Omar ZahZah's Blog

プライベートで異性と付き合い、肉体的な関係を持つまでに至るには、それなりの手間暇が必要となります。その一方で、風俗店を利用する場合、それらのプロセスを一切省いて、性的なサービスを受けることができます。そのように、付き合いを深めてお互いの気持ちを確認したり、後々の人間関係のしがらみを気にしたりしなくて済むのは、風俗遊びのメリットと言えます。

ただ、如何にその場限りのサービスであるからと言っても、風俗嬢も客も、互いに一人の人間であるのは確かです。そのような意味合いからすれば、プレイ中、どのようにコミュニケーションを取るかは大切な条件となります。風俗嬢との会話が盛り上がれば、それなりに身の入ったサービスも期待することができるというものです。

風俗嬢と会話するにあたっては、プライベートの恋人と話す時のように、相手のタイプや趣味などに合わせて話題を変更するなど、それなりに工夫することが大事になります。そのようにして、会話の内容に気を配ることは大切ですが、先ほども述べたように、お互い人間である以上、どうしても相性の問題というものは存在します。したがって、風俗遊びの経験を積む中で、相性の良い女の子を見つけることも大切です。

サービスのクオリティが同じであれば、風俗遊びをするために掛かる料金は、安いに越したことはありません。そのように、風俗遊びをするにあたっては、少しでもコストの負担を軽くして、なるべく質の高いサービスを受けたいというのが人情でしょう。

風俗店の利用料金は、業種や店舗、コース、女の子などの条件によってさまざまな違いがあります。また、クーポンやキャンペーンを利用することにより、割引サービスが受けられる場合もあります。したがって、出費を少しでも減らしたい場合には、それぞれの条件ごとに設定されている料金、各々のお店で発行されているクーポン、実施中のキャンペーンなどを入念にチェックしておくことが大切です。また、料金設定や割引サービスの適用条件などが分からない場合、店舗のスタッフに問い合わせてみるのも良いでしょう。

そして、風俗遊びをするに際して、負担することになるコストは、お店のスタッフに支払う料金ばかりとは限りません。例えば、屋外に設置されたお店やプレイルームへ出向くためには、現地との往復にそれなりの費用が掛かることとなります。風俗で遊ぶにあたっては、それらの費用を全て考慮に入れた上で、トータルの金額を算出する必要があります。

同じように風俗遊びをするのであれば、なるべく上手にプレイして、楽しみを少しでも増やしたいと考えるのが人情というものでしょう。そのような願いを叶えるためには、お店の選び方にも気を配ることが大切です。

一言で風俗店と言っても、さまざまな業種のお店があります。また同じ業種のお店でも、一つひとつ特徴の違いが存在します。そして、風俗遊びをするにあたって、重視する条件も、利用者一人ひとりによって違いがあります。そのような状況の中では、それぞれの風俗店の違いを理解した上で、自身の特性に合ったところを選ぶことが大事です。

例えば、風俗店を利用するためには、当然のことながら、所定の料金を支払わなければなりません。そして、風俗店の利用料金は、業種や利用する店舗、選択するコース、遊ぶ女の子などによってさまざまな違いがあります。また、お店で発行されるクーポンや、実施中のキャンペーンを利用することで、料金が割引される場合もあります。

同じクオリティのサービスが受けられるのであれば、料金の少しでも安いお店を利用するに越したことはありません。ただ、料金が安くなっている理由を確認せず、風俗遊びをすると、思わぬ失敗をする可能性もあります。

どうせ風俗で遊ぶのなら、少しでも高いテクニックを身につけたいと考えるのが人情でしょう。そういう願いを叶えるには、お店の選び方や料金を安くする方法、風俗嬢とのコミュニケーションの取り方などに気を配ることも大切です。当サイトでは、今までよりももっと楽しく風俗遊びをしたいと考えている方のために、おすすめの情報をご紹介しますので、最後までチェックして、是非とも参考にしてみて下さい。

風俗遊びをするにあたって、負担する費用に関して言えば、風俗の業種やお店、コース、女の子などによって料金設定に違いがある他、クーポンやキャンペーンの利用によって割引が受けられる場合も存在します。したがって、それらの情報を前もってチェックしておけば、風俗遊びをする際のコストパフォーマンスもそれなりに良くなるというものです。また、自分で調べても分からない情報は、お店のスタッフに質問してみるのも良いでしょう。

