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EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:
I Expanded My Enterprises
Life was a big fantastical adventure. I had a huge lust for
experiences and wanted to taste all that life had to offer. Back
then, I was a shameless hedonist and I frequented several
“clubs,” on the strip, doing my best to make the rounds. In the
first two weeks at Fort Bliss, we would start partying in the
barracks dayroom and then from there we’d go to the enlisted
men’s club on base, then to El Paso with the final destination
Juarez.
Eventually, my
first and only destination would be The New Years Club in
Juarez. I got to be such a fixture at two of the cathouses that
the girls would allow me to camp out with them entire weekends.
I became more
than just a customer with many of the girls… I became friends
with them. Well actually, perhaps the term mascot would be a
better description. I think it was because my extreme youth and
naiveté amused them.
I also think it
was because, unlike most service men, I was not the kind of guy
who tried to have sex with every woman in each of the clubs I
frequented.
Instead, I
chose to set my sights on just one woman per sex shop. A few
servicemen were even more focused than me. They became smitten
with one prostitute. Their lack of experience in the world led
them to believe that their first good lay was an indication that
they found home port with the woman that they should link up
with for the rest of their lives.
One of the
crazy things we GI’s liked to do was impress the women and each
other with our daring-do and our tolerance for pain. There were
vendors that came into the bars with an old wind up telephone
battery, which had cables running out from the box. At the end
of the cables were metal handles.
We would
actually pay the man a dollar to allow ourselves to be
“electrocuted.” Cranking the battery would build up the charge
and the stupid GI’s task would be to keep his arms straight out
for as long as possible. Eventually, even the hardiest of us
would find our arms bent and our bodies shaking and convulsing
until we begged uncle. Invariably, this would cause the women to
giggle and say, “Vincente’ muy macho.” Ahh, the things we
do to impress the female of the species!
Eventually, my
lust for life along with my compulsive promiscuity had me
gradually progressing in an ever-expanding concentric circle of my
mating territory. We had been warned from both Gunny Black and
other old salts that if we were going to indulge in whores,
fine, but at all costs we should avoid anything off the main
drag. More than a few of us ignored the wisdom of this advice
and nearly paid for this stupidity with our lives.
I fell into
this risky behavior because I learned from the incident with
Claudia and Maria that it was not a good idea to have more than
superficial relations with more than one woman at each club.
Not just
because of potential for jealousy and violence, but also because
if you failed to focus on only one woman, it would cost you
financially as well, and it would cost you a lot!
A soldier that
tried to play the field in a club was seen as someone with no
potential for a long relationship. The few soldiers that focused
on just one woman would very often not have to pay for
sex. As my benefactor Craig had said, the women would instead
make money from the beers that were bought for them and from the
tips they got when they danced or served liquor. Marie and the
other women I would regularly merge with also made money from
other G.I.’s when I was not around.
It was for
these reasons that I cultivated a woman in every bar on the main
drag. But unfortunately, that was not enough for me. My drives
demanded that I increase my exposure to other women. So I
ignored Gunny Black’s rules.
Instead,
perversely, I started to methodically, exhaustively explore an
increasing number of sleazy watering holes, juke joints, and
flesh-shops. I felt like a solitary jungle cat ghosting the
nights as I wandered the streets, laying claim to new flesh, to
indulge in an ever-increasing number of sex-partners. I fell
into a numbers game. How many different women could I achieve
orgasm with? My need to accomplish this goal had not been fanned
from the fires of insecurities that require proof that the more
partners you have means more self-worth, at least not entirely.
This need came mostly from curiosity.
I was simply
curious to see if sex would be different and more exciting with
different women.
My loins
compelled me to travel into the Outland fringes of Juarez. It
was in this sprawling fringe where cathouses existed of which
the poor citizens of Mexico could afford; where sex could cost
much less than a U.S. dollar. In fact, I found out later that
the fringes of Juarez were littered with unlicensed and
forbidden flesh dens where the women were not monitored by the
government of Mexico or overseen by any official establishment,
but instead where they operated as free-lance hookers.
It was later
that I found out that these places were referred to as “Rotten
Meat Retreats”. That they were unlicensed and forbidden by the
U.S. Military because of the higher incidence of venereal
disease, robbery, assaults, murder, and illicit drug use. It was
said that the Mexican government forbad such places because it
was harder to get their cut of the graft from any profits that
these questionable and dangerous off the path whorehouses pulled
in under the Mexican grid.
