also a little more:

Sometimes I get really weird mail.  Sometimes I get really offensive mail.  Sometimes I get really uplifting mail.  And sometimes I get this:

• Conversation started March 1

• MADAME X
  I just watched some of ur movies and they r really great I LOVE ur eyes. I just noticed that u fake it alot, and was wondering do u find it hard to get there or do u just not let urself? I apologize if thats somethung u would rather not say I was just curious.

  MADAME X

  I thought I should apologize for my last message, I didnt mean to come off mean or cocky or anything I think you have amazing eyes so i couldnt help but watch them so it just made me wonder what you were thinking.
• March 2

• MADAME X

  I know your probably not getting these but I gotta ask you have you ever seen Amy Lee from Evanescence?You both have same eyes.
• March 2
• 

  1:52pm

  Sovereign Syre

  Hard not to think you’re an asshole when you come out of the gate assuming I’m faking it. Have a nice day.
• March 17

• MADAME X

  Sorry

• March 22

• MADAME X

  When I was 6 I got raped and he made me feel like I liked it, when I was 8 I was in a really bad car accident that left me in a body cast for 6 months after I spent 6 months in the hospital first. I was alone until I was 15 and i found a girl who was 18 that I just couldnt be without, after being with her for ten years I watched her drown in a dam, then I spent the next ten years on vodka.After going through that I have been taking care of my nieces and nephews for the last 8n years now I take care of my 90 year old grandmother. I found your pic on you tube and i was attracted to you. so I just wanted to explain why I ask you what I did because most of my life i have had to do that . I really am sorry and I hope you can forgive me.
• March 23
• 

  9:00am

  Sovereign Syre

  You should try a support group. It would probably be helpful for you to connect with people in your real life.

• March 24

• MADAME X

  No, thnx. and good luck to you,Bye
• April 17

• MADAME X

  I dont know why it matters so much but I need u to know that I really am sorry for being so forward im not like and dont know why I did but i felt lonely i guess. I truly am sorry.

A few things in looking at this. One I come off like an asshole. I battle with this. With the amount of shit that gets hurled at you as an adult performer, it is difficult to always know at the beginning of a conversation when compassion is called for. Moreover, these aren’t that uncommon for me. What disturbs me is that there are probably countless people out there, interacting this way, seeking help from those of us that are completely unqualified to give it.

It’s the paradox of my position.

The strangest part of being in porn is the way people just ham-handedly try to hand off their sexuality to you, like its your job, like its your job to care, etc.

I also have come to realize what a sexual wasteland most people find themselves in. I’ve come to feel like a character in an H.P. Lovecraft novel anymore, and civilians are these weird alien beings and I’m wandering in the borderlands of their psychosexual landscape.

Next time you get mad at me for not tweeting back or being curt…please refer to the above exchange and realize that its nothing personal, but this is the kind of thing I get handed on a weekly basis.

I did debate with myself about posting this exchange, as it might be exploiting this person, who for as much as I can tell from her FB profile etc, is indeed real…but I figured I expose myself for the asshole I can be as much as she is exposed, so it was kind of fair game.

Tiffany Tyler by JM Darling May 3, 2013 Los Angeles.

The only right reason to enter any profession is because you want to.  There is suffering, consequence, and struggle in life no matter what choices you make.  Be a samurai, expect to be destroyed in battle, and then enter action with boldness.

I of course realize that every hotel and motel room has a history, but I strongly believe that that history should not be written, as it were, on the walls. We have all read or seen news stories about drug-induced murder/homicides in seedy motel rooms and have heard the tales of depravity and excess that take place inside the gilded chambers of five-star hotels, but all remnants of those sordid affairs should be (and in most cases, are) erased from the premises, leaving every new occupant of a room with the feeling that, at the very least, no forcible entry ever took place in it. I really don’t think that is too much to ask.

And yet, this is apparently not the opinion of the management of a certain lodging facility in Coral Springs, Florida. I will refer to this establishment as CSI, an acronym which you may interpret any way you like. You may take it to stand for either Coral Springs Inn, or Crime Scene Innvestigations, the latter being my preferred moniker for the place.

I submit into evidence, People’s Exhibit A:

This is a photograph taken of the door to my motel room from the inside. Notice that what might be referred to as the “male” half of the lock, the half that is attached to the door itself and is inserted into the “female” half, which is attached to the door jamb, has been broken off, as if by some terrific force exerted from the other side of the door. Maybe a police officer kicked the door in, or maybe it was the work of a drug-addled and jealous boyfriend, or maybe it was something else entirely, but what is unmistakable is that it is the tell-tale sign of a violent struggle that I would prefer not to be reminded of as I’m settling in for the night.

Though the photo below doesn’t indicate criminal activity per se, it was such a perfectly ridiculous sight that I simply had to share it.

It seems that the management of CSI could contrive no better place to situate a no smoking sign than the bottom of an ashtray. I would love to have been present for the conversation that lead to that ingenious decision. It must have been decided that table tents were either too expensive or too unwieldy and that the best possible way to discourage guests from smoking on the premises would be to furnish every room with an ashtray, but to place it upside down and put a sticker on the bottom of it, thereby disguising its original and intended purpose.

And now back to our forensic analysis. The People present Exhibit B:

This is a close-up photo, taken from the main room, of the door-knob to the bathroom. Notice that a hole has been drilled into it, which was obviously undertaken in order to break the lock. Someone had very likely been locked in the bathroom and was either unwilling or unable to turn the handle and escape to the balmy solace of the main room. Was this person unconscious? Injured? Perhaps dead? I do not know what scenario might have unfolded in the confines of this bathroom or why it required the use of a drill to help resolve it, but I do wish that I had been spared the sight of the tell-tale signs of the episode, which compelled me to imagine what horrors might have transpired in or near the very shower in which I hastily washed myself after an evening on-stage.

Even under the best circumstances, it’s disquieting to consider what unpleasantness might have taken place in bathrooms used by others, but the added suggestion of a forced entry brings to mind things far more unsettling than mere stomach viruses. So if you happen to be in the business of hotel/motel management and there’s a double homicide in one of your rooms, the job of restoring the room to a state of habitability is not complete simply because the folks in housekeeping cleaned the blood off the walls and flipped the mattress. Why not go the extra mile and replace the locks that have broken and door-knobs that have been drilled through? Your guests may not notice that all the relevant hardware is intact, but they will often notice when it isn’t.

In this movie I play the kinds of characters I don’t typically get to play in a series of vignettes that I wrote. I have a fetish for the overwrought perfectionist, the repressed Christian woman, the Stepford Wife…In these scenarios I explore themes of surrender to forbidden lesbian impulses.  I basically took the chance to play out the fantasies and sex acts that excite me….so yes, this is a selfish proposition, but I think it’s going to be one where the audience wins.

I cast gorgeous girls that I love working with and I had Dana Vespoli there to shoot camera and stills.  Dana and I get each other on “a cellular level” as she puts it, and she’s one of the only people I can think of that I trust absolutely.  She was really able to capture what I wanted on the first go.

I really feel that this project is something unique.

Well I KNOW it does, because Ela Darling performs her first anal scene in the movie.  I was very honored to have her give me something so special and I think the scene really earned it.

Here are some preview pictures from the movie.  I should have a street date and a trailer for you soon.

A birthday present from me on my birthday, a little peek at the birthday suit fun I had with the inimitable Steve Prue at Shangri-la Studios BK on Valentines Day of this year <3

Wall paper designs by the smokin hot Cliffton Creque- Please take and spank!

XO

Sovereign Syre by JM Darling.

Back in the day

My first time stripping in 2005 was really a long time coming, according to my mother at least.  She had told me my whole life that stripping might be something I’d have to rely on to make it through college and that, given my natural affinity for what is now known as twerking, I would probably be pretty damn good at it. My Mom had no idea that after moving to New York at 17 to attend an acting conservatory, I would turn to the art form known as the “Strip Tease” not to pay for school but to save my artistic soul.

After suffocating in rooms with other aspiring actors, doing place work, learning how to be in the moment and studying the method, I simply wanted to have fun. My school spoiled its students with the opportunity to go to innumerable free plays and musicals.  The only hitch was they were performed by the conservatory’s company (to which I would later graduate).  I saw many “things” performed, but there was only one show that truly moved me: a grotesque German piece from the Weimar era about a young gay man whose dalliances with his male and female friends eventually eroded all their friendships.  It ended in a spectacular scene of gore with his female lover begging him to fuck her as she lay on the ground center stage, rapidly opening and closing a pair of large scissors after cutting a hole in the crotch of her pants. The final image was the two of them tangled on the floor rutting as she begged for a grander climax (death) and he ripped the scissors from her hands and plunged them into the side of her neck, spraying viscera across the back wall of the stage.

I went to every possible showing of that play. Sometimes I was one of only a handful of people in the audience. It moved me. The longing, the fluidity of the sex on display, the jaded vibe of that particularly decadent era.  I saw that and I thought, “That’s me! That’s me, Mom!”  One of my favorite films, Velvet Goldmine, has a similar moment: Christian Bale looks at the David Bowie doppelganger on the telly all camped up in glitter eye makeup and screams to his bewildered parents, “That’s me Da!!!”  I found a lot of similarities between these two eras, the glitter rock age and the Weimar republic, both drenched in dilapidated glamour, androgyny, and theatrics. The feeling that compelled me to keep going back to that Weimar piece was the same feeling that compelled me to make my first Burlesque act.

