WINNER'S CORNER #2 - MY TRIP TO ARIZONA

Hello all, Leil here.

It’s the first day of June — or “Pride Month” according to some — so I thought I would share a little story that happened to me recently when I was out in Sedona visiting my homosexual nephew, Clyde, who runs a dinky Tarot card and crystal shop on Main Street called Padam Padam.

I was in town for a topical plasma infusion on my private parts. Very woo. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get some elasticity back in that region. Of course the best topical treatment is the sticky cum of a man, but you can't just buy that off the shelf, not even in Sedona. Plus fresh loads are hard to “cum” by, if you’ll pardon the expression, for a woman my age. Oh sure, you can lie on the apps and say you’re 60, even 55, but father time comes for us all and I’m afraid that vaginally speaking I can’t quite keep up with the charade.

The truth is most men, even the straight ones, are frightened by a woman’s organs. I can’t tell you how many randy lads I’ve led back to my suite only to have them flee in horror at the sight of my glistening pubis. “What’s wrong?” I call out after them “not elastic enough?” but nary an answer do I hear. “Oh Leil,” I ask myself as I mount the bed knob, “when are you going to do something about that pubis?” But of course by the time I’ve climaxed and cleaned up, self improvement is the furthest thing from my mind.

I was complaining about this very thing at one of my hugely popular seminars on Winner’s Mindset, when a heavyset woman with a thick accent stood up in the crowd and said “if it’s elasticity you’re after, Leil, why not come by my clinic?”

“Speak English!” I said, although I understood her perfectly. We all laughed. “What kind of clinic is it?” I queried, with a slow melting smile, “a doughnut and cake eating clinic? Bitch?”

“No!” she said, and explained to me that what they did was a thing called Plasma Infusion Therapy.

“Speak English!” I said, again. This time I didn’t follow.

“Well Leil —“

“Smile when you talk,” I interrupted, “or me and everyone here will think you’re a loser.”

“Plasma Infusion Therapy” she said, this time giving us all a peep at those pearly whites, “is a cutting edge rejuvenation procedure in which blood is taken from a young healthy host, and run through a centrifuge in order to separate out the platelet rich plasma. Then, that plasma is either injected intravenously or applied topically in an ointment”

All night long I tossed and turned, touching my dry rigid lips, and dreaming of rejuvenation. The next day in the lobby, I pinned the foreign woman (Raquel) against the wall with both hands and told her, winningly, to book me an appointment.

“I can’t pay in money,” I said, “but I promise to pass on to you a secret communications tip, never before revealed in any of my books or seminars.” She enthusiastically accepted, and I let her down.

It turns out the clinic was in Sedona, where my nephew lives. I figured since he’s so high and mighty he’d love nothing more than to flaunt his lifestyle by letting me bunk down on his couch a night or two, with maybe some breakfasts cooked each morning to show how much better than me he is, and rides to and from the clinic. My Greyhound got in early, so I decided to surprise him in at Padam Padam.

“I suppose you’ve shoved this up your tight wet ass a time or two” I said, picking an oblong crystal with a flared base up off the display.

“Oh hi Aunt Leil,” said Clyde, concealing his excitement.

“Or sucked it like a cock,” I said, wrapping my lips and teeth around the jagged shaft.

“Aunt Leil, you’ll hurt yourself” he murmured, in quiet awe of my ability to put people at ease.

“You think you friends of Dorothy have a monopoly on oral sex? Think again!” I said, thrusting the crystal down my gullet and pretending to choke.

I came to a minute later as a firm Heimlich thrust from behind sent the mineral flying across the room.

“Look Clyde, I’ll give it to you straight,” I wheezed adorably, “I need your blood.”

I then explained to him the procedure I was planning and how important it was for my sexual future. A crucial part of Getting To Yes is making sure your negotiating partner understands the stakes. “It’s on my bucket list to get triple vaginally penetrated before I die,” I said. “That might not sound like many dicks to a clown car like you, Clyde, but one thing you people will never understand is that there is no SteamWorks for old women.” Well, that got to him. Gays of all ages are suckers for a crying aunt. They call it “camp”, but I don’t give a fuck.

The next day, at the Clinic, Clyde and I were greeted by that woman Raquel, who had put on a few pounds since I saw her last.

“You sure you aren’t eating the blood?” I said, puffing out my cheeks and poking her in the flank. Like many ugly people, Raquel had a loud laugh that frankly turned my stomach, but I needed her help, so I chuckled along. “What do you think, Clyde?” I said, elbowing him in the ribs, “too many cheat days in a row?” (inside jokes are a great way to create rapport). But Clyde was on his phone, probably perusing PlanetOut.Com.

