Usta Swingers Club (ul. Józefa Strusia 5), in Warsaw, Poland ; and other things.

Friday, 16 August, Year 11 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Motto: Ha-ha, moar liek Whoresawi, amirite!

As per tradition, we shall start with the bottom end.


Above, you may admire the moon. It is full, principally of promise, with a thin crust of cheese on the sides, like a pregnant woman with child during the war in a bombarded warzone where amenties are hard and times harder to get by.

Below, a collection of empty glassware with trims.



Hannah introducing Martyna, the only Psyco Doll I ended up catching on film for some reason (that might have lots to do with the empty glassware). The Psycho Dolls are this group of chicks doing pro fireworks for hire and hardcoreii partying for fun. If you need anything blown up / set on fire / fulgurantly illuminated in passing, defo give them a tinkle.


Above : at this great all-night eatery boss PsychoDoll girl in charge took us to. I had the duck, which was great, everyone else had different other things which were also great, now if I only remembered the name...

Below : whitesauce'd pasta. Totally not a very large cumbiscuit, please to believe.

PS. It was delicious, too!



Above : newly discovered Thetan control device. It protects the wearer and a two meter radius around him from nefarious or maleficent influences. Wtf face not included. Buttplug integral to functioning within parameters not depicted.

Below : "I'm going to publish this, you know"



Above : device switched on. 'nuff said.

Our operators are standing by to take your orders, for the low, low price of nineteen thousand five hundred. Call now!


Above : Gosciniec Polskie Pierogi ftw, the sluts just can't get enough!

Below : shots of chocolate and things. Important parts of a balanced slutiii diet.



Above & below and onwards from now on : Usta Swingers Club. I very much recommend the joint, principally on the strength of the competent fellow running it (depicted here holding the illuminator), as well as his helper (actually taking the pictures).iv

The place is reasonably far out, past the river, maybe half hour's drive or so from the old town ; it's basically a converted house in a quiet, low density neighbourhood. Once inside, there's a faux marble stairwell to the left, and the lockers to the right (yes, that's right, they had the sense to provide lockers). Straight ahead there's the large room cut into the bar in one corner, and a L shape (in which the pictures were taken) with a well mounted stripper pole, a bunch of flashy if well worn furniture, and some further hidey-rooms off to the left. On a different corridor from the bar there's the smoking room, a corner shower with couches around, and a tiny two-person sauna. On the top floor there's four rooms, including a fucksling, various crosses and other implements, a lockable grate entrance to one, there's sliding mirrors, fuckmats, two improved bathrooms (one includes a two-three person shower, toilet and bidet ; the other a tub and another two-three person shower) and so following. It's evident that thought went in, over time, and alloyed with experience, to the point where condoms and bandaids are to be found strategically located and so following.

As far as I've seen the population is very heavily zero-to-low value malesv, which is sadly kinda par for the course in these sad end times, so what can you do... Yet they assure me it was a particularly slow night for coincidental reasons, which assurance I am very willing to believe, not on the basis of some evaluation of its truthiness, but because I like both the place and the owners, and intend to make it my official party residence in Warsaw. So bring your sluts some night, let's have them all suck on each other's tits!





I hereby certify great times were had ; and then we move on.

  1. The Polish people eminently can not spell. For instance, there's a hospital nearby, Hospital Polski for Polish Hospital, being as it is in Puland. However they wrote Hospital Whorski Wolski on all the signage (pro-nun-ciation guide : say w as wh and l as in Japan).

    Oh and speaking of pro-nun-ciations : the general area where this Polish Hospital Whorski is to be found located is called Prosta. I mean ... come on! []

  2. They even hooked Nicole up with Machine Gun Kelly's personal phone number, no joke. []
  3. I realised afterwards I eat there too. []
  4. The place has a very strict no-pictures rule, that they do actually enforce. Please don't get the wrong idea from my shameless display and then get yourself in trouble attempting to monkey-see-monkey-do, it really isn't how anything works. These were taken by arrangement -- that the fellows were pleasant enough to arrange me doesn't constitute any kind of license for you. []
  5. And in apparent complete denial, too. On two separate instances I had to send youngish dudes off explicitly. The first time, this dude sitting a few feet from us at the bar, who had three or four ouvertures cold shouldered, decided Nicole going to the bathroom's his chance to plant his beer right next to me and start yakking. I moved his drink back out and plainly asked him to please respect the boundaries, which rather put an end to the matter, though I suspect through the avenue of getting The Talk while I was busy elsewhere. The second time, this other dude sat his lanky ass down right next to me uninvited while Hannah was getting drinks, and proceeded to ask me whether I'm there to sit or do some action, because totally, his faggoty boybeard like the redditards wear nowadays is not merely amply sufficient offset for his glaring lack of any women, but outright and of itself license to fucking talk to me. I assured him I'm having a great time, to which he blathered something about how "some people want to go higher and higher" or somesuch, and assured me he didn't want to leave before checking with me. I assured him it's indeed time to leave, which apparently landed, as he took off.