A fellow marine
and friend, named George who ended up getting stationed with me
in Cherry Point, said that the lower echelon of corrupt Mexican
police still manage however, to wring out whatever they could
scavenge from these fringe’s back alley ‘Meat Retreats.”
Some of these
unlicensed places I discovered from other soldiers, some from
cab drivers looking to score some money for themselves and
business for friends and relatives in the flesh and drug trade.
It was in these fringe areas where the infamous donkey sex shows
could be found.
I cannot count
the number of times that a cab driver or a street person would
sidle up to me or a group of us and say, “Senores’ would you
like to see a donkey fucking a woman?” “For a few pesos you
geet to see women sucking donkey dicks and geet her
pussy fuck by a great beeg ole donkey dick.”
I cannot count
the times that the guys that I would often be palling around
with would hoot-n-holler with excitement like a bunch of
mischievous children who had just been told that they were going
to take the ride on magic mountain.
They would all
pile into a cab or hurriedly follow the Mexican who invited them
down the street to see women get their pussies split open by a
donkey cock.
I was horrified
at the prospect that anyone would allow themselves to have sex
with an animal, especially horrified that they would allow
themselves to be choked or impaled by a donkey’s monstrous cock.
“How in the world could any woman find that exciting, I
wondered?”
I would always
refused to go, and of course the other soldiers would give me
shit about being a squeamish pussy.
They would yell
names at me such as, “Amateur! You fucking choirboy! You pussy
girl!” And so forth.
I cannot count
the times when these guys would joyously described what they saw
that indeed a real donkey did fuck a real woman, who also sucked
off the donkey until it shot it’s load, which according to my
fellow soldiers was a substantial load… enough to drown the
hapless hooker sucking the donkey’s cock.
Also according
to them, the donkey would have to wear a harness of sorts so
that the woman would not accidentally take the full length and
suffer internal injury. There was the urban legend of instances
when the harness would break and the whore would take the full
length, thus causing her death.
The thought of
such things made me want to vomit. I also wondered about the
emotional profile of men who enjoyed going to these shows. A lot
of these guys went more than once.
I often wonder
what they are doing today, what sort of careers they have
gravitated towards? I imagine they either went into animal
husbandry or very likely found a niche in Postal management.
It was also in
these fringe areas where late at night, young boys would come up
to me and inquire, “Psstt, psstt! Hey meester, would you
like to fuck my seester? She’s a virgin senor.”
It was in these
areas of Juarez, men and boys would often approach and ask us
variations of this offer, to fuck their sisters, mothers, wives
and daughters. The thought of some guy taking a soldier home to
have sex with any of his female relatives in exchange for money
was too hard to grasp.
However, my
chronic state of inebriation and my own emotional dysfunction
and appalling lack of normal socialization during childhood had
dulled my perceptual abilities to fully understand the whys and
what-fors.
Often I would
ponder and consider the possibility that these women, the
mothers, daughters and sisters of these men were just like me:
that they also loved distractions of the flesh. “After all,
I would often reason, I would not want to deny my mother or
sister or anyone you cared for a satisfying sex life, would
you?”
I often
imagined that the Mexican culture was free of the suffocating
puritanical streak that had infected the United States until the
recent freedoms promoted and enjoyed by the hippy movement of
the sixties.
I even tried to
justify that if my mother or brother made a few bucks pimping me
out to have sex with an attractive female, then all the better
for all of us.
However, down
deep I knew I could not stomach pimping my mother, sister or any
female relative.
Down deep I
felt that what I was seeing was wrong and I could not quite
articulate to myself as to why all of this was wrong. I did not
have installed within me the requisite programming to
understand; so I buried whatever voice of morality that was
trying to rear it’s voice of reason and I went on indulging in
questionable and dangerous promiscuity.
It was not
until later that I understood the true horror of what I was
immersed in, and why the people of these fringe areas bartered
their relatives – sex in exchange for money.
The worst
however, were the men who offered soldiers sex with very small
boys and girls depending on their preference, even babies were
offered for sexual gratification. Despite my lack of normal
socialization, I knew in fact that this was evil.
