I’m shocked at the behavior of American women when it comes to condom use. Middle class white girls are, hands down, the dirtiest, filthiest type of girl I’ve been with. Most of them only care about using condoms for the first instance of sex, and a sizable percentage don’t even care if you use one at all for that first time, whether or not it’s a one-night stand where she has only known you for a couple hours.

Raise your hand if you’re scared of AIDS.

I don’t see many hands out there. The only people scared these days are OCD freaks who can’t get laid, because it’s just not on the radar anymore. It’s a way they can rationalize their miserable, sexless existence. I even sense that a lot of people have accepted they’ll contract HPV at some point in their lives. Girls have told me in sweet embrace that I probably have it, but are willing to bang without a condom anyway.

If I was as dirty as them, I could probably have raw dog sex with 95% of all white girls, regardless of socioeconomic background. I only have met one girl that was super serious about using condoms, but I eventually fucked her without a condom too, so actually I change that to 100%. I could bang every white girl who lives in the United States without a condom if I desired, within three dates. I’m not kidding. I could do most of them raw dog on the same night. Here’s how to do it…

1. For the first time appear really studious about using condoms.Tell her “I like to be safe” and “I’m very careful.”

2. Ask her if she’s been tested a few minutes after the first bang. Say, “I’m not trying to get anything.” This makes her think you’re extra cautious. She’ll ask if you’ve been tested. Say “Yes.” Don’t worry, she won’t ask when you were tested, how many girls you fucked raw since you were tested, and what you were actually tested for. Even if you’ve never been tested, you can say “Not recently, but I’m 99% sure I don’t have anything,” and that’ll be just fine for her.

3. When gearing up for the second act of sex, just diddle her vagina with your dick and stuff it in. If she objects, get a condom and try again next time. By the fourth of fifth time, you’ll be banging raw guaranteed.

I’ve had several girls try to insert my beautiful naked cock inside them while chanting a barely audible “Get a condom.” It’s like the pussy has a mind of her own, acting as a master for the miscellaneous matter attached to it.

At first I thought I was just sleeping with the sluttiest of sluts, but I looked at their middle class background (sometimes upper class), and their circle of seemingly normal friends, and realized that it wasn’t the type of girl but the culture that she was raised in. We’re simply not educating people on how to have safe sex anymore. It’s the 21st century and Americans are being taught abstinence (!!!) instead of how to put on condoms like in Brazil or most European countries. Even the act of distributing free condoms in high school is controversy enough to make the news, complete with obligatory interview with a fat-ankled woman screeching, “We shouldn’t be in the business of encouraging sex!”

I’ll tell you when I should’ve been scared straight. Years ago I was dating this girl for a while (“a while”—hah) and did it raw dog one time. She wasn’t on the pill so it was the exception, but in that moment of weakness I ravaged her with my snake and came all over her chest like a champion. I wasn’t too concerned with my slip.

On a later date she told me “I love sex.” She really stressed the love—I mean she bellowed it through the bar so that other people could hear. Girls who love sex can’t go long without it, so some prying on my part revealed that she fucks quite a bit. In order words, I was on the tail end of a cock bender so legendary that it’s a miracle her vagina offered any resistance at all upon penetration. Then the anxiety kicked in and I began daily examinations of my cock for any irregularities, which continued for a while (I pretty much memorized the topography of my cock with these inspections), but my anxiety didn’t subside. A couple weeks afterwards I asked her why she let me have sex with her without using a condom.

“I trust my instincts,” she said.

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, do you have anything?”

“No. Well, I’m 99% sure I don’t.”

“Okay then. So then my instinct was right.”

“Oh god.”

There are women whose “instinct” told them that having raw dog sex with me was safe! Me! A guy who basically fucks women for a living! I ended up having a mild panic attack, but eventually that went away and I continued to have the “occasional” slip.

Girls are supposedly the more intuitive of our species, but if so many feel right about fucking me without a condom, then I must conclude that they don’t know shit. They’re all dirty little whores who truly disgust me with their sex habits. I don’t care if she’s a lawyer, government worker, or environmentalist—if she lives in a metropolitan city and fucked you by the third date, she’s a bucket of disease and you’d be a moron not to bag it up. A man deserves the STDs he gets.

“Sure I’ll take a walk in the park.”

A special girl invited me to Parque Lage in Rio a couple days before I was set to leave the city. I prefer nighttime outings as they have a higher chance of ending up in sex, but I agreed because I didn’t want to appear so one-dimensional.

During the hottest part of the day we took a little stroll up one of the park’s hills near a pleasant waterfall. We climbed some more for a nice view of Lagoa and the surrounding mountains, and halfway through our slightly romantic hike we sat down to eat a sweetsop fruit (tasted like pineapple). It’s then I felt something around my right ankle. Was it the syphilis flaring up again? I looked down and saw four little specs of blood where I was bitten by insects. Sloppy mosquitoes I thought, to let all that blood go to waste. I wiped myself off and then it was time to take smushy-faced camera phone pictures with my date.