    Here's a basic primer of the ground rules, applying not merely to some magical space called "swingers clubs", but absolutely universally everywhere throughout : if you don't own any women, you're dirt. You're worth less than a pet, which may in principle be cute. You're exactly like a child -- interesting to your parents and them only. You may safely assume absolutely nobody has any interest in you whatsoever, and you may just as safely assume any girl claiming otherwise is fucked in the head, and absolutely nobody you'd ever want anything to do with if you're made of anything but pure excrement. This "boy meets girl, they adultify each other" model is pure halucinatoria, the very substance of delirium and psychosis. It does not exist, nor ever has existed, nor ever will exist in reality.

    If, and permit me to underscore this as strongly as it may bear : IF you should be the lucky recipient of an invitation from one of the women, then and only then do you have a very limited license to present yourself before her owner, and it is strongly recommended you impress. Your incredulity ("what, me, really ?!") may be excused ; the outrageous impudence of self-centeredness may not. Really, nobody gives a shit what you perceive your needs to be -- the only difference between you and the waiters is that the waiters actually get paid, and get set to do the easier, cleaner work. They're way cooler than you, and definitely sit way above you on the social ladder.

    If you do own women, you use those women you own to hail the women other men own. And yes they will be judged, for sexual value, which yes includes the quality of their body as well as the quality of their mind (according to the owner's rules, not according to sheer bullshit), which is why it pays to own well trained, intelligent hotties rather than anything else (and also why it pays to own precisely and exactly the sort of girl you like -- she'll probably have a very easy time getting you connections with other men who like the same sort of woman, meaning the guys owning exactly the women you're interested in). And yes it's impolite (with a view to outright impudence) to approach the owner directly, unintroduced, in all cases. And so on. That's how this works.

    And of course if you're one of the morons with "options" in your own head, and you "cleverly" come up with "alternatives", by hiring a hooker for the evening, or pressing your sister into service for the evening etcetera, do expect your sadness is very transparently obvious to absolutely everyone else. After all, actual men train those women they own. Those chunks of deli meat you perceive insufficiently tickling your fancy actually spend all their born days tickling his fancy. They have a lot more experience at this than you. They see things that don't occur to you with the same frequency they breathe. Think of them like your mother, back when you were nine years old and she "inexplicably" knew exactly what the fuck's going on -- except, of course, they're way better than your mother ever could be, seeing how they're the biologically better cut of humanity, the elite that didn't end up shipwrecked in a monogamous marriage with that retard of your father. The odds are very much against you, "clever" boi. []

Category: La pas prin lume
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13 Responses

  1. Not entirely unrelatedly: ever read/review "Le Jardin des supplices" (O. Mirbeau, 1899) ? I came across the thing (in translation) not long ago, and enjoyed.

  2. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    Mircea Popescu 
    Sunday, 18 August 2019

    Yeah it's not bad, especially in its end-of-republic/dreyfus affair context, though I don't think I saw the translation. There was a film made too, but it's pretty meh.

  3. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    Mircea Popescu 
    Sunday, 18 August 2019

    Incidentally, can you believe some french morons are still claiming copyright / "reserving" "rights" in a piece of literature published IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY ?!

    Fucktards. Anyway, free car for download :

  4. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    Mircea Popescu 
    Saturday, 18 January 2020

    That unforeseeable moment's arrived when I actually spend way more time reading Trilema than writing for it! Damned thing's managed to convert me into a reader, of all people! Who the hell's gonna write it now, if the author himself is too busy reading it !?

    Not that I complain ; quite on the contrary, I'm delighted, for I have reached every thinking man's Valhalla, that place enchanted unthinkable where everything's well in order, an abundance of proper tools well oiled and correctly placed waiting patiently to be put to some use that they're definitely quite ready for...

    You may complain, of course ; whether you do or whether you don't, the problem's significant : I do in fact spend today as much time with Trilema as back in the day -- perhaps even more. I'm also aware of how things went, just as you are -- to take January as a proxy, it's 44 articles in 2009, 66 in 2010, 99 in 2011 (check out those numeric coincidences huh!), then 147 in 2012, one-and-a-half articles under the "each January's the previous times 1.5" linear extension ; then 54 - 55 - 50, 27 - 37 - 23, 16 and look now, 7 this month. They are somewhat larger, significantly more intricate pieces, it's true, and they take a whole lot more effort and time to actually read, definitely, but nevertheless -- the significant problem stays with us : it's not that I'm spending less time with Trilema today than yesteryear. It's that the fraction spent writing of that time's decreasing, because there's now so much great shit to read that wasn't there before I fucking wrote it.

    So, I guess, the only reasonable complaint's to go to that dumb whore of your mother : if instead of fucking drunks thereby producing you she fucked better men, you wouldnt need me to be your only link between existence in the concrete and humanity in the ideal, and we could all go read something else. Which, incidentally, I wouldn't be complaining about either.

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