Drawing on the Weimar era as my theme, I chose to make a tribute act to the infamous dancer Anita Berber, a woman whose fearlessness and vanity I envy to this day.  Women like her are rare.  Our modern day equivalent might be Tilda Swinton, but even that makes Berber sound tame.  Anita waltzed into restaurants wearing a monocle, a fur coat, a live monkey… and nothing else.  She routinely held press conferences in her private apartments fully nude.  She performed new, never-before-seen movements that bewitched and shocked audiences.  Her brazenness and eccentricity is the stuff of legend.  Even now, looking at stills of her dancing I feel the electric hunger of seeing something raw and new.

Gorgeous Anita

I chose to perform, with total fidelity to all available documentation, a recreation of her famous Morphine Act, in which she confronted audiences by actually shooting up on stage.  I prepared an all-black ensemble that updated her original look, I cropped my platinum hair into a graphic bob in reference to the period, and I bleached my eyebrows to give my eyes a hollow look.  I found a lovely song (also entitled Morphine by Jollie Holland) that evoked the mood I wanted, not overtly sexy but languid and sensual.  And then I rehearsed every day. For a month.

At that time in New York there was one show every Burlesque beginner wanted to be in, and that was The World Famous BOB’s New Girl Review. To this day, I love BOB and feel as though I owe a her great debt for giving me the opportunity she did.  I was nobody. And she remains one of the most incredible stage presences I have ever met. Nobody loves you like BOB loves you.  It’s just the facts.  And as I stood backstage, looking very different from all the other girls and feeling very out of place, she held me to her giant bosom and told me, “Poodle you’ll be great!”

Look at her!

At that time, a lot of the burlesque I saw around the city was neo and much more uptempo than the currently in-vogue classic style. My all black, moody, slow narrative was a bit out of step with the rest of the show, but it was the story I wanted to tell… and down to my electrical tape x’s on my nipples, I was proud to be different.  I was also totally about to pee myself. I wasn’t nervous about being almost naked in front of a sold-out house (I had already performed nude as Queen Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream). I wasn’t nervous about the fact that I performed the first half of the act completely blind because I wore a black sash over my eyes. I wasn’t nervous about disgracing my parents or ruining my acting career.

I was nervous that the audience wouldn’t be transported. I was worried they wouldn’t feel like they were right there with me in my macabre world. I wanted to do to them what the play had done to me. I wanted to take them away from this place.

But before I could work myself up into too much of a panic, the lights came up.  There I sat, heaped atop a folding chair with a blindfold on and a syringe in my hand.  The melody started (“give me that ol’ fashioned morphine….”) and away I went, just as I’d rehearsed. My mind echoed with the whispered advice of my old dance teacher while I attempted to project being high on a drug I’d never taken. For those few minutes, I was a beautiful strung out sloppy mess, one who took her clothes off because she just felt that good. Each clumsy move had been rehearsed over and over, and the effect was perfect. I ended where I began, sprawled in my chair, only naked in drug induced coma… to radio silence. Because I couldn’t hear the applause, which I have been told was deafening. But I do remember BOB saying, “Well, I just brought you some Broadway shit up in here!”

With that, I knew I would never be an actor. I was always meant to be an old fashioned stripper.

XO

Your humble correspondent

“Feel like making $200 the easy way?”

Sally, like me, was an artist and a pervert.  The difference between us was that, at this point, I had yet to monetize my perversions.  She, on the other hand, was a comparative mogul of filth.  A successful dominatrix with a sterling reputation and a frankly bewildering arsenal of gear and clothing, she’d come into my life when I very unexpectedly attended the Black and Blue Ball.  A friend’s friend had to drop out, which left an open ticket.  I attended, but only after being fussed over by a couple of dommes, trussed up in fishnets and rope and heels.  I looked, I thought, like a particularly chic lesbian.  Sally used me as a footrest for a while and we escaped to her place in Queens.  I woke up, realized my non-rope-heels-and-fishnet clothing was locked in my fellow partygoer’s apartment, and had to make the long trip back into the city looking, after an evening’s revelry, like a disheveled streetwalker.

But that’s not really what this story is about.

This story is about when Sally asked me if I’d like to make $200 the easy way.

At this point, we’d been lovers and play partners and friends, and I had a pretty solid idea of what she did for money.  Hell, I’d had a pretty solid idea before I met her, having attended several houses of domination as a young man (if not for sex workers, I’d never have had any idea how to process my more gonzo desires).  But all of my experience with sex work was on the client side.  Sally wanted to know if I was ready to hop the fence.

“So he loves having me come over and make fun of his penis.  And he loves it when I bring friends who humiliate him about it,” she explained.

“So it’s, what, small?”

“No.  I mean, it IS, but he doesn’t like being humiliated about that.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to make fun of if the size is off the table?”

She smirked.  “I don’t think you’ll have trouble.”

Slightly baffled, I agreed, and the next night I was on a train heading out onto Long Island.  Excitement and a certain terror were building within me.  Yes, this was an adventure, but was I crossing a line here?  What did it mean that I was about to accept money for getting someone off?  Was I going to be hauled off to some special prison for man-whores?  WHAT IF HE WAS THE PO-PO?

But then I remembered that I was about to be paid $200 to make fun of some rich guy’s penis, so, you know, good deal.  It was a fallow period for me as a performer.  I’d begun to do burlesque, but not with any regularity, and my legit acting career was stalled.  Not particularly thrilled about the idea of going back to the old days of eating 2 McChickens and walking both ways over the Brooklyn Bridge because I couldn’t afford subway fare, this sounded quite reasonable.  Let’s be honest, I wasn’t about to perform urethral sounding or flesh suspension.  The terror was decidedly short-lived.

(I was told years later by a brilliant woman, Jo Weldon, that when laypeople talk about “sex work,” they always focus on the first word.  The second word, however, is the key.)

We were greeted at the station by a little fellow who resembled a sausage casing fresh out of the tanning bed.  One of those pudgy, stocky, muscular men who’s always a bit red in the face and looks as if he simply hasn’t got enough skin to hold it all in.  Bleached hair, if I’m remembering correctly.  Crew cut.  Thin layer of Long Island sweat at all times.  We hopped into his sleek, silver automobile and away we were whisked.

Perhaps the most unnerving thing about him (and let’s call him James) was that he seemed to want to go out of his way to impress us.  The ride over was a series of boasts about the size of his mansion and the number of cars he owned, but, I mean, not really a big thing because that’s not what he cared about, man.  Not really his deal.  I mean, sure, it’s nice to own them, because there are so many of them and they’re so shiny and nice, but his concerns tended more toward the environmental.  Man.

The conversation about what really mattered to James continued as we strolled through the enormous front doors of his enormous house.  The ceiling was as high as any I’d ever seen, and there were a plethora of chandeliers.  The dinner table was perfectly set and all of the decor had an odd uniformity.  I realized: this was a pre-fab residence.  A McMansion.  While most of the place had an undisturbed sterility, the things that screamed of James and his tastes stuck out like a sore thumb.  A mess of unopened mail on the kitchen counter, a pile of DVDs, a surprising number of toys scattered around, and, most eyebrow-raisingly, a cardboard cut-out of Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft from a theater standee.

My god, I thought.  I’m about to engage in professional kink with a 12 year-old boy.

“Most of my work is with my environmental charity.  I mean, like I said, that’s my passion. That’s what drives me.  It’s what pays for all, you know, THIS,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling with a garish sort of humility.

Sally and I nodded sagely.  I commended him on his dedication to the Right Things.

James shrugged and grinned.  “Well, we do what we can, you know?  Anyway, shall we head upstairs?”

And up we went.  The terror never returned, though my heart beat a bit faster as we hastened to the moment of truth.  Suddenly I remembered the mystery that had been tickling my mind since I agreed to the job: what on earth was the deal with his penis?  Why, apart from size, was this penis so eminently mockable?  What had Sally smirked about?

Once in James’s bedroom (the door to which was guarded, gargoyle-like, by another Jolie/Croft cut-out), things got underway with surprising haste.  Sally undressed to a fetching, if fairly unfancy, lingerie set, and James stripped down to nothing.  And once his underwear came off, I understood.  His penis was small, but that wasn’t what caught the eye.

His penis was curved.

It was curved to the left.

Not like a little curved, but curved in a way that if you’d put a red circle and bar over it, it’d look like a U-turn warning.

My memory may be playing tricks on me, but I’m fairly certain it had a curvature unlike any I’d ever imagined or seen.  And it began to erect instantly.  Maybe, I thought, it’ll straighten out as it fills with blood.  Like a garden hose.  But no, it began to leap to life and the curvature was more or less perfectly preserved.

Sally directed James to lie down and secured his hands to the bed.  I was still speechless, staring in astonishment at the most eccentric cock I’d ever encountered.  I imagined what it must be like to get fucked by that cock, and how perhaps if you did it with both bodies perpendicular, it might hit a woman’s g-spot well enough.  But…I mean, how did one even masturbate with it?  Did all of his tugs have to whip off to the left like an artist’s brush strokes?

Sally, being a professional, launched in with some very convincing and sensuous talk about how RIDICULOUS his cock was.  How pathetic and WEIRD. James was in total ecstasy his eyes rolling back and his prick jumping up and down.