次に、私生活で恋人と付き合う場合、肉体関係を持つまでにそれなりの準備をし、お互いの気持ちを確認し合ったり、後々の人間関係に気を配ったりする必要があります。一方、風俗遊びでは、それらの負担をする必要は一切無く、性的サービスを受けることが可能になるというメリットが存在します。ただ、風俗嬢も客も人間である以上、プレイ中のコミュニケーションが、サービスに対する身の入り方や興奮度に、それなりの影響をもたらして来ることはあります。

“You must remember to wash your hands before you sleep,” the Mother said, “else the Devil will slip into your room and lick them to bloody stumps by morning.”

Truthfully, it was very late, and time for bed, but her son, crafty and eager to dodge the chore by his craft, did not wash his hands, but set to work stuffing his keyhole and the crack beneath his door with bits of paper. Then he slept peacefully.

The next morning, he left his room to find his mother standing very awkwardly, her back to him, and huddled over so intently that he could not see her head or most of her arms. And he thought he saw, from the corner of an eye, small and red bits of something strike the floor every so often at her feet.

“And perhaps I should have added,” came her voice, but cracked and strange, “that if he were to get the scent of filth in him, though find himself unable to reach it, he won’t leave, but, in a mad frenzy, seek out the closest available pair of hands to satiate him.”

A Christmas Story

It is not arrogance which leads me to claim that ‘selfless’ is a word that countless others have used in direct reference to my person. I say it is not arrogance, because such comportment on my part was, and remains, the result of dire necessity. I realize how strange this may seem, but rest assured that all will be revealed in the following account.

I once had a brother two years my elder. At the time of the events in question, we were both quite young (I had only recently reached the age of seven).

It must be remarked from the outset that, while there were some positive attributes which could have been—and occasionally were—observed within my elder brother and myself (we were, for instance, both agreeably handsome, bright, and endearingly ebullient when the mood struck either of us), the exhibition of any particular aptitude for empathy certainly wasn’t among them. We observed, day after day, our poor mother and father straining fervently so that we would want for nothing, and yet we never aided either of them. In fact, it shames me now to realize the extent to which we only served to exacerbate their difficulties with our unceasing mischief and ingratitude. Ours was a modest home; when the winters were especially unforgiving, our mother made sure whatever spare sheets there were went to our beds, while she and our father shivered throughout the night, and during meals she always saw to it that ours were the largest portions, despite how thin and frail she was herself. We never offered a word of thanks, instead shrieking out ungratefully that the chill remained, that we hungered still. Our poor father was also never spared so much as a moment’s peace, for after returning home from a grueling day’s labor, he was harried ceaselessly by our whooping and hollering and running about. Even the cat suffered for our restlessness, undergoing countless physical and psychological torments enacted for our own perverse amusement. Such behavior grew especially intolerable during the yuletide season, a time defined by good cheer and charity toward others. Previously, my brother and I observed the festivities by decrying shrilly how dissatisfied we were with the gifts we had been given, despite knowing full well that whatever we were offered, meager though it was, had had to be sacrificed stringently for well in advance.

This time was to be different. One Christmas eve, seeming to be excessively wearied by our regular behavior, our father sighed heavily and pointed to the birch branch that rested just above the fireplace. For as long as my brother and I could remember, this decoration had been in its present position, displayed in a fashion more befitting a sword than such a seemingly modest piece of wood.

“Do you know what this is for?” our father asked, and then, no doubt recalling that my brother and I had frequently used it to beat the cat, hastily added, “What this is really for?”

We did not.

“Tonight, you will learn,” he said.

And he laid his hand across his temple, as one who has reconciled himself to the gravest of sentences. Our mother stood off in the corner, weeping.

My brother and I knew not what was meant by all of this, nor did we care—we continued on with our fiendish racket until we had exhausted every ounce of our diabolical energy. Then, we went to our beds.

The sound that woke us some time after we had closed our eyes could have come from the deepest cavern of Hell. It seemed not only the roar of a fearsome beast, nor the moans of myriad souls in torment, but some disturbing combination.

