I canna hink A wis muckle mair nor fower or five year auld the verra first time A clappit ma een on a deider. Noo ye maun hink yon’s a gey queer-like wey tae open a bookie siccan this een, an hink tae yersel, by, whit’s this lad hinkin aboot? But A says to youse, that gin a bookie’s tae be an honest bookie, an no jist a pile o havers, then we maun set aff on the recht fit, an be honest wi wirsels fae the aff. An sae it is; fan A hink on ma childheid, death aye seems affy close. But this parteecular deider, A’ll hae tae explain mair aboot.
If you like this writing in genuine Scots from Angus, you’ll just love Poaching the River, available in paperback and as an e-book!
First, an excerpt from Travels with a Ladyboy, for your entertainment. We’ll get to the hairy down the page.
It’s Christmas Eve and we have come to a friend’s party in Ipil-Ipil. Much against my desire and better judgement I have funded the videoke machine, which lurks in the corner like a castrated Dalek — and is the more malevolent for its fate. This is blasting out at deafening volume, which is, I suppose, justified. It has to be that loud to drown out the neighbours on either side, whose own machines are threatening to trigger tsunamis.
There are eight adults in the company and I reflect that we make an interesting cross-section. Renz and Joanna are our hosts. He is a tricycle pilot and she is a housewife, but, technically, she’s actually his mistress, although they live as a couple. He already has a wife and three children that he supports. Occasionally Joanna works in a bar for extra money, but she has just had a baby — her first with Renz — and is fully occupied as a mother. Joanna is genuinely beautiful and is doing a remarkably sexy Filipina-Earth-Mother thing, her body still a little plump and luxurious from carrying her child.
Anti-clockwise next, me and Sam. I’m a natal man, heterosexual; Sam is a transwoman, though she calls herself a ladyboy. I get a bit annoyed at uppity Western mouthpiece SJWs saying ladyboys can’t call themselves that, by the way. Funny that it always seems to be the USican SJW types who engage in this particular cultural imperialism. They’ll be bombing us for it next; which would be funny were it not the standard USican response to any disagreement with their edicts, never mind the sheer irony.
This video is about the potential pitfalls facing older men who decide to get married to young Asian girls. There is no need to do this and you should not. There are plenty of other ways to get sex. You can just pay for it on an as-required basis or you can just hire a maid and service provider for a very modest sum. Or you could find a sweet ladyboy, with whom the pressure will be much less — and the sex will be just as good. But marriage, especially to teenage Asian girls, implies a whole lot of other things that you should consider very deeply.
I’m slowly copying all my videos from YouTube and the other platforms I have and self-hosting them. This may take some time!
What is ‘sex tourism’? It’s a subject that generates a great deal of copy and little enlightenment. Is it just ‘mongering’, the practice of buying sex, but this time in foreign lands? And if it were, would there be anything wrong with that? Or is it any sex abroad? Is having sex when you’re on holiday ‘sex tourism’? What about if you live abroad and occasionally have dalliances with the locals? Sex tourism? What about, in the same country, if you marry a local? Still ‘sex tourism’?
What does ‘sex tourism’ actually mean? Is it really a thing, or is it just another nasty epithet that the lowest of the low, rabidfems, use to try to shame men into behaving by the rules that they and other feminazis set, without ever getting a say in defining those rules? Can women be ‘guilty’ of ‘sex tourism’, or is that just holiday fucking?
If you don’t know what the inside of one of those gateways to Heaven, otherwise known as a ladyboy bar, is really like, I hope this little video will help you visualise the legions of loveliness that populate them. I found the video a few years ago and decided to re-edit it to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’. It’s an all-time favourite and frankly, is far more in tune with the passionate yelps of a toothsome young transgirl in bed than the music the video originally had!
You’ll need a ‘guest-friendly’ hotel, if you don’t use one of the ubiquitous short-time hotels which are, by definition, open to customers bringing along a girl or three. Although generally, budget hotels are fine, it’s probably better to avoid those run by farangs. I have to say, with regret, that the only time I’ve ever had any real issues with ladyboys in bars, restos or hotels in southeast Asia, it has been in establishments run by that species of bigoted Australian male who would, frankly, have been better left as a stain on his mother’s bedsheets.
Ladyboys are like hobbits; they have big feet. Although, and fortunately, not usually hairy.
My dearest and truest friend, my distant confidante and beloved adopted sister, Andie, is sitting on the brown vinyl sofa in my rented condo in Pasig. She has delicately hoisted the hem of her long floral skirt with one hand and with the other she is holding one of her slippers — flipflops in Filipino — against her leg.
‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘You see? My feet are longer than half the length of my shin.’
She drops the slipper and the hem and takes to regarding her feet with evident distaste, elbow on knee, chin cupped in her hand. She wiggles her toes.
‘I could possibly cut them off,’ she muses. ‘I should cut them off.’