Sally looked over at me.  “What do  you think?  Isn’t it silly?”

I paused for a moment.  And then replied, “Yeah.  It’s fucking ABSURD.  I mean, is it even a cock?  It’s shaped like a girl scout cookie.  Did you sleep on it weird when you were a kid?”

Pulse, pulse, throb, jump.  Oh holy FUCK, I was turning him on.  So I continued, voicing all of those odd questions I’d nursed on first sight with what I hoped would come off as a studied aloofness.

And so it went for a good long while.  I like to think I held my own, but watching Sally was an education.  Much of the time I was reduced to awed laughter at how she worked him, cajoling and teasing with a virtuosic fluidity and grace.  He was a puppet jangling at the end of expertly deployed strings.  I, meanwhile, felt like a heckler at the world’s strangest comedy club.

Eventually, of course, James would have to cum.  Sally snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and asked, “Are you ready for me to drain all of your power?”

“Yes, Mistress, please, drain all of my POWER…”

For this I had not prepared.  I’d assumed Sally would just have him jack off or maybe help him along, but what she did was fascinating: she placed the tip of her gloved finger on the underside of his glans and barely moved it at all.

“Can you feel it?  Can you feel me draining all of your power away?”

James writhed and groaned, helpless to whatever bizarre spell Sally was casting.  His cock jolted and leaked precum, which pooled amidst his pubic hair.  Sally turned to me and cocked her head.  An invitation.  She looked at the box of surgical gloves and then back at me.  It struck me that, considering I’d come all the way here and what had transpired, it would be genuinely weird of me to turn prude at the idea.  I pulled the glove onto my hand and, to see if it would make a difference, let it snap.  James twitched and moaned.  Oh, theater.

So I tickled his penis for a little while.  My only disappointment was that, while Sally seemed to have an almost supernaturally minimalist command, I was clearly a rank amateur.  After a few minutes, and a few more insults, I thought it best to let Sally finish him off.

I looked at the clock.  It was almost exactly an hour since we’d entered the bedroom when James’s cock erupted and spewed several thick globules of semen.  His orgasm was obviously a very intense experience for him, but I was at a certain remove.  I wondered how it must be to regularly work a job where the client’s fetishes may or (more likely on average) may not align with your own.  Sally seemed keen, engaged, nurturing.  After so many years did it ever become difficult to muster the enthusiasm, or even the appearance of it?  I’ve always felt it tasteless to ask.

As James dressed, he babbled a bit more in his signature humblebrag, but he did say something so ludicrous that I’ll never forget it.

“You know, I really envy you two.”

We looked back at him, unsure how to respond.

“I mean, you’re artists.  You don’t make much money.  That’s so much easier.  You don’t have all the responsibility that comes with…THIS.”  Again, he gestured around at his kingdom.  “You know, I was walking along the beach by my house in the Hamptons the other day, and I looked out at the ocean.”  His face became wistful, lost.  “It was just so huge and endless.  And the waves crashed on the shore.  And I thought…I’d give anything to live like you guys do.  No money.  No responsibilities.  Just free.  I envy you.”

After a moment, he returned to us and smiled beamingly.  “Anyway…let’s get the money out of the way.”

What do you say to that?

You don’t say anything.  You smile and take your $200.  And if you walk away, as I did, not feeling particularly compromised by the experience, well, you made it the easy way.

Sovereign

Please understand  that I will NEVER attempt to persuade you, or try to “talk you” into doing anything.  Philosophically I just don’t agree with that approach.  My art is VERY Sexual, but the sexuality must come naturally from my girls, and that only happens after they relax, and they realize I have no “hidden agenda” for them, and then I can comfortably start teaching them to have very advanced orgasms.

My girls have lots of real orgasms when we shoot, usually 30 to 40 a day (this is for real) – and I make sure of that by using Hitachi Magic Wands, Eroscillators, Sybian Sex Machines, PES Electro Sex, and Phallix Glass, etc. to teach my models how to have advanced orgasms – that is why they glow in my pictures!

I am the antithesis of “gonzo” porn!  I am always telling girls to stay away from the Bang Bus, Captain Stabbin, and all that usual FL based gonzo crap.  Those guys just want to use girls up and spit them out.

I want classy erotic girls who I can teach and train to become long term stars, and I already know that when I teach a new model to expand her sexual horizons and her sexual possibilities by teaching her to have advanced orgasms, she will keep coming back to me to shoot over and over.

Once again, I create Sexual Art.

Yes, the orgasms are real. So is the art.

I really like the photo you sent.  You are beautiful.

The more you do your research on “porn people” and compare them to what I do, you will see that I’m not just a rarity. I am alone.

This is NOT a hard line to tow. You just have to be VERY selective who you shoot with. That’s all.

The first naked photos of me on the internet.  From 2009, when I started “modeling.”

I met Ryan Driller on a set in New Hampshire.  I had just left My husband not that long before and was in a “I hate men and I never want to have sex with one again” mode.  It was a long, really long day.  I didn’t have a sex scene, I was actually just acting in a porno.  But because I wasn’t having sex I got an insultingly low rate for the day.  This coupled with the fact that I was starving and somehow kept getting called to do things (mostly sit there while people fucked with lights) when the food was out put Me into sort of a rotten mood.  Ryan Driller came up and handed Me an orange…..which he had peeled.  I remember thinking “I don’t remember the last time a man did anything that nice for Me…I would totally suck his dick.”  I mean he peeled a fucking orange for Me.  Who DOES that?

My fantasies surrounding Ryan Driller these days has morphed into a scenario wherein he would do sit-ups while I ate bonbons and sprayed him with water.  THAT is what I think about when I get Myself off.  Do I wonder what he tastes like? Yes, but that’s something I contemplate in line at the grocery store.  The sweaty in bed when no one is around fantasy is all about rippling muscles, sweat and bon bons.

I’ve never met James Darling, which is maybe what makes the fantasy even hotter.  And when I say hot fantasy, what I mean is listening to mix tapes and passing a bottle back and forth. Yah yah, I’ve spent Friday night making a mixtape for James Darling that I plan on sending for Valentine’s day, hopefully My appreciation for jazz, country and crooney female vocalists can win Me some points.  Do I want to shoot a porn scene with James Darling?  Yes, very much so, hopefully our sex scene involves listening to a mixtape on cassette and passing a bottle back and forth.  I mean, I’m jerking Myself off thinking about extended makeout sessions with Nina Simone playing in the backround.  Orgasms secondary.  Anyway, I have been known to have an orgasm from a well-placed finger on My lower back and a really hard bite on My lower lip.  I imagine James darling to be the kind of man who can do both simultaneously, in My fantasy he is anyway.

I think I read Jasmine St Clair’s writing before I ever saw one of her scenes.  I sort of fell in love with her brain and personality before I fell in love with her ability to take a cock.  Fellow female metal head?  Swooooon!  When I first saw her fucking on film My immediate thought was to clone Myself a few times over so that I could gangbang her.  Over the years (yes, years) My fantasy has changed quite a bit.  Jasmine, is the type of woman you want to run into a circle pit with holding her hands, the kind of woman you want to headbang with, the kind of woman you want to makeout with in a very crowded room somewhere in a  dark corner where no one will notice.  Like at a show.  A really loud show so that even if she’s trying to talk to you, you just smile and pretend to hear what she’s saying, because it’s probably something beautiful anyway.  Maybe she’s the kind of woman you want to finger bang in a mosh pit too…but if I could do the hand holding headbanging part I’d have a lot of masturbation fodder for many more years to come.

Bella Vendetta is a professional and lifestyle Domina hailing from Western MA.  She has almost 12 years training and experience in the BDSM lifestyle and the adult industry.  As well as working as a Pro Domme and internationally published fetish model Bella is an award winning adult film star.  Bella Vendetta is also a B movie starlet, runs her own niche fetish site, and hosts a monthly naked cooking webcam show.  Colleges and Universities around the northeast frequently ask Bella to speak and lecture about Her experiences in the sex industry.  In addition to her work in the adult industry she also moonlights as a journalist writing about and interviewing tattoo artists, MMA fighters, rock and metal musicians.  To learn more visit www.BellaVendetta.com . Zinester erotica was originally published in “Screamer issue #2″ from MyOwnBrain Productions; the zine can be purchased for $5 by emailing BellaVendetta666@gmail.com

 

While the story is true I’m speaking it through the character of “Rex” and this is an extract from a short experimental film I shot.

This moment I talk about is one of my first memories -ever- and it just so happened to involve female intimacy, sensuality and homosexuality. Being 4 in that room with two before adoring women made it’s mark in my mind and I genuinely believe is 100% related to both -wh-y I do what I do and, I think, -how- I do it. That is working (generally) in tones of openness, romanticism, vulnerable and love. Or maybe I just a genuine creeper who likes to get ladies naked for photos! But in either event, this moment, this memory was one of the most formative moments in my life. Enjoy the nailpolish and the story:

JMD

(Subtitle): Distracted afterthought on the physical tropes of Dennis Cooper and Octavio Paz

In this arrangement of photographs of Keira, are the very first pictures I ever took of her. When one is composing a narrative, a linear chronology isn’t necessarily creative; and our minds juggle the past and present with no distinction between time intervals. Since Proust, the concept of Time has been recognized for its elliptical properties, and I think we’re all better for it.

Minutes later my fangs were covered in blood…

Only a poet would really have the credentials to prioritize activities….so I guess I have no excuse.