“Raquel, this is Clyde, my nephew. He just turned 35 and he’ll be my plasma donor for today. I apologize for his bad manners, but you know how nephews are — always on the prowl for large balls and cock.”

The laughter stopped. I looked up into Raquel’s ashen face. “Your nephew…” she said, “is he…?”

“Is he what, Raquel?” I said. “A homosexual?”

She nodded, not daring to speak.

“Well Raquel, if sucking cock is homosexual, I guess he’s homosexual. If munching ass is homosexual, I guess he’s homosexual. If lubricating his rear end with refrigerated semen so new strange dicks can pump fresh loads into it all night long at an airport motel is homosexual, then I guess he’s homosexual. If shitting that cum into a ketchup bottle and refrigerating it to be used again, so that with each subsequent gang bang his collection of frozen cum increases to the point where it can barely fit in his refrigerator and he starts having to eat it to make room is homosexual, then I guess he’s homosexual. And if you have a problem with homosexuals, Raquel, then you can just kiss my ass!”

“Is all that true?” said Rachel, sheepishly, to Clyde.

“No,” he said, “but I am gay.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking like a kicked dog, “but Arizona state law prohibits blood donation from members of the MSM community who have been sexually active in the last three months. Have you been sexually active in the last three months?”

“Yes,” Clyde nodded, rubbing it in.

“Then I’m sorry but I’d lose my license” said the coward.

“Oh for fuck sake,” I said, “What about YOUR blood?”

“My blood??” she stammered. God, people from other countries are so stupid.

“You suck gay dick or what? I want the ointment so I can get out of here and fuck!”

I could see her hesitating. It’s important in those situations to not give your negotiating partner any room to equivocate. I took the sharpened nail of my index finger, placed it directly between her eyes, and with a precise application of force, pushed her back against the desk.

“I’ll…fucking…kill…you!” I said, jabbing with each word, smiling widely so she’d know it was a joke. Ultimately she had no choice but to gave way to my good nature.

I let Clyde go sit out in the car and trawl the internet for gay sex. For all I knew, while I was having my procedure, he was ass up in the backseat, taking it from some mountebank. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Jerry Seinfeld would say. It’s his car, and his ass! But for folks my age, raised in another era — well, what can I say — it’s just a little gross.

I’ll confess Raquel’s small hot hand rubbing her plasma goop on my cunt did make me nut slightly, but I don’t think she noticed. She’d given me a lot of blood and was pretty out of it.

At the end, she diapered me up real good to prevent the plasma leaking out. I figured a diaper’s as much a garment as any pants or skirt — so elected not to put back on any of my other clothes.

As we were leaving she meekly tapped me on the shoulder, and reminded me that I had promised her a secret communications tip. “Or you could also pay in dollars…if you want…” she said, not making eye contact. Loser move.

“Raquel, look at me” I said, pinning her eyelids open with both thumbs. That was more like it. “The tip I’m going to give you is worth more than any sum of cash or gold. Capiche?”

She nodded. Always be closing.

“Now here it is. Remember it well. There are times in life when you eat something that isn’t sitting right with you. The food in your gut produces gas, which will need to leave the body somehow, either in a burp or fart. Now, if it happens that you’re in a meeting with a high roller, and it’s do or die, then you’re not going to want to burp, it’s rude. So that leaves farts. But when a dumpling likes you lets out a fart, those big asscheeks are liable to flap and make a sound, which could spoil your advantage. And so Raquel my tip is this: when you feel it coming, you reach down with both hands and spread those ass cheeks nice and wide before you pass your gas. Sure, it might stink up the room, but it’ll be so quiet no one will know quite where it came from, and you can always blame it on a dog or a mouse.”

I let go of her head and turned to go. She slumped down in one of the lobby chairs.

“Oh, and one more thing…” I said, pausing in the threshold. I put my left hand on my left cheek and my right hand on my right cheek, bent over, looked directly in her eye. You know what happened next.

My nephew’s car was nowhere to be found. It’s fine, I walked.

Well folks, the treatment didn’t work. Maybe her blood was rotten, or it’s just another racket. That just goes to show you — no one has your back, not even God. Just think — if only my nephew hadn’t been such a butt muncher, maybe I could have gotten good plasma from him, and I’d be getting triple penetrated as we speak. But no — he chose to live a coward’s life, afraid of women’s parts, and sticking only to his kind.

Frankly, I don’t see why that’s a source of “Pride.” Would you be proud to live in fear? I wouldn’t. But I’ll tell you what I AM proud of — my own ability to stick up for myself. Because without that, what are we? Just chumps waiting to be taken advantage of by the hucksters in our lives, many of whom may be found among our friends and family.

Be well, boycott Target, and stay inside this June. Until next time,

Yours truly,

xo Leil