I was dismayed
to see that some of the soldiers I knew heard a siren song that
appealed to what I felt was some godless part of them. I dread
to think of what these people are doing today. I often wonder,
“What career choice have they made? What are they doing with
their lives?”
As I said, some
of the army guys that trained with me on the Anti-aircraft Hawk
Missile Systems often wandered into these forbidden zones with
me, or most of the time, I would happen to run into a few of
them as I explored these “Meat Retreats” on my own.
It so happened
that many of these places were more like opium dens, and sex was
a side issue, if an issue at all. It was in such unlicensed
places that other indulgences besides sex were offered.
It was in dark,
dank places like these that I became a fascinated observer of
the dark and profane, of other humans as well as my own.
Until I went to
Juarez, my exposure to heroin, junkies, or other species of drug
addicts were only limited to, rubbing elbows with some of the
tough kids, the recreant members of Upper Merion high school.
Kids such as
Precious, Butch, Jack W. and even the principal’s daughter; and
I certainly never saw anyone do anything stronger than snort
coke, smoke grass, take a few downers or uppers, or simply drink
alcohol, the good ole’ American way of achieving altered states
of unconsciousness. I have never seen heroin or anyone using
heroin until I went into the service.
One night, a
few of my army buddies and I went to one of these dens. Waffling
throughout the air was the metallic taste of cheap perfume, sour
sweat, dry rot, and the acrid fumes of cigarettes, pot and
heroin.
Men and women
were sprinkled about the darken rooms drinking beer, tequila,
and smoking pot or heroin. In between tokes and slugs of tequila
they’d nod off. The music in these places was usually your
typical country-western and Spanish fare.
Once, I was
hanging out with an Army soldier named Buster and I mentioned to
him that I always thought that junkies used needles to mainline
heroin instead of smoking the stuff. I asked him why I didn’t
see anyone using belts, heating up spoons of powder, or using
syringes, just like drug addicts in the movies did.
Buster, a junky
himself, told me that junkies in the army avoided shooting up,
mostly, because they were afraid that the tell-tale sign of
puncture wounds, bruises and collapsed veins would signal army
authorities that something was amiss.
He said, that
the proper term for the equipment I was talking about was what
junkies called “works”.
Buster said
that it was a risk for anyone that used heroin to have their
‘works’ laying around, someone was bound to find it and residue
on the spoon and the syringe would be incriminating. He said
that most Junkies that used all that stuff kept it hidden and
off the premises where they lived.
Buster said
that it was too uptight of a situation to shoot up in front of
strangers, especially out in the open. Evidently, when you
smoked heroin, it was easy to make a makeshift pipe out of a
toilet paper roll, tin foil and tape. (A regular fucking McGiver
and Mr. Science he was.), that explains why I never saw anyone
shooting up heroin.
Buster and the
other junkies would often try to talk me into using. They were
always telling how great the stuff was. Just like the drug users
in high school use to tell me how great their drugs were.
My newfound
compatriots acted like they were looking out for my best
interest. Somehow they thought that drugs enhanced everything
about life. The users of opiates told me how their anxieties and
pain would subside and they would feel euphoria.
The users of
speed or cocaine, told me that they would feel more alert,
alive, energized, -- their use of speed helped them to negate
the affects of alcohol, it could allow them to drink larger
quantities of alcohol. They claimed that their interest and
pleasure of sex was enhanced.
The users of
pot, acid, or mushrooms told me that their use of these drugs
would allow their minds to expand, and that time and space would
be altered. Each group wanted me to use their favorite drug of
choice. Some of the junkies I knew did it all.
To be honest,
from my observations, I thought that drugs did exactly the
opposite of enhancing their lives. Almost everyone I met in the
military that had not just experimented with drugs, but, also
instead developed addictions to heroin, cocaine, glue, speed,
downers, and yes, even alcohol – fell into this group.
Most drug users
I know got their start with the drug of their choice in either
Mexico or Vietnam.
In Mexico, I
only used alcohol, although I had started drinking in high
school at the young age of fourteen.
In high school
I used alcohol only as a prop for partying, I had not actually
acquired a taste for it until I went to Fort Bliss.
At times I even
drank excessive amounts of alcohol, but to my way of thinking, I
was not addicted, I was not an alcoholic.