I’m the March J-Grrl at Juliland.com.  Go join the site and watch me play!

I know what you’re thinking: “Another vegan atheist activist magician? Really?”

Well, forget what you think you know about every other vegan atheist activist magician you’ve ever seen, because I, Eric Walton, am not your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician! Sure, I eat an entirely plant-based diet; don’t believe in any gods; regularly attend rallies and organize for environmental causes; and, perform card tricks for money, just like a lot of other vegan atheist activist magicians in the past, but that is where the similarities end.

You see, my veganism, atheism, activism, and magicianism are all completely modern and free of the antiquated and arcane trappings of those vegan atheist activist magicians of  generations past. What did your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician eat for lunch? Probably a carrot sandwich and cup of tap water. You know what? Fuck him and his sorry ass carrot sandwich. I don’t care if it was the Great Depression. Do you know what Eric Walton eats for lunch? Chipotle, bitches. And if there’s too much blood in his caffeine system, he orders an almond milk latte from the gorgeous baristas at Kahve. And as they punch another hole in his loyalty card, Eric Walton punches your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician in his old and dirty face.

And whereas your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician might have quoted such atheist luminaries as Democritus or Bertrand Russel when opining on the evils of religion, Eric Walton rocks it 21st century style with copious references to the late and brilliant  Christopher Hitchens and the indomitable Richard Dawkins.  Suck it, Democritus.

And unlike your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician, Eric Walton will not clutter the airwaves with talk of the environmental pioneer Rachel Carson, but will instead keep things up-to-the-minute with references to the likes of Bill McKibben and Sandra Steingraber. (Keep up the good work, you two!)

I suppose your grandfather’s vegan atheist activist magician was fond of pulling quarters from behind your grandfather’s ear. Wow. I’m really blown away that. (He says with great sarcasm!) Theirs was certainly not the Greatest Generation for magic, now was it? Hell no, it wasn’t. And what kind of magic does vegan atheist activist magician Eric Walton perform? The kind that will blow your fucking mind, that’s what kind.

So the next time you hear the words vegan atheist activist magician crammed together in a sentence, you would be wise not to jump to any unwarranted conclusions.

If, on the other hand, you wish to fall in love, movies have you covered.  On this particularly lovely Valentine’s Day, I’d like to share three of the screen romances I find most resonant.

The first woman I ever fell in love with was Sherry, a character in 1987′s Real Men.  Ostensibly a spy comedy/road movie starring Jim Belushi and John Ritter, Real Men is really just an excuse for loopy schtick and wayward plotting.  But about an hour into this snarky, harmless romp (which played on HBO what felt like every day of my youth) Jim Belushi meets a woman who, though sporting the look and mien of a mousey little librarian, is in fact a whip-cracking, order-barking, leather-clad dominatrix.  You know those feelings you can’t quite explain at the age of 11 or 12?  I began to feel those around 1:04:38 in the clip below (though for context, which is everything to a respectable pervert, watch from 1:01:38).

Sherry was played by Gail Barle, whose only other significant credit was another waitress role, this one working in the diner in Spaceballs.  She may never have set Hollywood on fire, but she awakened the nascent pervert in me.  Suddenly, after years of wondering why Playboy didn’t really do it for me, here was the ideal feminine creature: seductive, controlling, cajoling, punishing, and, finally, romantic.  Belushi can’t help but fall in love with her.  He needs her.  He’s always needed her, before he even knew she existed.  That’s how I felt the moment the penny dropped, and I began chasing the path that has led me to happiness and fulfillment as a grown man.  Barle can’t possibly know how weirdly meaningful her performance in Real Men was to me (and probably wouldn’t want to know the ways in which I expressed my gratitude), but I’d like to thank her here.  Had I never encountered this silly, flimsy little comedy, I might never have been able to decode my desires.  Imagine that. (Side note: after this film, I would never again empathize with a character played by Jim Belushi)

The next romance is, perhaps, an odd choice to follow what you just saw.  Even divorced from this context, one might choose almost any other duet between Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.  But I choose this exquisite tap routine from 1936′s Swing Time because of its offhanded elegance, and because of its demonstration of two bodies working in perfect symphony.  These are two souls who may be dashing and beautiful on their own, but put them together and every single move is pure magic.  The fondness they share is palpable in every feathery little nuance.  It is romance at its most urbane.

There’s little else to say.  It’s extraordinary, and it’s how we all wish to feel with our partners.  Perfectly in step.

The final romance is a resonant, eloquent portrait of the young man who still lives snugly within me, hopelessly in love with women, movies and love.  It is a scene from the 2006 Hindi blockbuster Om Shanti Om.  In it, Om, a hopelessly unsuccessful actor, has a surprise brush with Shantipriya, the superstar actress who has been the object of Om’s anguished yearning.

There’s a meta-joke playing out here; the loser is played by Hindi cinema’s most enduring star, Shahrukh Khan, and the superstar is played by then-debutante Deepika Padukone.  The core of the scene, though, is nothing but sincere.  In this one sequence, less than two minutes, we see the purest possible dramatization of a love affair with the movies: anticipation, wonderment, a brush with the sublime, and then a bittersweet deliverance back to reality.  The look on Om’s face as he’s dragged away is one that’s been on mine as the lights came up in a theater after a life-changing piece of cinema, and as I watched a woman I was about to marry approach me dressed in stunning white.

The romance between the two begins as one-sided; Om is an audience member, Shantipriya his unknowing obsession.  Isn’t all romance, though, one-sided at the start?  Is it ever possible to truly share the feelings that overtake us in our greatest raptures?

Movies, unlike people, never change.  They remain as beautiful, as perfect or as flawed as they ever were.  If the relationship changes, it’s because you changed.  But if you can preserve that part of yourself that fell in love way back at your first encounter, the romance will never die.  It should never have to.

And on that note, I’ll leave you with this:

This pornscholar left her computer – and her country – and immersed herself into pornography (this time in 3D and real time and within a hand’s reach). The result of this adventure will be slowly and gradually unveiled in these pages. 

To start, here is a first-timer eye-witness account of the Adult Video Network Award and Expo, which took place in Las Vegas in January. It was originally published at AIP Daily but with different photographs.

Enjoy!

Breakfast can be caramel vodka and Bloody Mary shots, and you run into stars who want to eat your pussy for business and photographers who want to see your breasts and they say that out loud, and perverts are everywhere and we love it, and the fan line is huge but when we sit for coffee we talk about diets and make up and power struggle, and we never eat but we sit at Mr. Lucky’s and watch people and ourselves, and that is what you do in Vegas, you sit down and you watch yourself while all those lights kind of blind you a bit. I sit back and observe the people I study, already thinking about this article, and in my mind I can classify them into categories, but suddenly they are talking about five hundred dollars dresses and alcohol and paleo and psychology, and I loose myself into my ridiculous classification and decide just to watch.

During the day the exp floor becomes packed with people, and press is all around covering every single move, but not many people pay attention to the seconds between flashes, when faces are tired of smiling and drop for a second, while the frenzy of fans waiting 25 minutes in line for an eight seconds interaction pays for the trip. I watch, and wonder how many stories fit inside those eight seconds, and how ego boosting all that can be if you are a performer. For the studios, the never-ending line of consumers make it all worth their while: this is how they measure how much they are making, regardless of numbers. The hoard of porn fans – old, young, men, women, singles, couples – flocking around a booth makes you stop and wonder who is signing. If you are lucky, Skin Diamond is on display that hour, and for 25 minutes of your time you can talk to her for eight seconds and walk away with an autographed photo. Trust me, it is worth the wait.

You walk between the two rooms which host the expo, and in the hallway you meet Stoya and Dani Daniels, and they are happy to see you even though they don’t know your name. But you are a fan, and the reason why they are there, and they are nice and kind. You step away from them feeling special because you just spoke to the most popular girls in school and they like you, they really do like you! You are one of them right there, at this second, and all the intimacy you have shared while watching their videos translate into this milimetric encounters. You go for a bite and the table next to you has Arabelle Raphael and Kimberly Kane sharing a sandwich, while in a bedroom somewhere, with dimmer lights and less fantasy, two performers are debating Foucault.

Vegas smells of cigarettes and people. Lights are never off. You sit across the table from strangers you know, and suddenly you are stranger than they are. Everyone seems to be high on lights and expectations, like the air is made of these tiny particles of energy. It is easy to want to be illegal here. It is easy to be anyone. And in this intersection between on and off cameras, when asked what you do, you answer “I eat pussy for money”. I write about porn. I do porn. I am porn. Because in Vegas, under all those lights, you are nothing. Until you meet a girl with no make-up and heavy eyes, you are nothing. And after that, every time she catches you looking at her, you become utterly aware that you are nobody under those lights, although your tattoos and your scars prove different. But in Vegas, under all that spectacle and all that make up, your body does not mean much – unless you are a performer. For them, vanity is a requirement to grasp the dynamics of this business and be able to play. Vanity and emotional bond with each other, which is manifested outside the screen in semi-romantic relationships based on mutual understanding and support. You might love them. You might even be loved back. But that kind of friendship you can only experience if, one day, you might perform together.