When I went to bed that night I counted sixteen bites around my right ankle. I got out the hydrocortisone and every two hours I scratched myself awake and slathered on some cream. It was itchier than a normal mosquito bite and reminded me of when I got attacked by bedbugs two years prior. I assumed it was a tropical Brazilian insect I hadn’t encountered before, but in the end it’s only bug bites so I’m not going to freak out.

I freaked out the next day when I noticed my ankle turned into a cankle. It didn’t have a normal range of motion because of all the liquid jammed in there, and I felt a little jiggle with every step I took (I don’t know how you morbidly obese people do it). Later in the day I squeezed into my shoes to pick up my laundry I had left two days before.

The laundromat fucked up my load and three shirts had weird pink stains, including a nice shirt I had just bought at Zara (thankfully I saved the receipt). While arguing with the incompetent staff I’m furiously scratching my ankle and not realizing it. I left the laundromat without paying and looked down at my ankle to see blood streaks going into my shoe. I went next door to the pharmacy and bought an antibiotic cream with anti-itch steroid mixed in.

For the rest of the day the holes in my ankle oozed a yellowish liquid that crusted over. Pain set it and walking became difficult. After some googling on my symptoms I concluded that I was bitten by fleas and developed an allergic reaction. This didn’t surprise me because I’m allergic to bee stings and bedbug bites. I just had to wait a few days until it would clear.

The lease on my favela room expired and I left Rio with the swollen ankle. I made it to a little town in Minas Gerais called Tiradentes. There the swelling moved down into the right side of my foot. It was red and warm to the touch and I was feeling chilly and slightly weak. Because I was in a town that didn’t have a hospital, I had to visit a very old doctor who worked out of a worn leather bag. I couldn’t understand his Portuguese accent very well but I felt confident when he examined my ankle and nodded up and down. He prescribed me antibiotics (tetracycline).

Five days later my foot was still swollen. Now little red lines underneath my skin snaked down to my pinky toe, where a boil was developing. Every eight hours I took Advil to deal with the stubborn fever. Walking remained difficult. I returned to the doctor and he gave me the address of a private clinic in the next biggest town about 45 minutes away (São João del Rei). There they stabbed the boil and out exploded a pink combination of pus and blood. I showed them the tetracycline pills I was taking and they prescribed me something different: cephalexin.

The tetracycline already fucked up my stomach and this one would add to the problem. I wouldn’t shit for the next four days. During that time the swelling went down around my ankle and foot, but my pinky toe was changing color from dark red to light purple, as if it was starved of oxygen. It felt cold and was painful to touch. The boil didn’t seem to be healing so I went back to the clinic.

They sent me to a hospital where finally I was seen by a doctor who spoke English. He told me that the infection I had was “obviously” resistant to the antibiotics and looked like an MRSA infection. They immediately extracted some fluid from the boil, which was beginning to swallow my pinky toe, and told me to sit tight for the lab results.

Four hours later he said, “I’m afraid it’s MRSA.” I noticed he put on gloves and a face mask.

He said the only drugs left to treat my infection are a combination of vancomycin and teicoplanin, but they must be administered by IV. I had to come to the hospital every twelve hours for the next five days, my bill slowly increasing to god-knows-what. Before I left he popped the boil on my toe again and this time the juice color was purple. The toe began to shrink like a raisin and have a mummified appearance. For the first time I was afraid.

After three days of treatment my pinky toe didn’t improve. It pretty much looked dead.

The doctor shook his head and said that there is a serious risk the infection will spread and enter my bloodstream. If that happened, he said, there wasn’t much he could do for me. He wanted to amputate my pinky toe immediately.

The first thing I wanted to know was how much it cost.

“Oh it’s cheap,” he said, excitedly. “Cheaper than the antibiotics. We just use local anesthesia and cut it right off. Takes only ten minutes.”

“Will this eliminate the infection?”

“80% chance it will.”

“And how about if it doesn’t?”

“You’ll have to go to a hospital in Rio or Belo Horizonte for more options. But if we don’t do this now I’m afraid it will spread.”

“Can I think for a couple minutes?” I said.

I cried like a little girl. I wanted to call my family but I knew they would’ve freaked out and made me more nervous. They only knew about the allergic reaction and nothing else. I wanted to call my doctor but I didn’t think he was going to give his medical opinion over the phone without knowing all the information.

I tried to imagine life without a pinky toe. The doctor said that I’d still walk normally, but I was afraid I’d get laid a lot less if I only had nine toes. How could I pull like a champ with a very obvious deformity? But I can’t get laid if I’m dead, so I told him to take it off. This was four days ago. The procedure cost $760.

