs’ average traffic: on a good day, the new blog attracts over 1,000 readers, a small but not insignificant figure. In terms of cold hard statistics then, it has exceeded anything that the pre-social media TWD ever achieved. That said, for all its popularity, the new blog could never hope to have its creator sacked, imprisoned or featured on STV and in the thankfully now-defunct News of the World.
Over the course of the 825 blogs that have been published in The Trash Whore Diaries, I’ve covered such wide-ranging topics as ‘Why do dicks drip?’ and ‘Why is it impossible to pee straight after sex?’ This blog is the labour of one man’s love for all things bawdy, salacious, lubricious, libidinous, prurient, priapic and other adjectives that my built-in thesaurus may care to suggest. I’m planning to publish a Christmas Day special, encapsulating some of the most memorable quotes from the last ten years of The Trash Whore Diaries, and then I promise to lay the nostalgia to rest - for another decade at least.
Earlier in today’s blog, I observed that once you’ve crossed a certain line, you can never go back; once you’ve lost your hymen, no amount of reconstructive surgery can turn you into a virgin again. Once you’ve witnessed your partner bound, gagged and bukkaked, it’s impossible to beat off thinking of her in that racy low-cut top she wore to your first date. Less is always more for the senses, right?
Wrong. It has occurred to me that there’s one exception to that golden rule - burka porn. While less clothing invariably leaves less to the imagination, with the burka, the opposite is true - more is most certainly more, as my boner will attest. I don’t know what it is about the burka that turns me on so much; perhaps because it’s a throwback to a more innocent era, when the Victorians would cover up piano legs for fear of men being aroused by their shapely form. Perhaps it’s the thought of all the repressed sexuality that lurks beneath that black shroud; perhaps it’s because that buxom goddess Nigella Lawson was recently pictured on the beach wearing a burkini. Whatever the case, all I know is that when I see a set of sexy eyes framed by a burka, I see it as a challenge.
Could I cum through the letterbox slot of a burka without spilling a single drop of my seed on the surrounding cloth? I don’t know, but it’s a challenge I’m willing to accept, if only I could find a willing volunteer. Sadly my girlfriend has refused to indulge this innocuous fantasy, while my entreaties to the Muslim community have fallen on burka-covered ears.
It’s hard to define what’s so sexy about the burka. Perhaps the illicit thrill lies in it being danger porn; there is a very real danger that you could be issued with a fatwa for shooting fat wads through the eye slit. And also the danger that lurking behind that burka, it could be your mum or sister. How would you know?
Google ‘burka porn’ and you won’t find so much as a semi-inducing clip; it’s the last taboo. Search for ‘bukkake bestiality’ and you’ll probably turn up an entire pack of dogs spaffing over some Japanese chick, but search for ‘burka porn’ and you won’t find a peep. Never mind the Chinese government cracking down on dissidents - Google’s burka porn omission is internet censorship at its worst.
I’d always assumed that Muslim men must all harbour eye fetishes, and be capable of identifying a set of sexy eyebrows at 100 paces. Steven, my non-Muslim friend however (I don’t have any Muslim friends come to think of it; I’m not sure why), opined that the hands are actually the best indicator of a burka-wearer’s sexiness. Thus, should I ever fulfill my burka-based fantasy, I intend to focus on the hands, though my outpourings of pent-up frustration will be directed elsewhere.
The Trash Whore Diaries might be aiming for the gutter, but rest assured, I’ll be aiming for the starry eyes.
With that pithy statement, so began the opening line of the opening blog of The Trash Whore Diaries. As inaugural lines go, December 16th 2001’s entry was an emphatic one: when a weblog has been born into this world screaming incestuous fellatio, it’s impossible to advance to writing haikus about snowflakes and serendipity.
Once a trash whore, always a trash whore.
As I sat typing those words in a Robert Gordon University computer room on St. Andrew Street in Aberdeen, I had no idea what I was about to set in motion: a sprawling, putrid tale that would encompass sperm donation, meatpaste, perjury, imprisonment and national media coverage. Had I known, I would probably have settled for a 17-syllable snowflake eulogy.
A decade on however, I’m glad that stubborn, spiky-haired bastard foolishly struck out on the path he chose, for had he elected otherwise, who knows where I’d be right now? Probably mortgaged up with an oil industry job and a Range Rover in the driveway. Even as I write these words, I can feel the bile rising up in my stomach. Blogging about blowjobs is fine, but suburban bliss? It’s a step too far.
As it was, I aimed for the gutter and struck sewage from day one.