Male performers get less attention because there are less female fans – and I did miss a gayer crowd around, to tell you the truth. But while you shake hands with Xander Corvus your knees melt, and you understand why he is so good on camera. But you just spoke to Manuel Ferrara and lent three dollars to Dane Cross, so by the time you run into Mick Blue you are not sure who you are anymore, and you just stand there and watch him in silence for the entire night. Do not worry: later you will gather the courage to walk to Woolf Hudson and get a delicious hug and a compliment that will keep you high on self-esteem for the rest of the week.

Nights host people around both Circle bars, and if you sit quietly you can eavesdrop into discourse, identity, boy/girl or girl/girl, and the perfect dick size, and an eventual shout announces someone just made some serious money in the casino. Porn stars talk to each other and make a spectacle of it, forging sexual attractiveness and intensity before the eyes of fans. Mostly men. This is their own private time with their favorite performer, and the level of hope and expectation is unbearable. Eventually, one will come up to a girl and say something to get her attention, but she is already focused on someone else who just entered the circle. This time, it is all about them: not the fans. Fans are allowed to participate only by watching, and the roles are once again back to the familiar place we are used to. Life is back to normalcy. You stand and you watch while the girls make out, sipping on your drink and wondering what it tastes like to be part of the gang. All around you are fans who are sharing that exact same moment in the exact same way, and unless someone pulls you aside to tell you this is real life you can swear you are watching a film.

Until some guy decides to take up the leading role and insists on finding out what your limits are. In his mind, you cannot get mad, though. “It is a porn convention, what did you expect?” The threat of the question echoes in your mind for hours after that, and you debate the social and sexual implications of the porn industry to the level of exhaustion when deep down all you want to say is “I am scared”. But you hold your head up because you are among your peers and they are there for you, and the casino has cameras and security guards all over the place, and that creep cannot get his hands on you – but you do think of other women and how maybe they are not as ironically protected by this same stigma which haunts you, and you fear for them. And that makes you mad, and you wipe your tears and say “The benefit of the doubt is not something someone should have over my body”. Later, you will find your shoes hidden under the blankets and look gorgeous again.

Then the day after it is the awards and the hotel takes longer to wake up and the booths are slowly attracting people as the performers take their places behind the tables with their minds on the prize later at night. Afternoon comes and suddenly Vegas is a desert while hair and makeup is being done. The frantic clicks of flashes is what wakes you up while the red carpet is happening, and for a second you are sure that the aim is you, because nothing escape lenses in that space. Performers and directors and studios all say hello to each other, and it is like an office’s Christmas party, only that it happens in a very, very public manner, and you are socializing with coworkers that you only see once a year, although you do business over the phone the entire time. When the awards actually begin, businesses tend to take a faster pace because the weekend is coming to an end and everybody is talking in hushed, loud voices, sometimes even muffling the winner’s acceptance speech. Later, however, you will see them around the hotel and congratulate them on their award while they are getting a milk shake. You exchange phone numbers and talk about hanging in Los Angeles. The weekend is over.

Of course there are secret parties and millionaire dinners and sex happening everywhere, but unless you step back you cannot see them. In Vegas, you cannot see much because you are inside of it. It was a struggle. It was learning. And I will be back next year, for sure.

right below the left hipbone silk fabric sits between teeth and with clasped hands behind back slowly drags it down until pubic hair partly exposed then moves to the other side working back and forth down the left down the right wet panties gliding inches at a time until they are at the ankles slide them over the left foot allowing them dangle from the right following the visualization from across an ocean from days earlier to a T and fantasy becomes reality and ice cream spreads and legs melt.

Bob wanted to show off her new Decepticon-lious Grimlock sweatshirt while we were in SF for the Rockstar Roadtrip.

“Me Grimlock not kisser! Me Grimlock king!” indeed.

See more of Bob here:

Suicide Girls – Bob

Zivity.com – Bob

I once had an agent tell me that there was “no market” for my “average, ordinary, girl-off-the street look.”

You should try as much as possible to avoid the unimaginative.

Also, it helps to be a versatile bitch.

Oh, and always be the-one-who-got-away.  I cannot stress the importance of being awesome in getting ahead socially…and having a short-term memory when it comes to insults.

I’m the J-Grrl for March over at Juliland.com.  You should go join and see all the photos!  I love Richard Avery, and I think he really got some good stuff out of me.

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We bring you, “MTL Blues”:

You can keep up with this very busy pornstar here: Veronica Vice-Be My Vice

Scenes from the Team Rockstar Roadtrip 2013: Moxie

toy by Titan Men

Team Rockstar Road Trip 2013 – Seattle Update from steve prue on Vimeo.

In Gaspésie, the furthest eastern point of the American continent, there is also a Trepassey Bay.  Same rough story.  Same French sensibility.

I’m working on my novel lately, so these things become significant.

I bought a new scarf last night in DTLA.  I spend a lot of time there lately with Ela Darling, because I like to be around beautiful wonderful people.

Teamrockstar Roadtrip 2013 – Seattle

Greetings from cold, wet British Columbia!  Aadie Lee (@aadielee) decided to go back to her former fashion model days and show her love for both Sporty Spice and those 3 famous stripes.

The set is a bit long, so the overflow is over at flickr: Teamrockstar Roadtrip: Aadie.  But never fear…there are hella-exclusive images here at DH that the flickr-heads won’t see.

Just pulled into Seattle…the land of beer and coffee.  See y’all on the road.

I’m glad to say that its impossible to describe exactly what was said or how such a feat was accomplished.

Seriously though we’re proud to cosponsor Steve and Tita’s trip. Look for frequent updates here and help cheer them on!

Solipsist: Someone who subscribes to solipsistic philosophy, which, in a nutshell says that all experience is essentially centered around our individual consciousness. In other words, all that really exists is what you perceive.  The world revolves around you, an on and on.

Begin:

What is the heart chakra about?

I’m not going to lie.  Usually the first thing I think when I look in the mirror is that I want to be thinner and more attractive.  At this point its merely out of laziness.  My face and my body are my business and it would make business a lot easier…and I’ve really been putting myself through the paces lately.

I’m more overwhelmed by the feeling that all of us are fat, that I’m surrounded by fat, that I’m suffocating in a weird fat suit.  I feel like a snake splitting open its old skin.  You get the idea.

Maybe its just that I’m in a period of sloughing off.  I’m not sure.  I know that lately I’m inundated with memories of the past, especially the most painful parts of it.

you’re a dirty baby girl
we need to get you clean
you said you took a bath
but that remains unseen
sit you on my lap
inspect you nice and tight
use my hands to do the job
before bedtime tonight
i’ll start behind the ears
and then back to the neck
under your nails
hands and palms
much dirty girl to check
take off your top
don’t be scared
Daddies do this everywhere
arms up high
let me see
show me that you’re nice and clean
down the tummy
Daddy says
now i must inspect your legs
behind your knees
between your toes
check for filthy
Daddy knows
to the middle
Daddy goes
your private parts
they’re soaking wet
does that mean you’re not clean yet??
i will check
stick my hand
underneath the plastic band
under fabric
pretty pink
and swirls
and twirls
this makes me think
you’ve missed a spot
Daddy’ll have to use his cock
to scrub it good scrub it clean
make it sparkle make it gleam
dirty cunts make Daddies frown
we don’t want that do we now?
i know it tickles
gives you the giggles
hands and knees
nice and wide
let me get it deep inside
scrub my brush in and out
can’t do it all
help Daddy out
rub the dirt off while i clean
out of the folds i can’t see
no more soap
i’ll use my spit
clean that sweet sweet good girl clit
almost clean almost pure
a few more strokes to be sure
dirty girl’s legs
can’t stop shaking
pussy on the verge
earthquaking
that’s a good girl
hold on tight
Daddy’s cleaning you out just right
baby girl
you’re nice and clean
now kiss goodnight and sweet sweet dreams.

I think it’s kind of fitting for the new year.

Things I’ve Learned About Other People

1. Most people hide their suffering better than you think, you pass dozens of people a day on the street without any idea how well they’re wearing their tragedies.

2. People’s names are the sweetest sounds they hear. You should make a point of being good at learning and using them.

3. People love to spread their misery around, but not as much as they enjoy being lifted out of it.

4. Being young is not in and of itself an achievement. Neither is being beautiful. But people often treat you as if they are.

5. For a lot of people, music is a reflection of who they are and their relationship to life. Remember that before insulting someone’s favorite band.

6. The Golden Age never existed. People are always trying to get back to a time when things were simpler and better. The world was a far more dangerous place fifty years ago, especially if you were black or a woman or gay or diagnosed with cancer.

7. Most people, whatever their choice of profession, feel like complete novices that are about to be found out as frauds and fakers.

8. Most people love quite helplessly, despite what they would have you believe.

9. Show me the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’ll show you a man who’s bored with taking her to bed. Show me the most devoted husband, and I’ll show you a woman who feels that he’s just not doing enough. A lot of people are never satisfied because…

10. Most people have no idea what they want out of life, let alone how to get it. Most others are still waiting for someone to give them permission.

11. Whatever it is about yourself that you’re trying to hide, it’s usually the first thing someone else notices about you.

12. You should call your mother and tell her you love her. Like most women who decide to marry and have children or help take care of a dying parent, she probably sacrificed a lot of her dreams to be there for you, and she wishes that you appreciated her more for it.

13. If you tell a man about your problems, he assumes you want some sort of help or advice. If you tell a woman about your problems, she assumes you simply want a shoulder to cry on. Women rarely want to be told what to do about a problem, and men rarely want to be coddled through a hard time.