Yes, I had a
newfound fascination for the dark and profane in both myself,
and others, that and my obsessive lust is why I had stumbled on
to these fringe places; but that did not mean I felt comfortable
with the realities of drugs or addicts.
In fact, I have
always had a disdain for addicts of any sort, even alcoholics. I
was socialized to believe that addicts were somehow, weak,
immoral cripples, psychologically imbalanced, uncouth and dirty
– if not in obvious ways, then in secretive ways.
A part of me
did not trust addicts and that part of me was always looking for
them to pull a fast one on the people around them; to steal,
cheat, lie, or any number of unspeakable, reprehensible things.
I felt that
junkies had a warped perception of reality. For example they
claimed that heroin, horse, junk or whatever the fuck else they
called it, -- enhanced their functioning.
In the three
and half months that I seen these guys indulging in their drug
habits; they came straight from basic training, young and robust
and the picture of youth and vitality.
Within a few
months they looked cold, grey, and appeared as if they suffered
from chronic low-grade fever.
From my
observations, when Buster and his ilk weren’t using, the only
thing they seemed to talk about was about how good the shit made
them feel or how much they wanted to score. They talked and
thought about drugs with the intensity and reverence that I had
talked and thought about food and sex.
Hell, they even
talked with more than their fair share of nostalgia about their
first time using junk, their bad experiences, and the close
calls with the law.
They were
nostalgic about the bad drugs that they used and the variety of
unsavory and dangerous situations that their addiction to drugs
had cause them. To my way of thinking, it was all so fucking
crazy.
To me, their
addictions seemed to be an abomination of what nature had
intended. Their addictions seemed designed to blunt both the
sharp pleasures of the flesh and their will to live fully.
Their
addictions caused them to make rash decisions, to hang out with
questionable people in questionable places.
Their
addictions and life style was the antithesis of what I was
about. I didn’t have an addiction by God!
To my way of
thinking, my lifestyle and my pursuit of sex were healthy.
For me, sex had
a duality of pleasurable feedback, during which a part of me
expanded beyond my body to an area of mystic-time-space as the
other part of me was immersed more fully with my body, -- all
the way down to the cellular level, or even perhaps the atomic
level. Sex improved everything.
With sex I knew
I lived more fully.
In contrast,
Buster and his drug cronies lay around and nodded off with women
who scored the drugs for them. Almost without exception these
women also used the drugs with Buster and his buddies.
Their women had
become hags before their time, wrinkled creased leathery faces
grinning listlessly as they smoked their shit, took their pills,
snorted their powders.
Half of their
teeth missing, the remaining yaggers were brown and black with
rotten decay and rocking in the sockets; their tongues
compulsively moving, worrying and worming their way through the
evicted gums where teeth had once stood.
The age of
their bodies prematurely warped from alternating stints of
undernourishment, physical neglect, and the saturation of
chemicals into their bodies, a constellation of factors
appalling to nature.
A few of them
had appalled nature so aggressively that they had become
youthful hags with pendulous breast, like leather baker’s bags,
they laid with their bodies tumbled and entwined with Buster and
his friends as they nodded off repetitively.
These men and
women would often absent-mindedly rock their bodies as if to an
unheard tune.
I smugly,
acknowledge to myself that in my life, I didn’t need drugs to
feel alert, energetic or exhilarated.
My loins had
kept me amped! My libido counteracted those nights that I
sometimes over indulged in booze and under indulged in sleep.
Since my first
time with Carlita and most times since her, sex was my high, my
rush, and my method to merge with God.
This was why I
fell into a numbers game. I was curious to see if sex would be
different with each woman, I wanted to see if I could amplify
the rush, to stretch my synapses that lit up the circuits of my
body and brain.
I wanted to
merge with young women and older women, women of every ethnic
background. Something new, something old, something borrowed,
something crude…”
For me, sex was
like a cozy cosset of comfort.
As I sat in the
dimness of the “Rotten Meat Retreat” sucking down my bottle of
Mexican beer, I observed my comrades of the U.S. army with their
female wraiths, their familiars lounging about like the living
dead.
I looked about
at some of the other patrons scattered throughout the rooms.
There was a mixed crowd of mostly Mexicans and the smattering of
us military gringos.