Right now I have a little bandage on my stump, but the doctor says leathery skin will grow over it. The infection seems to be gone as there is no discoloration, pain, or boils, but I have to visit in a few days to undergo one final test. In addition to everything else my total medical bills cost $2,823.76. I know it would be a lot more in the States, which is why I stayed in Brazil for treatment (possibly risking my life in the process).

It’s very weird to look down on my right foot and see a missing digit, but honestly I’m not too bummed about it. The only time people will notice is when I’m at the beach or pool, but I’m wondering when I should tell girls that I’m missing a toe. Do I have to tell them before sex as if I had herpes, or can it wait? Or maybe I should not say anything until they find out? I don’t think it will be disgusting, but then again I would be freaked out if I discovered missing toes on a girl in the bedroom. I’m shallow enough to where that would be a definite dealbreaker.

It’s times like this I’m thankful for my Buddhist studies. Sure there is real pain, but suffering is optional. Life goes on without a pinky toe, and I don’t have any regrets about the choices I’ve made. I rather have nine toes than watch have my soul defeated in some office job where I fantasize about killing myself. I just hope that I can still pull those hipster girls for one night stands when I come back home.

Via the New York Times:

Smoking and alcohol abuse are the major causes, but 25 percent of oral cancers appear in people who have never smoked or drunk to excess. The suspected cause of at least some of these cancers is human papillomavirus, or H.P.V., the same sexually transmitted virus that causes most cervical cancers, which can invade the mouth during oral sex. “Some are already hypothesizing that if kids are inoculated against H.P.V.,” Dr. Kahn said, “there will be a turnaround in the oral cancers caused by H.P.V., too.”

I think more research needs to be done in this area for the millions of men who, for whatever reason, go down on women voluntarily. They need to know if they’re putting their lives at risk by going out of their way to give a woman pleasure.

Luckily I have already been taking the proper precautions without even knowing it, and am pleased that not going down on girls will pay off with a potentially longer lifespan.

Nothing has given me the urge to burn my American passport more than the above photo. I truly wish you could see my face as I type this. It’s hard to admit but I’m basically on the verge of tears, deeply concerned about the future of not only our cherished culture but human existence. In spite of decades of knowledge that science has brought forth about basic cause and effect of our actions, we are still using plastic bags? The actions of the American consumer here are absolutely abominable. This is the EARTH damn it. We only get one.

POSTSCRIPT: Not that it’s relevant, but here is a description of the American consumer pictured…

I was afraid that if she saw me taking pictures of her with my iphone, she’d attack me. Her belly hung down to mid thigh. Her chin rested on her chest. She had tattoos on her arms and her mouth. Every other word was an obscenity. Then she screeched at her mother (another fine specimen) to get down there and pack her own groceries because she wasn’t going to do it for her. Of course, Mother was paying for all four carts of groceries.

The “Karma” tattoo on her lower back means she’d let you slam on the first date.

I’ve been working at the same bar for about four months now. One of my shifts is lunch and during that time I get the occasional person who comes in to fill out a job application. My record for most applications I gave out in a day was five.

Well I go in on Monday night and there is a stack of paper by the bar. Turns out the day bartender collected over 15 job applications for server and bartender positions during her shift, and gave out half-a-dozen more. She said she felt like an HR person, answering questions and giving out pens. At one point six people were simultaneously filling out applications at the bar. Quite a few papers were actual resumes, with years of professional experience but no restaurant experience. Many graduated from very expensive private colleges (Duke, UVA).

And this is Washington DC we’re taking about, a city with supposedly the strongest job market in the country. It seemed like a giant factory closed down on Friday.

“If it doesn’t pass, then heaven help us all.”

Allow me to teach you what a credit default swap is and why it’s so important to what is happening to the economy today.

Virgle Kent borrows $50 from me. I want to get insurance on his debt in case he goes broke. I go to Roissy and say, “Hey, Virgle Kent owes me $50. Can you insure that debt?”

“I’ll insure it if you pay me $4 a year,” Roissy says.

“Done!”

Roissy is betting that VK will pay me back, especially since he did his homework by looking at VK’s credit rating and saw it was superb. Roissy wrote me a credit default swap, an unregulated derivative invented in 1995 by JP Morgan.

Unfortunately Roissy has some problems with his business, and he no longer even has $50 to pay me in case VK goes broke. The premiums I gave him are long gone. Credit agencies notice this and tell Roissy to find some cash or his credit rating goes down. Roissy is fucked because if his credit rating goes down then he won’t be able to raise cash at good rates to keep his business open (today’s large businesses need a constant flow of credit to maintain operations). Sure enough his rating gets killed and Roissy goes bankrupt.