14. Creative people thrive on feedback. You can never give them enough of it, and you will endear yourselves to them mightily if you do it frequently, thoughtfully, and honestly. They understand far better than most think, the value of time.

15. For most people religion is a social commitment more than a spiritual one.

16. A lot of people who consider themselves intelligent can’t properly label all the states on a map, or all the countries in Europe, let alone Africa or the Middle East. Most couldn’t list off the ten commandments, five pillars, or the amendments of the Constitution, and feel that politics are too complicated to bother with understanding, let alone talking about.

17. A lot of Christians have never, and will never, read the Bible. Most of them will conduct their lives exactly as they would if they’d never attended a single church service. It is nearly impossible to tell a Christian from an atheist by their actions alone. Both Christians and atheists will probably find the previous statement offensive.

18. For nearly every crazy idea, you can find a fully credentialed scientist who will back it up.

19. People are more frequently kind and compassionate than they are fooled by our manipulations or lies.

20. Life often works in reverse. People treat strangers more politely than their family or friends. People will ask a friend’s band to play their party for free, will call their best girlfriend to come over and cut their hair without a thought to payment, but would never dream of calling a mechanic they found in the phone book and asking them to donate their time and labor to fix a broken down car.

21. Everyone has done something they would be desperately embarrassed for anyone else to know about.

22. Never joke with a man about his sexual performance, and never joke with a woman about her appearance. No matter how much they make fun of these things in themselves, never, never do it for them. They may laugh along with you, but you’ve just driven a tiny needle into their brain.

23. Most women get married because they want to have a wedding, most men get married because they are ready to settle down with a woman for the rest of their lives. Women, statistically speaking are more likely to suffer clinical depression if married, and initiate upwards of 80% of all divorces citing irreconcilable differences. People expect a significant other to change their lives and make them happy without any conception of how this change will take place. Sort of like assuming a college degree is going to guarantee you security in life without ever thinking of how this can be practically possible. I call this the “If you build it, they will come” approach to romance and one out of every two times it ends in divorce.

24. Most people are worried they’re not having as much fun as they should be. This usually makes men cheat and women nag.

25. When you insult or offend someone, always admit it and apologize promptly, even if it wasn’t your intention or you had no idea. It is always better to be a penitent villain than to appear so socially inept as to not recognize when you’ve hurt the people around you. An evil genius is someone to bring to your side, a blundering fool is someone to keep as far away from you as possible.

Spent a lovely afternoon working on a short film with actress/model/writer/singer Bon Vivant Arden Leigh.

Here are are some stills to savour till I show you our collaboration.

JMD

eat eat eat live live live love love love.

there was a moment when i looked down over his torso and she had a cigarette dangling from her mouth ass crouched close to the ground in between spikes for heels both hands slamming firmly down on his cheeks over and over and over again with this paced rhythmic approach and a slow sound that shoots out from underneath her palms that can only be associated with spanking her eyes focused on the action right in front of her face with that cigarette dangling like a pro and she catches me watching and smiles that smile and stands up with stealth like a fucking ninja and ashes in his mouth.

Tita, for all her ‘nekkid on the interwebz’-ness, tends to not to be “dirty”.   Not a bad thing in the slightest…but yeah, not really “dirty”.  So, we are in day 5 of our LA/LV adventure – poor Tita has been dealing with changing hotels almost every day, being stuck in a dusty tent in the middle of Viva Las Vegas all day, kitten wrangling at shoots, keeping my organizational shit straight (which, not for nothing, should require combat pay) and just being a little ball of positive energy here at Team Rockstar during our West Coast run.

I think she finally snapped.  She ran out with these panties clutched in her hand and said, “I wanna shoot something dirty.”  Err…ok…awesome!  Here y’all go: Tita being very dirty while being still being very clothed.

Sometimes, “dirty” is state of mind.

The introduction to Nica Noelle’s gay studio debut could not have been more pertinent. Set in 1930s Britain, His mother’s lover (Rock Candy Films, 2012) approaches taboo subjects revolving around fatherly figures and their impact on a young man’s identity and sexuality.
The plot presents young Robert (Chase Austin) and his desire for men under an array of authoritative figures: an older student, the school’s headmaster, his own brother, his absent father. The movie opens with a classroom scene in an all-boy school, and Robert being observed – and observing – an older student (Travis Irons) who, within moments, brushes past Robert on his way outside. Preceded by a somewhat labyrinthic chase between the two boys on school’s grounds, the first sex scene in a storage room is silent and clean, with beautiful lighting and setting, and the cinematography makes it so cocks are veiled by school uniforms eventually, adding a perk to any school boy fantasies the viewer might have. The boys are caught by the school’s headmaster (Ian Whitcomb) who, although stern, seems sympathetic and understanding of Robert’s misdemeanor, actually spoon feeding Robert with a heat of the moment, judgment impaired youth, crime of passion alibi – maybe because of Robert’s resemblance to his deceased father, who was one of the headmaster’s favorite students. Excluding expulsion, Robert’s punishment is set at a 4-week suspension for truancy and a flogging – something which clearly delights the headmaster and appears to be more a warning for secrecy than punishment for a wrong act.

Robert is the perfect student, his mother’s rock, never in trouble. The mysterious counterpart to Robert is his brother, Jeremy (Xander Corvus), a painter who drowns on alcohol and surrounds himself with nothing but his work. The darkness that belongs to Jeremy is in direct contrast with Robert’s openness and forwardness, sketching his father as somewhat an amalgam of both or, in other words, as fluctuating between Jeremy’s darkness and Robert’s innocence. Whether his father’s death had been suicide – as Jeremy believes – or as the result of an accident does not seem to disturb Robert; he conscientiously chooses one side of the story and does not seem disturbed when Jeremy contradicts his version with a reminder that he (Jeremy) had been the person who found their father dead.

Robert is sent home on suspension and meets his mother’s fiancé, Daniel (Boston Miles) – to whom he will instantly be attracted. Daniel has come into the family’s life as a rescuer for a lost mother, who “never dreamed that anyone would love (her) again”. He stands as balance point between the family and Jeremy, constantly excusing the young man’s behavior and attempts to be the rudder in a family shattered by the loss of the patriarch under suspicious circumstances. To escape the notion that the father should be exclusively the carrier of the law, Lacan always claimed that a father as a legislator or pure authority with no desire usually has devastating effects on the subject (ŽERJAV: 2010, 214). Desire, here, will manifest in Daniel primarily as a care taker and only after in a sexual manner towards Robert, thus protecting him from authoritative fatherly impositions. This is pivotal for the change in Daniel’s positioning which Robert will promote later.

The similarities between Robert and Daniel are pointed out by the mother, who unintentionally generates space for association and transference by both Robert and Daniel. While the first clearly sees his soon-to-be-stepfather as a prerogative to a fatherly figure – one which is closer to him than his own taller, stockier, “a bit more manly” father was – Daniel is able to reconstruct his fantasies with the Russian prince by transmuting Robert into an Alexei he is able to keep as a secret, care for and save, therefore restoring his own fatherly function. While we have no access to how the process unravels for Daniel, Robert’s dream – in which he witnesses a professor and a younger student having sex in the bathroom and, later, transmuting into himself and Daniel – makes explicit the associations between authoritative function, power, sexuality and transference he is delineating in order to establish Daniel’s position in his own psyche. The camera work in this sequence, it is worth mentioning, makes for a Robert who grows from boy to man, with angles which project him bigger and taller – while positioned as observer – towards the end of the scene.

Freud’s Oedipal archetype of the father as the holder of the (metaphorical) phallus – which would state order and the dissociation necessary for the identification into the binary male vs. female dichotomy – is here replaced by the Lacanian concept of Nom du Père, and his tripartition into a real, a symbolic, and an imaginary father. It is in this paternal metaphor that the key to Robert’s mind can be found. The Name-of-the-Father as the signifier that replaces an initial maternal one in the symbolic could never take place within Robert because his father had never been named – and here I mean both metaphorically and literally – turning Robert into an enigma which can only be solved by the Name-of-the-Father as constrictive signal posts to his proper identification as a grown man.

It is not by chance that Robert’s father’s name is only mentioned in the movie to establish the mother’s psychological state (“God, I’m so lucky to have you. When Clarence died I thought I’d be a widow for the rest of my life; I never dreamed that anyone would love me” – my emphasis). This lack of the father is the basis on which Robert’s story is going to be told. It is not by chance, either, that Robert himself has to refute the need for a father in order to reach/be reached by Daniel: “I am a grown man myself” – a reminder that the paternal metaphor can only be read retroactively, therefore proving itself worthless had it placed Daniel as a symbolic father figure. This will unravel into the first sex scene in which Robert does not wear a school uniform, which means he is no longer a boy.

Robert is not in conflict with his sexuality: Robert is in conflict with himself or, rather, struggling to find identification outside of himself. It is only when he is able to map out his own identity after dismissing a fatherly figure that his conflict is solved. Ironically, the same act that frees Robert eliminates the need for Jeremy’s existence, as he stands no longer as a nemesis/mirror to his brother.

