Therefore, I didn’t fit the portrait of the castration fantasist as delineated by Wassersug, Johnson and co. Nevertheless I was a castration fantasi...t. This reductio ad absurdum made me question the previous inference. Was it right to conclude that the films couldn’t be documentaries merely because the castrations were performed by women and in the presence of women, not by tattooed and pierced men who extolled their own extant or extinct masculinity? I was grateful to Kelvin for digging this. I could not tell if this stranger was real or part of my popper haze. I wondered if I had left my basement door open and someone had wondered in. I didn’t care. All I cared about was his cock in my ass. A picture formed inside my head of what that mammoth cock must look like forcing its way into my body…my tiny asshole stretched impossibly wide and tight around the almost beer-can thickness of the man’s humongous bull meat…the even broader cumbersome head shoving my insides open for the heavy. So: "Okay. Where should we meet?" Do you know the Bar Sinister?" she inquired."On Cherokee Avenue just south of Hollywood Boulevard,isn't it?" Yes." I'll find it," I said."Good. In an hour then," she said, and hung up.I put the phone back gently back into its cradle then threwthe whole thing through the window. It made a satisfyingcrash. The only golden lining I could see in my cloud-filled surroundings was that now that the threat of Rick'sbody being discovered was no longer hanging over me I. I took my time in applying the lotion and managed to persuade her to take off her bra and knickers. As we were nearing our time to leave I asked Jean and she agreed that I could take some photos of her. She went and stood by some rocks and posed in a number of positions as I clicked away. I prefer to see nude models standing or sitting and I find open leg shots and fingering shots unattractive, it must be a sign of my age. After dressing we decided to return home along the coastal path. When we.