Seconds after this horrifying emission, the front door was thrown open. My brother and I looked at one another, but were so frightened that we could not utter a word. And then we heard them—hard, rumbling steps that went from the entrance, halting just before our bedroom door.

The door creaked open . . .

I could not look up, and yet I had to.

The birch branch that had rested above our fireplace was brought forward, and in an instant its wielder leapt forth, immobilized my brother upon the bed with one hand, and began to strike him with the branch held in the other.

The movements were so quick that I could not adequately discern the assailant, but from what I could interpret of his features, he seemed positively inhuman. The terrible cry that had first awoken us resumed, now mingled with my brother’s pathetic screeches and pleas for mercy.

And I swear I saw droplets of blood leaping forth from my brother’s back, so forceful were the blows.

Then, the assault ceased.

My brother lay whimpering on the bed. To my horror, the attacker turned slowly towards me.

Gazing down upon me was a figure so hideous it could have been the Devil himself.

Words cannot depict the terrifying visage that to this day remains irreversibly burned into my memory, its insidious, twisting horns, the yellow eyes at once so animalistic in their diminutive size, and yet so fearsome, so pitiless.

Turning away, the beast seized my brother from the bed and threw him upon its back.

My poor, poor brother!

How he wailed, how he moaned, how he called out for mercy again and again—as he was carried off to a place where there was none.

And so, dear reader, now you have the whole, terrible story. Suffice it to say the ordeal reformed me. I was spared, and yet as even the most casual glance at the new birch branch that replaced its predecessor above our fireplace reminds me, if ever I allow myself to regress to anything less than an absolute paragon of tireless self-sacrifice and goodwill, I will have to suffer the return—of KRAMPUS.

Outside was Gray,

And raining very Hard.

He walked Home,

He went Inside,

And saw a tiny Patch

Just above the Sink.

He tried to Clean it,

but it went On him.

He tried to Rub it Off,

but then it Grew.

Soon

it was Almost all Over.

He went to the Doctor.

The Doctor said, I’m sorry.

The Doctor said, There is nothing I can do.

He said, It’s ok.

He said, Probably there never was.

Probably.

He went to a Building,

He went to the Top.

He didn’t look Down.

He closed his eyes

And then—

Soon

the Sun came Out.

Amidst all the Red

a nice blue Flower

Grew at the front of a Building.

The Witch lives in the Attic she’s Waiting. She’s got Something for Me. Before Momma used to make me go Up There to get Things. Then the Witch Always Almost Got Me. I never Saw Her Exactly, Always only Her Shadow and the Bottom Part of a long Black Dress. Whenever I got what Momma wanted and Turned to Go Down the Stairs I would Hear Things Creak and Moan and Whisper and I could Feel Something Running After Me and I could See the Bottom Part of a Long Black Dress from the Corners of my Eyes and All Around would be a Shadow so Big it would Almost Swallow Everything Up. Almost.

Momma Always called me Silly and said there was Nothing Up There.

Now that Momma Stayed Asleep I am by Myself. At Night I hear more Whispers; I know the Witch Wants me to go Up There. She’s got Something for Me.

I don’t want to Go. I don’t want to See . . .

I hear it at Night.

It began when I was Smaller,

but still

even now . . .

I keep the door Locked;

It can’t Open it.

But I Hear it

come over Slowly

Press up to the door

Sigh

Tap

and Tap

and Tap …

I hear it at Night.

It began when I was Smaller

but still

even now

I’m never sure

exactly when

I fall asleep.

He was Sick. That’s all it was. That was Everything. That Young, that Soon. They never even used that when they talked to him, that word, but that much he knew. When/if he got better he would know more.

Right now he knew the White, the sheets and the walls, and the Red. Sometimes in the sink. Sometimes from where they put the needles, sometimes on the sheets too.

Blood, it was about that. Something bad inside his. He didn’t know that yet. That young, that soon. He’d know later, when/if he got better and older enough to Understand. But what he’d know really, what he’d earn when/if he got better and older was a vision, a vision of Tragedy as something dumb and blind on a mountain of shit throwing the shit and other things at everyone, anyone in range. Tragedy forcing out shrieked and broken nothings pretending to be words.

He was Sick. That’s all it was.

It would never leave him, not really.