As is it common to all Noelle’s productions, there is obvious thought put on light, setting, costume and editing. His mother’s lover delivers a solid, well-constructed plot, presented by fairly good performers and fluid, artistically-built sex scenes. The key elements to Noelle’s repertoire (a more emotional seduction, long foreplay, intense kissing) are all present in this new line, and generates as a result what might be called a more romantic approach to gay male pornography without, however, feminizing it. The movie brings as treats an unforgettable headmaster played by Ian Whitcomb – who also composed the soundtrack, a delight in itself – and Magdalene St. Michaels, in a delicious performance embedded in 1930s candor and sheer sweetness.

A bene placito can also be used in musical conducting: it allows for a more relaxed, freer mode of playing, something which would lead an orchestra into appreciating the sounds it is generating. Noelle herself is basking in the results of her work. As she is entitled to.

New York has never been about restraint for me.  Well, to be honest, nothing is really about restraint for me, except being forcibly restrained during sex, in which case, I need to be restrained…but getting back to NYC.

I went to NYC to be part of the first Darling House Live Salon.  My girlfriend wanted me to play a sexy Jesus in her opening burlesque acts, so while I was there, in addition to running a salon with Buck Angel, Lux Alptraum, and Stoya, I also made my burlesque debut.

This trip for me was really more about seeing Rosebud again though, and this time we’ve vowed to see each other more often lest the distance get the best of us.

Some things are just too personal to write about.

I will say this, its much harder find a regular person to fuck out here in LA. It’s not that its hard for me to find someone to have sex with.  It’s easy to get someone to fuck you.  I actually wish more women understood that you don’t have to be beautiful or perfect to fuck any one you want.  It’s just that my tastes are very specific, so I’m rarely impassioned by anyone.

It’s not like Rosebud, she got me right away.

In the immortal words of FEAR: I just wanna fuck some sluts.  I love, livin’ in the city.

Daddy takes turns on us, has us sit on his lap each perched on a thigh making us play with each others sweet little nipples and tits my hand around his cock stroking it up and down and his fingers in between her legs slowly drawing them in and out of her babygirl pussy he asks if we’ve done our homework and practiced french kissing and we both nod and say Yes Daddy with big wet eyes and he tells us to lean over and show him we open our mouths and intertwine our tongues flicking at first then closing in deep kissing to make Daddy proud his cock proves as such and he tells me to take my hand to her mouth and she licks it gets it all nice and wet and i wrap my hand back around him and he tells me to jerk it nice and easy and he goes back and forth sucking on our teenage tits and makes us stare at each other and i watch her lids get hazy lazy and this makes me groan and Daddy tells me i’m such a good girl for this and i deserve a reward and has me lay back on the bed and asks her if she has been practicing on my pussy and she nods again with those big wet eyes and tells her he will watch and see and she goes down in between my legs and spreads the lips open exposing my clit and begins to stroke her tongue on it and it feels so so good and then closes her mouth around and begins to nibble and suck and Daddy says she is doing such a good job such a big girl and he joins her with his fingers and his tongue flickering and they share it and deep throat kiss every so often and i watch feeling like the luckiest babygirl alive and he won’t let me cum makes me hold it in nice and tight just like a big girl would and has her lay on top of me her back sprawled across my chest in a diagonal position and spreads her legs also intertwining them with mine and tells us to say Make Love to Me Daddy and we say it in unison and he enters her first nice deep and slow and cream runs down her thighs and drips onto my pussy which grinds against her ass and he tells me to fondle her breasts and i reach around and put each nipple in between my thumb and forefingers rolling them around and she grunts like a big girl and his hand is all over my pussy matching the rhythm of his cock in hers and i watch and he pulls his cock out and lowers himself to enter my babygirl cunt and rides it the same way and praises me for taking all of Daddy’s cock and i grab her titties tighter and he makes us say Yes Daddy and we take turns fucking and sucking face and we are a puddle of dirty filthy wet hot bliss and my thoughts go empty.

Handcuffs

Since signing the final divorce paper only a few short years ago, and vowing never to belong to anyone ever again, I’ve seen lots of places like this. A discrete little hotel, dimly lit, with a piano bar hidden in it’s shadows. These are now my haunts, so that no one may linger in my life, my home, my body. No, I prefer my new love life to be filled with glamorous art-deco mirrors, old-fashioned cocktails, and infinite possibilities – the key to a room close at hand in case things get intimate, an easily-reached back door in case they turn ugly.

Only a few minutes into the night, and I’ve already located my nearest emergency exit. My date, “Enigma72” according to his online profile, is outrageously boring. I should have known that a guy who chooses that kind of alias would be about as enigmatic as a Preparation-H ad. My mysterious beau, called Nicholas in reality, is nothing like I’d come to expect. He, on the other hand, seems charmed by me, though not by any effort on my part. Not even ten minutes after greeting each other, he has suddenly insisted on putting his mobile, and accompanying photo of course, into my address book. Between this faux pas, and the unrelenting torrent of chatter coming from him, I’m fairly certain I can guess the color of his briefs without requiring any undress whatsoever.

I glance towards the exit longingly, trying to decide whether to make up some pretext leave suddenly, or to at least finish my drink first. Then I see them enter. It’s her I notice first: a girl of maybe twenty, hidden beneath an immense fur coat, floating like a cloud through the bustle of the bar. At her arm is an incredibly attractive man, too attractive for this kind of place, elegant but with a touch of badness to him. His stature was that of a prizefighter or a bodyguard: harsh features coupled with grace of movement unthinkable for one his size. I gulp at the thought of what he could do with that body of his.

The couple opts for a quiet corner booth. The man slowly removes her coat, and I will never forget what I see next. I’m delightedly surprised with a full view of her sinuous back, as her liquid silk dress plunges to impossible depths, snaking around her waist, finally resting on her smooth hips, yet adamantly refusing to cover them either. What truly shocks me, makes me stifle a moan, is that her delicate arms are clasped behind her, bound in handcuffs. Never in my life have I seen a creature so very fragile, and yet so desirable. Everything about her is like an offering at the altar: the smooth skin, the nakedness of her back, the endless legs of a nymph, and her firm, round buttocks peeking shamelessly above the lowest slit of her dress, daring anyone to seize them.
Not only has she been handcuffed, but the girls is also utterly submissive. She appears neither to possess nor desire any will but his own. He leans in with some confession, then retreats, taking in the sweetness of her face, all the while apparently oblivious to her semi-nude display of flesh. She sits straight, wrists kissing each other at her back, wetting her parted mouth for speech. As she whispers a few words into his ear, he begins to softly caress between her legs. Submitting to this sweet ecstasy, she looks every bit the part of a good girl being corrupted, an innocent victim of a nefarious game. But her skin belies this sweet act of hers: creeping black designs hint at a wild garden of tattoos, barely concealed tonight beneath the few folds of her gown. A slutty, punk-princess, I think to myself, wearing a disguise for the night. I breathe in the fantasy, and I feel an intense pang of desire.

Meanwhile, Nicholas’s monologue, so intolerable just a few moments ago, has been reduced to a faint buzz: joining in with the background piano music, the clink of glasses, and the soft, murmuring voices of the other customers. I have eyes only for this mysterious girl, who in turn has eyes only for her master. He barely touches her, except to do for her what she cannot do for herself: raising a glass to her lips with tender generosity, cleaning drops of champagne with loving care from their blushing pillows, offering them puffs from his cigarette.

I get up in an effort to better observe them, but in doing so realize that I can hardly crouch at the shelf behind them. I need to see more, so I take a slow tour of the space, step by step towards the restroom, stealing surreptitious glances in the direction of their corner. Once there, I take a deep breath, smooth my hair, retouch my makeup, plan my next move. I don’t want to leave the bar yet, but I know it’s pointless for me to stay. This is their fantasy, and the thought of seating myself across from the insufferable Nicholas again only makes the realization all the more bitter. My mind would not stray from that image of the sweet girl in handcuffs and the intoxicating power of her lover. Obsession mingling with frustration, in my minds eye I see them – against the wall in the vestibule between restrooms, unhurriedly entwining their tongues, biting each others necks hungrily.

But, oh god, this can’t be a vision! For then, she carefully kneels before him, more vulnerable than ever. Her lips part at the sweet smell of sex before her, out of reach though just barely concealed under a millimeter of fabric. She tips her head up to look at him, exposing the long neck of a ballerina, as if asking for something. I cannot help myself now, nor do I want to, and am spying fervently at the crack in the door. He seems to comply with her request. Unzipping his pants, he removes a white cock, as enormous and graceful as he is. It rests near his thighs, panting with pleasure. Maintaining her air of innocence, all the while looking up at him with those dark pools for eyes, she licks the head carefully. She passes her strawberry tongue over every fold, every vein. That little round behind, now completely exposed, is poised and taut to keep her balanced … her hands are still bound. For an instant, I think I see her glance at my hiding place, but I’m stuck there, a prisoner to their scene, connected to the pair by some invisible force.

At relinquishing her mouth’s sweet embrace, the man throws his muscular arms wide and shouts a loud groan of pleasure. I have to bite my finger, hard, in order to stifle my own. He raises her up to stand in front of him again, her intense gaze never leaves his own, until she suddenly swings around to face the wall, arching her back and offering her perfect cheeks to him. He penetrates her from behind, and with her shudder of pleasure I feel like I’m going to cum.

A phone has begun to ring. They stop. It seems the whole planet stops with them. It takes me some moments to realize that the awful sound was coming from my own mobile. I fumble through my purse franticly. It’s Nicholas, who is searching for me – I guess he finally realized that there was no one there, and he was just talking to himself. I switch it off, but the damage is done, and silence hits me in the face. They know I’m here … that I’ve been here the whole time, watching them. The room seems to contract. I have no escape. His massive hand clasps the door and swings it wide. They stare at me, all seriousness. What will be my punishment?