In a booth
across from me I noticed again a woman who had been lying on her
side, nodded off, unawares of the world around her.
A female
companion of hers had been sitting next to her drinking while
her one hand was working under her sleeping friend’s dress,
playing with her pussy.
The unconscious
woman was wearing what appeared to be a clingy black one-piece
dress of sorts. From my vantage point she also appeared to be a
nicely formed woman of her thirties.
There were
other people in the room; drinking and a few women had managed
to pull out the cocks of their male companions.
I see a guy in
view of everyone getting a blowjob.
The woman who
is sucking his cock is moving her head up and down mechanically.
An old Boot
Camp marching chant sprang into my mind, “I know a girl all
dressed in brown; she makes her living going up and down…”
Obsessed about
sex as I was, receiving head in the dim light of a public place,
even a place such as this, especially a place such as
this, was not very comforting for me. In fact, this had happened
to me at another place not much different than the one I was now
sitting in.
It wasn’t that
I objected to public scrutiny because I was unduly modest, it
was just that I had felt like an animal that was in constant
danger from attack as the woman had fellated me.
I had felt so
exposed, so vulnerable…
“Your not in
Kansas any more Toto”, my mind whispered.
A quote from
some voice long forgotten also whispered in my mind, “The
road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” I shuddered
as I felt queasy distrust of the voice.
Yes, this
hole-in-the-wall fringe watering hole was just the place for
anyone fascinated with the darkness of the human soul and the
profane.
As I pondered
my place in the scheme of things, I felt smug that I had avoided
the pitfalls and traps of addictions. My passion did not put me
in harms way as had the addictions of lesser people sprawled all
about me.
Suddenly, the
jukebox started to play a Latin tune with a strong driving beat.
It reminded me of some of the music that Carlita had played just
five years prior. The instant the song started, the unconscious
woman popped up from her coma just like a Jack-in-the-box.
She pulled away
from the woman who had been playing with her pussy, climbed off
the bench and threw herself into one of the most exotic and
sultry dances I have ever seen.
I felt an
immediate throbbing in my penis. I ached for her terribly.
She moved with
primal grace, her body undulating hot and sultry. Her body was
full figure, youthful, almost perfect. Her face was old before
her time. It was a hard face, a face that had once been
beautiful beyond compare. She had hard lines of pain and
substance abuse etched deeply around her mouth and forehead.
At that
instant, I imagine a bond of energy between her and I, and then
I chided myself for such imaginings.
As if on cue,
she glided over to me and pulled me on to my feet. She tugs me
forward to join her in the primal dance.
I felt the call
of the wild, my heart became a jackhammer; my blood was burning,
my synapses screaming. She spun away from me and then glided in
towards me before I could react. She put her arms around me, her
hands musing up the hair on the back of my head.
Then she did
exactly what Carlita had done five years before, she insinuated
her supple leg between my legs into my crotch and grinded
against my painful erection.
She kissed me
and worked her tongue in my mouth. She leaned back to look at
me, her large dark eyes blazing with animal ecstasy, her full
lips parted in a hard feral smile that showed bad teeth.
Everything about her reeked of dark sinful pleasure, drug abuse,
disease and sharp regrets.
Despite all of
my instinctual warning bells were clanging and my survival
centers in my brain screaming to break away and run, I ached for
her terribly.
I wanted her
like a scavenger wants road-kill.
I wanted to fuck her
like I have never fucked any other woman, and damn the
consequences!
I didn’t
realize it then, but I had become a sex addict and I was
foolishly enjoying my dependency.
We were
dancing, but the way we were grinding against each, we may as
well have been fucking. She was unbuttoning my pants and
reaching for my swollen unit. I knew she was going to peel my
pants off in front of God and everyone in the room.
Instinctually I
resisted the public display of rutting. She grabbed my hand and
started running in the direction of the door.
I thought that
she was going to take me home with her where we could fuck in
privacy. Instead, she ran, towing me in hand down a short dark
hall, to a room with a door left open.
It was then
that I realized that she was a working gal, a working gal past
her prime. There was no negotiating of fees; it was going to be
a freebie. I knew that come what may I was going to have the
sexual experience of my life.
My head was
swimming and to steady myself, I looked around the place.
I looked down
the hall of which we had just stumbled through and I saw vomit
marking the hallway in intervals.