Now I’m in trouble. The debt I had on my books that was insured is now uninsured. The agencies look at my books and see I have this exposed debt and they downgrade my ass. I have no choice but to enter bankruptcy as well. But I happened to be knee deep in the CDS game too. I wrote a ton of them for Arjewtino, insuring the debt owed to him by other parties. When I go down it puts pressure on him. Like dominoes we fall.

In the carnage it turned out that the ratings we used to judge each other’s debt worthiness was bogus from the start. Essentially we all gambled like we would at a blackjack table, but we did it while drunk. And blind.

The insurance company AIG wrote $78 billion worth of swaps.

Ivy League MBA’s turned the CDS into an even more insidious device. In ways that I will not begin to understand, swaps were used not just to insure against debt but to speculate if companies would fail or not. It turned out that while VK only owed me $50, there were swaps written worth $500 between parties that VK didn’t even know about! The swaps became a means to make money instead of a simple insurance policy. This was enabled by a government run by politicians whose treasure chests were stocked full of kind donations from the big bankers. They did not hesitate to look the other way.

A lot of swaps were written by banks and businesses that are now very sick from making bad bets and possibly outright fraud in the housing boom. (Who would have thought that giving no money down / no-doc loans was a bad idea?)

Here’s the bad news:

…there are $45 trillion of credit default swaps out there. A default on a mere 10% would cause an economic disaster. Unfortunately, it’s guaranteed to happen.

Actually that was the good news. Here’s the real bad news:

The Bank for International Settlements recently reported that total derivatives trades exceeded one quadrillion dollars – that’s 1,000 trillion dollars. How is that figure even possible? The gross domestic product of all the countries in the world is only about 60 trillion dollars. The answer is that gamblers can bet as much as they want.

The quote up top was said by Henry Paulson.

“I had an nice apartment in Southwest DC. This was in the 70′s. The apartment had a great view and I lived a short walk away from a row of clubs. I’d get off work every day at three and by four I was drinking.

“In short time my place became the party spot. Girls would call other girls, who came with other guys and girls. There were always women, in and out. It was just one woman after the other I was taking to bed. Man, some of them were so beautiful.”

A big grin formed on his face as described one particular girl, using his hands to shape her body.

“But after nine months I had to get out of there. I moved to the suburbs, not far from here but before it was developed.”

“Why did you move?” I asked.

“I wasn’t respecting women. They meant nothing. They were great girls, very good girls, but after a few days I’d move on to the next one.”

“You’re a stronger man that me,” I said.

“No, look. There was one guy there who was a decade older than me, and I was already older than most people so he was that much older than everyone. I’d see him all the time at my favorite club and he was always surrounded by people. You can tell how happy he was when there was a crowd around him. In this club he was respected and known, but that’s all he had. That’s all he lived for. I looked at him and knew that’s not where I wanted to go.

“That type of lifestyle, it’s shallow. Very shallow.”

Previously: Thoughts On Ejaculating Inside A Girl

There are two questions I ask a girl when it’s time to ditch the condom.

First Question: “Are you on the pill?”

What’s the point of having a main squeeze if you can’t have unprotected sex? If she wasn’t on the pill and were to start it the next day, remember it takes at least a month for the infertility to kick in. Unfortunately I estimate that only 20% of casual dating relationships reach the one month mark.

The second question is a little more involved, and I try to find a moment when she’s likely to answer truthfully because my future well-being may depend on it.

Second Question: “If you got pregnant right now, what would you do?”

Note the phrasing of the question. I don’t want to lead the witness with my desired answer. I’m searching for the truth here.

There’s two components to her answer that you must take care to note: her actual words and the time it takes for her to answer. You probably guessed that the less important part of the answer are her words, which most of the time will be along the lines of “I’d take care of it.” Sure, at that moment in space time when she’s talking to you she wouldn’t consider having the baby, but a real pregnancy can change a woman’s mind. Flashbacks of teenage years spent babysitting, thoughts of baby showers and shopping for baby clothes, and ongoing nagging from mom have strong effects on a woman.

The least she could say is she’d take care of it. If a girl says she would “think about it” then she might as well be planning to have a baby with you. The best possible answer for me is when a girl describes how an unexpected little Rooshy would ruin her plans for a more successful career, future travel plans, better furniture, a larger condominium, and sexier shoes.

The time it takes for her to answer your question tells you if she has given serious thought about getting pregnant or not. If she answers quickly with something that feels like a prepared statement then you can place strong weight into her answer. But if she takes just a couple seconds to reply that means she is searching not for the real answer but probably the one you want to hear. Or it could be one of the girls that I recently dated, who said she’s keep the baby and not tell me. She said it would be “none of your business.” I kid you not.

Even if you never ejaculate inside a woman go ahead and ask her anyway because how about if your pre-jizz is so potent that it has enough sperm to create life? I think that’s a myth, by the way, but I don’t really have any scientific evidence to prove it (i.e. please don’t take my word for it).