Date: Mon, 29 Feb 2016 04:14:14 +0000 (GMT)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Tales from the Male Bag: Earthquake Ethsu

TALES FROM THE MAIL BAG (FLIGHTS OF FANCY):
EARTHQUAKE ETHSU
By Zachyboy, as told to Zachyboy
M/M/b, oral, anal

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This one's not a real-life memory like the rest of the "Tales from the Male
Bag." This one's just a made-up fantasy I sent to my friend Scuba Steve
when we were joking around and being crude, but he liked it so much, he
told me I should stick it the Male Bag for safe keeping. He said:

"Earthquake Ethsu" is astounding. I love it. It belongs in "Tales from the
Male Bag." I mean, that's an ideal spot for it. Such a wonderful
catch-all. Not a supercenter like "Memphis Boy," more like a neighborhood
bodega in Manhattan. You can still get some mighty delicious fruits,
vegetables, meats, and dry rubs at those places. Plus, you've done too much
outstanding due diligence regarding food & currency names to have the Nifty
public NOT see it."

"Who knows," he said. "Maybe there'll be some Everest climbing sherpa who
gets back to you in very good English via fan mail from his iPhone...

"Very good story, Zachy. I like boys too. Some of these climbers show me
pictures of their kids back home. Whoof (also a yak sound), some of them
are so fucking hot. I want these climbers to bring their beautiful boys
back next year on a trekking trip. So I can see them in person. And play
with their beautiful, white cocklets at night when everyone else is
sleeping. Thank you for your story. We Nepalese need Nifty love too. Okay,
bye for now. Must get back to hauling rich people's shit up a dangerous
mountain trail."

Isn't he hilarious? I swear. Scuba Steve. That guy slays me.

Anyway, "Earthquake Ethsu" is not my usual "Tales from the Male Bag" fare,
but it does open our humble Male Bag series up to the occasionally
well-worded reader fantasy too, if any of you want to dabble in that ball
of wax. Let's subtitle them "Flights of Fancy" on top and see if anybody
likes them or gives a shit either way.

As Scoob so elegantly says about the Male Bag, "The nice thing about it is
it's like a massive table of hors d'oeuvres at an elegant brunch. You might
not like everything offered, but there are certainly some tasty treats &
morsels to please every palette."

Indeed, as Commander Tuvok would say. So with that end in mind...

TALES FROM THE MAIL BAG (FLIGHTS OF FANCY): EARTHQUAKE ETHSU

(Jesus, that's a lot of subtitles).

Dear Scoob,

In the news last summer, a 13-year-old Nepali boy -- let's call him Ethsu,
for lack of a more fitting pseudonym -- received a soccer jersey –
sorry, "football" jersey in more global nomenclature -- from a from a
world-famous football club player. Let's call him Famous Guy, for lack of a
more fitting pseudonym.

Ethsu's a 7th grader, and I'll be fucked up the rump if an earthquake
didn't hit RIGHT the fuck near his school last April. How's that for a
ball-buster? Poor kid.

But hey, you never know. News stories say the 13-year-old sun-kissed
darling was playing football when it hit, stood still when it happened, and
when it finished, shrugged it off and started playing football again. So
apparently, that and a smile gets your name in the news. And a football
jersey from Famous Guy.

"I love Famous Guy," he said. "I love Famous Team. One day I would love to
also play for Famous Team, because I love football."

Awww, that Ethsu. What a cutie.

Let's fuck him up the ass, shall we?

Scoob, I looked and looked in Nepali baby name dictionaries all over the
internet and I just couldn't find the meaning of his name, "Ethsu." I
strive for accurate reporting as you very well know. It could be a
combination-derivative of "Ethraj," which means "love," or "Elavarasu,"
which means "prince." Either way, it's a pretty name. I just can't find a
match and it's driving me batty. But oh well. Life goes on.

In this butt fucking, impolite fantasy of mine, Ethsu is ours for the day
in his post-earthquake era, and you and I are going hiking with him in his
home country. We're going to watch him pee and see his adorably-nozzled
nibble stick (perfectly intact) and his barely-pubescent, oh-so-fillable
butt crack when he drops his Nepali goat trousers to water the rice
lilies. Of that much we're certain. But honestly, who knows where else
things might lead. We are, after all, off the beaten path.

In fact, let's stop to eat first.

"Are you hungry, Ethsu?"

"Oh yes," he replies. "Hajur. Ho."

I don't know the local lingo, so you're kind enough to order for the three
of us – Scoob, Zachy and Ethsu, at a rugged mountain cafe at 9,400 feet
in Lukla during our trekking trip to Nepal. God, frequent flyer miles are
great, aren't they? It's all those trips to Hawaii you take.