Of course, once you’ve gone down that cum-spattered path, you can never go back: no regrets, no retractions and no recriminations. If The Trash Whore Diaries were to be encapsulated in a single sexual act, they would be a rough, hard fuck: spitting, slapping, biting and choking - the works. Dirty, disgustingly satisfying sex, but the sort of sex that should carry a health warning: once you’ve fulfilled a woman’s rape fantasy, you can’t go back to love-making. That’s just how it goes.
Back in the early days of this weblog, Bob and I were almost interchangeable, frequently popping up to finish each other’s sentences and even DJing at the band nights we held at Dr. Drakes to promote our Flowback fanzine.
Such was our camaraderie, my partner-in-slime even launched Trash Whore 2 as a short-lived sister blog to The Trash Whore Diaries. These days, of course, we’ve forged our own separate identities in separate cities; he’s Bob and I’m Kai (or is it the other way round?), while The Trash Whore Diaries have been largely supplanted by my new blog, which sprang up in February of this year. It continues where TWD left off, although its rage is now directed largely at insipid chain restaurants and pish-scented nightclubs. (Sample quote: "Doing your thing in Cav generally consists of trying to do the opposite sex’s thing; fingering, fumbling and frigging it on the dance floor, in the toilets and even at the bar. If you don’t come home with fingers smelling of Scampi Nik-Naks, you’re clearly a double amputee.")
In a week that heralds the ten-year anniversary of The Trash Whore Diaries, their successor has symbolically peaked at ten times the TWDs’ average traffic: on a good day, the new blog attracts over 1,000 readers, a small but not insignificant figure. In terms of cold hard statistics then, it has exceeded anything that the pre-social media TWD ever achieved. That said, for all its popularity, the new blog could never hope to have its creator sacked, imprisoned or featured on STV and in the thankfully now-defunct News of the World.
Over the course of the 825 blogs that have been published in The Trash Whore Diaries, I’ve covered such wide-ranging topics as ‘Why do dicks drip?’ and ‘Why is it impossible to pee straight after sex?’ This blog is the labour of one man’s love for all things bawdy, salacious, lubricious, libidinous, prurient, priapic and other adjectives that my built-in thesaurus may care to suggest. I’m planning to publish a Christmas Day special, encapsulating some of the most memorable quotes from the last ten years of The Trash Whore Diaries, and then I promise to lay the nostalgia to rest - for another decade at least.
Earlier in today’s blog, I observed that once you’ve crossed a certain line, you can never go back; once you’ve lost your hymen, no amount of reconstructive surgery can turn you into a virgin again. Once you’ve witnessed your partner bound, gagged and bukkaked, it’s impossible to beat off thinking of her in that racy low-cut top she wore to your first date. Less is always more for the senses, right?
Wrong. It has occurred to me that there’s one exception to that golden rule - burka porn. While less clothing invariably leaves less to the imagination, with the burka, the opposite is true - more is most certainly more, as my boner will attest. I don’t know what it is about the burka that turns me on so much; perhaps because it’s a throwback to a more innocent era, when the Victorians would cover up piano legs for fear of men being aroused by their shapely form. Perhaps it’s the thought of all the repressed sexuality that lurks beneath that black shroud; perhaps it’s because that buxom goddess Nigella Lawson was recently pictured on the beach wearing a burkini. Whatever the case, all I know is that when I see a set of sexy eyes framed by a burka, I see it as a challenge.
Could I cum through the letterbox slot of a burka without spilling a single drop of my seed on the surrounding cloth? I don’t know, but it’s a challenge I’m willing to accept, if only I could find a willing volunteer. Sadly my girlfriend has refused to indulge this innocuous fantasy, while my entreaties to the Muslim community have fallen on burka-covered ears.
It’s hard to define what’s so sexy about the burka. Perhaps the illicit thrill lies in it being danger porn; there is a very real danger that you could be issued with a fatwa for shooting fat wads through the eye slit. And also the danger that lurking behind that burka, it could be your mum or sister. How would you know?
Google ‘burka porn’ and you won’t find so much as a semi-inducing clip; it’s the last taboo. Search for ‘bukkake bestiality’ and you’ll probably turn up an entire pack of dogs spaffing over some Japanese chick, but search for ‘burka porn’ and you won’t find a peep. Never mind the Chinese government cracking down on dissidents - Google’s burka porn omission is internet censorship at its worst.
I’d always assumed that Muslim men must all harbour eye fetishes, and be capable of identifying a set of sexy eyebrows at 100 paces. Steven, my non-Muslim friend however (I don’t have any Muslim friends come to think of it; I’m not sure why), opined that the hands are actually the best indicator of a burka-wearer’s sexiness. Thus, should I ever fulfill my burka-based fantasy, I intend to focus on the hands, though my outpourings of pent-up frustration will be directed elsewhere.
The Trash Whore Diaries might be aiming for the gutter, but rest assured, I’ll be aiming for the starry eyes.
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