In the air, my
tongue was affronted from the metallic taste of cheap perfume,
sour sweat, vomit and dry rot. The mattress in the dingy room
was patterned and colored with various stains of urine, sweat,
dried blood and no doubt the drippings and splattering of jism
from a thousand men.
The stains of
blood on the bare mattress were so large, so extensive that it
looked like the Texas chainsaw massacre had taken place there.
This musty
looking mattress from hell looked as if it had never been
exposed to the light of day - it was a forensic nightmare!
It was then and
there that it once again hits me… I had become a sex junky.
I had become my
dad and I was dismayed.
Until that
moment, I had felt so righteous in my judgment of Buster and his
junky friends, so smug in my feelings of superiority that I had
blinded myself to certain realities; ironically and in point of
fact my perceptual grasp of reality was quite
distorted.
It is true that
my addiction certainly did not blunt the sharp pleasures or
functioning of the body, nor did my addiction have many of the
drawbacks of any of the drugs that people are uncomfortable
with.
However, my
addiction as my compatriots’ drug addictions caused me to
make rash decisions, to hang out with questionable people in
questionable places. It was the cause of me putting myself in
harms way.
I tore myself
out of her parasitic grasp and ran from the Meat Retreat.
I was now cured
of my fascination with the darkness and profane, in both myself
and other people… mostly. I now thirsted for the light.
It was from
that night that I endeavored not to play the numbers game with
how many women I could fuck, but instead to fuck a few as often
as I felt compelled to. That was my new compromise.
I did not
realize that just like any dedicated junky, I was still in
denial, nor did I realize that I was rationalizing that my new
alternatives was all the cure I needed. Just like most addicts,
I felt I had a handle on my new method of use. Little did I
realize that I would wrestle with my compulsions for the
majority of my life.
Despite the
fact that my additions put me in situations of harm; I was lucky
that during all of these sexual excursions from the main drag
all the way out to the fringe outlands of Juarez that I never
pick up any venereal disease.
During my time
at Fort Bliss, we were required to go to sickbay for a full
check up to see who did or did not bring home something bad.
We actually had
to be checked out twice, because several guys got infected with
assorted STD’s. Some soldiers got the clap. A few other G.I.’s I
knew got syphilis, crabs (although down there they were called
Mexican lobsters), and a few other diseases that I had never
heard of before.
A few poor
buggers were infected with more than one type of disease.
Not
surprisingly all of the men who were infected had wandered off
the main drag, into the fringes. The guys that were junkies
seemed to have more than their fair share of diseases, (Except
for the guys who were only heroin junkies).
Someone told me
that was because men who did only heroin lost their desire for
sex.
“That
certainly would not be my drug of choice.” I mused.
At sickbay, I
was poked prodded. I had my blood drawn and was asked dozens of
questions. We were shown training films and pamphlets that show
heinous pictures of what appeared to be some poor fools Johnson
rotting off.
Someone
whispered, “That’s the Black clap… there is no cure for that.”
Hearing that
cause sharp shards of fear to spread in my guts. “Thank God,
I didn’t catch anything”, I thought. Until the film, the
mantra of the day for horny soldiers was, “Nothing that a shot
of penicillin can’t cure.”
“Every form of
addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or
morphine or idealism.”-----Carl Jung…
“Or for that matter –
even sex”--- Lazarus Chimera
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(GENESIS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(EXODUS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(REVELATIONS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(JUDGMENT DAY)
THE MARINES: GOD'S CHOSEN
WARRIORS
VINCE'S GYM
CONVERSATIONS WITH NEO
NEO TEACHES ME THE ART OF WAR
& PEACE;
His Version of The Matrix
MEMORIES OF MY FATHERS
ZEN & THE ART OF RESISTANCE
TRAINING:
A Yogic & Scientific Approach To Weight
Lifting
ZEN & THE BIOLOGY OF
TRANSCENDENCE:
The First Matrix of Psychic
Phenomena
ZEN & THE ART OF KINESIOLOGY:
The Yogic & Scientific
Approach To Movement
ZEN & YOUR ENERGY SYSTEMS
ZEN & VARIOUS ASPECTS OF
TRAINING
HOMEPAGE TO ADVENTURES IN MARINE BIOLOGY
HOMEPAGE |