It's early, it's morning, so we all have gufulki, which is puffed rice.

Ethsu wants kinema, which is a fermented soybean. And you and I smile
knowingly to each other as he smiles innocently and eats it, because it
smells pungent and slightly of ammonia, and you and I both know what that
does to me. His pungent little man trap is going to smell like that when I
drop his pants and kneel down behind him. His ammonia-scented penis is
going to smell like that when I nuzzle it to my nose and take it into my
mouth. I know I'm into the aroma and flavor of such unwashed delicacies far
more than you are, so fear not. I'll clean him up for you.

But why rush? It's still the breakfast hour. Along with the gufulki, you
and I have jand, a fermented finger millet alcohol and one of Nepal's
traditional beverages. Because frankly, Scoob, you know it and I know it,
we'd like to be a little tipsy for what's coming next.

The Nepalese boy taking our order nods at Ethsu but looks us right in the
eye, knowing what we're about to do to the boy, and asks with a grin, "You
want fries with that?"

Nah. Just fuckin' with you. He really says, "dhanibhad," which is a simple
thank you in Nepali. Then he smiles shyly and backs away. He's about
15-years-old, and for a song and a dance, we could fuck him straight up the
asshole too. That much is clear from the pleasant sway in his walk and the
wanna-do-me glimmer in his eye.

When he brings the check, you get off light at a total tab of only 150
Nepali rupees. What a deal. That's pretty-much the equivalent to the change
you might find in your couch cushions.

I'd offer to pay it, but fuck, this was your idea, so you can buy. If you
can afford summers in Maui, you can certainly afford breakfast in Nepal,
motherfucker. I'll catch the next round of jand. I wasn't sure what the
local libation of choice was going to cost us. But it turns out, nominal.

In fact, before we leave, last minute, you decide to get one for Ethsu,
too. He smiles. He giggles. He drinks it down. You wink at me and I wink at
you. He gets a little tipsy, which is just how we want him. It'll help him
have that "not so shy" feeling when we pull his pants down and get our
dicks out. In fact, it'll help us to go balls-deep inside his euphorically
tight 13-year-old hole, if we need such relief, just down the trail. WHEN
we need such relief, just down the trail. Let's not kid ourselves. This is
happening, Ethsu. Cowabunga. Sure as shit.

Can you imagine, Scoob? You, me, and Ethsu trekking through Northern Nepal?
His undies getting just the precise amount of spice for maximum Zachy
inhale effect? Yank down his pants, spread his legs apart and watch me lick
his shiny anus straight to heaven and back?

Then, testosterone racing through your veins, you just can't hold back any
more, so you grab him by the hand, grunt "me first," and fuck him in some
yak stable a mile from the cafe? Then you come back to the little lean-to
where I'm sunning myself, reading my Kindle, and whisper-tag me to do the
same?

"I like it," Ethsu whispers as he spreads his ass cheeks for me. I lick his
ball sack, all sweaty and salty. His whole groin smells like ass and boy
cock and the remnants of your copious semen load. He might have had a
frisky young Nepali classmate up his butt before, but he's never taken a
gut-hosing the likes of Good Old Uncle Scoob before. Wham bam, thank you
Sam. You come big, G.I. You cum very very big.

I take my turn next, adding my less-voluminous but nonetheless scalding
white fluids to his already dripping honeypot, then we hike back to the
cafe, bring him inside and buy him dessert, as some 100-year-old Sherpa
surviving on quinoa, granola, and yogurt gives us a knowing nod &
smile. The cum is still drying on Ethsu's face and inner thigh as our
babies swim fruitlessly up his South Asian Highway, looking for an egg to
impregnate.

"Pheri bhetaunla," you say to him when we take him back home.

I kiss him on the lips in his doorway and I don't care if anybody sees
me. You hug him to your chest and reach around to squeeze his lovely boy
ass, soft on the outside, squishy in the middle. A little runny afterbirth
and a couple of cum farts in the undies never hurt anybody. Especially a
13-year-old Nepali boy who truth be told, wanted to be fucked in the ass
anyway.

You slip him two 100-rupee notes for his troubles. His eyes bug out and he
looks happy as a clam. And that's only three bucks for you and me.

"Dhanibhad, Ethsu," you nod, as you grab your own dick and give it a
squeeze in front of him while you leer at his little dicklet bump. He
smiles shyly, bats his eyes at you and rubs his sore ass. His mom's going
to want to splash some club soda or yak spit on that undie stain before it
sets.

"Pheri bhetaunla," he says in his sweet, high voice.

Nepali and Loved-Boy for, "I hope we meet again."

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