Now he examines the two of us appraisingly from his seat, eyes roving up and down. It seems that he likes what he sees. Here, before this unknown man, I stand close to the mysterious tattooed girl. Hip to hip, hand to hand, we were bound together in those cold, steel shackles. We were his two prisoners. I have no intention of going against his will, that which I had witnessed in it’s full force tonight. And I could only imagine what would happen next.

Note from the Editor: “Handicuffs” is the written erotica version of Lust’s short film, Handcuffs. It can be watched here.

The author:

About Erika Lust

www.erikalust.com

So…there isn’t a whole lot of artistic authenticity in most of my work – almost all “O” faces are faked, boob scars are removed, hot girls don’t just show up in latex and decide to take a showers in my bathroom.  But, in my head – this is how I see the world when I’m shooting: everyone is pretty, no weird blemishes, no bruises from a drunken stolen shopping cart ride the night before a big magazine shoot, all the bands are cool, all the models are tall and rad…So in my heart of hearts, I am authentic to my vision and my thru-the-view-finder worldview.

Welcome to Vegas, My Vegas, where two hot tattooed Swedish girls wrestle naked in latex gloves high above the strip in a posh suite:

Models: Ellegy Ellem & Amelie Calamity

Gloves by All You Need Is Gloves

Abstractions

Deep in my mind, void of harsh realities consisting of dangerous situations, gender laws or regret, lives “fantasy.”

There is you and I
…and others
Many
A single pulse
Ignites
A want so deep you almost beg for it
But that is not necessary here

Bodies quiver
Have spiritual experiences
Talk in tongues
Fire

We take turns
I give in
I give it up
And I take it
In and out of you/ me
Feeling the power of the thrusts and thrashing
I am responsible for it

I feel the pounding
I pound
Flashes
Flickers
Fast
Bodies stretch out
Heads roll back
Arch
Reaching for more

Overwhelmed with pleasure
They make tired, whinny cries one produces when unexplainably exhausted
And yet, we want to remain right here

Hands grasping at sweaty glistening Black/Brown bodies
Breasts and cocks
Chests and cunts
Drops fall to the ground
And pay homage

Heavy breath on neck
Inside of him/her
In me
Font/ back
Holes filled
Anchored
Keep me here please!

Eyes penetrate
Mouth widens
The silence is loud
Eruptions ensue
Boil to the surface

Breath halts
Stops
Heart pumps loudly in ears
It is not heard but felt
Between our legs
We flap our arms at the edge of this mountain
Wanting to fall but maintaining
Holding on
Hold it
Arms give in
And we accept

Feel
Let go
Soar
Then fall
Hard
Fast
Downward
The wind chokes you/me
Our pulse is quick
Then slows
The path to death feels so good
And we are bought back

Strong hands
All over this pulsing body
Kneading
Inserting
Wet lips
Mouths
Tongues
Engulf every inch of them
Bringing life back
Naked
Wet
Breath
Alive

The author:

Ignacio Rivera aka Papí Coxxx who prefers the gender-neutral pronoun “they” is a Two-Spirit, Black Boricua/ Taíno from New York. Ignacio is an activist, filmmaker, sex educator, sex worker, and performance artist sharing spoken word, one-person shows, and storytelling internationally.

They are also the founder of Poly Patao Productions (P3), which is dedicated to producing sex-positive workshops, performances, educational opportunities and events that are specially geared toward queer women, transgender, multi-gender, gender queer, gender-non-conforming and gender variant folx of color.

Ignacio has been facilitating workshops, doing lectures and creating events for kinky, kinky-curious Queer/Trans POC’s and their white queer and trans allies for over a decade.

Check out their blog What “They” Said at http://polypataoproductions.com

Photo by Tara Lessard

Leanna and I have been shooting a lot recently. I have a thing for redheads… well honestly I have a thing for brunettes and blondes too but Leanna is infectious and a lot of fun to work with.

When she asked if I had read anything by Bukowski and if I would be into doing a shoot of her reading her copy of “Women” I was all for it.

“Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!”
― Charles Bukowski, Women

Leanna can be found here: leannabanana.com

W: Do you feel perfection in people is a turn-off? Do you feel like a person with some vices, faults, scars and blemishes would be more attractive, more interesting?

SS: I like both. I like a perfect looking specimen and I like an interesting specimen. The problem is, beautiful people tend to also have shit personalities, so they immediately become staggeringly ugly because they’ve adopted all of these unfortunate traits.

The worst is that they feel they are only valued for their looks so they view themselves as a
commodity. A commodity too valuable to give away of course, so they tend to be lonely, predatory, and unfaithful. Of course, viewing yourself as a piece of capital is dehumanizing. I find that most of these people are very bored and very neurotic because they have very few interests outside of maintaining their looks or maintaining everyone else’s perception of their high value.

It’s especially hard in this industry to stay grounded, because people are very quick to flatter you and feed your head with endless bullshit about how great you are until you feel like you’re practically curing cancer. I feel like the work we do here can be important, that it can have sacred purpose. However, we are not curing cancer or feeding starving children in Africa. The cure for the AIDS epidemic is not going to come from being physically perfect.

W: What does ”being content” mean to you? What are the moments where you feel the most content with yourself and your life?

SS: I’ve never actually felt content. I know what they symptoms are, I’ve heard people recite them ad nauseum, but I’ve never really experienced it myself. [redacted] I’m addicted to my ennui and my melancholy. I suppose there is some state of dynamic tension between the having and wanting that I would describe as perfect, and in that sense, content. I’m always striving and always searching.

I used to think that the ultimate goal in life was the avoidance of pain. I thought this was a very honorable and noble way to live. It didn’t get me very far at all. I was a classic overachiever, a junior in college by the time I was nineteen and desperately underwhelming as a human being…I
was so determined to do everything perfectly, to never make mistakes and to experience my life as gracefully as a perfectly locking box. I had already achieved pretty much everything the average/typical/ordinary person is supposed to want by twenty-one…but all the trappings of a “normal” life and all of the obligations they brought just made me feel suffocated.

The problem with the American Dream is that it’s too easily achieved if you have any determination or ambition. It leads to a kind of boredom that metastasizes in your soul like the worst kind of cancer. And you know what? None of it was able to protect me from life’s inevitable outrages and tragedies.

So, I don’t like content.

And now here is a present for reading words:

i want to fuck the shit out of this acai which makes my tongue purple and freezes my brain in a good way and chicks with perfect tits ride by on skateboards. i’ve eaten three bananas three different ways in three hours and a drag queen pole dances on a street sign post and another walks by with a red plastic clown nose and angels smoke cigarettes in front of Copacabana Hotel and men position their cocks sideways in their swim trunks and little girls in skimpy padded bikinis and yesterday a blend of banana coconut tangerine tasted like a dream creamy dreamy and on the beach thongs for all
thongs on all
short thin fat and tall
asses tan, round and thick
oh i wish i had a dick
i’d push that fabric to the side
i’d spread that ass nice and wide
we’d play a game of slip and slide
lube it up Brazilian glide
i’d grab those hips that long brown hair
i’d make you cum i’d make you swear
smack those pads handful grabs
perfect circles dark and ripe
now in season now my type
blend it pour it in a glass
i’d use a straw for that sweet ass.

Zinester Erotica

My fingers were sticky with glue. Not just normal glue, glue stick glue. I had been cutting and pasting all afternoon. Not computer click and drag cut and paste. Zine cut and paste. The kind where you bleed from tiny papercuts after too many hours of laying out single phrases across the page. I had papers sprawled across the wooden floor, and Belle and Sebastian crooning out of My ghetto blaster. My toes twitched in the summer air and I sang along.
He came in without knocking, as was often custom. He sat in My computer chair and watched Me slinking across the floor, reaching for scissors and more paper. No one had said anything yet, as was also custom. He glanced at the penis gun I was cutting out.
“Is that the cover?” his first words to Me all day
“Yah, you like it?”
“Nice” he said
He had wheeled the chair closer to where I was sitting by this time. He kicked at My foot in a poor attempt at kindergarten flirtation. Next thing I knew I suddenly found Myself half in his lap, half on the floor, grasping on to the glue stick for dear life. My skirt was up and his fingers were inside Me. Pressing on all the right spots. I gave up on trying to hold onto the glue stick and let him slide his fingers inside Me as far as they would go. Making Me more wet by the second. I was nearly upside down, with one hand on top of his feeling the rhythm of his wrist twist and turn in My wetness. My own fingers working furiously at My clitoris until My lack of balance gave in and I had to put My hand back on the floor. My damp fingers making the zine in progress sticky with fluids other than glue.
As I came the papers were strewn across the floor in an unorganized fashion, My hair stuck to My forehead and Belle and Sebastian had ended quite some time ago…
I rolled over and the drawing of the penis gun was stuck to My thighs, slick with sweat. I peeled it from My leg and continued laying the title over it. This put a whole new twist on zinester erotica, I should put together more of these compilations.

The author:

Bella Vendetta is a professional and lifestyle Domina hailing from Western MA.  She has almost 12 years training and experience in the BDSM lifestyle and the adult industry.  As well as working as a Pro Domme and internationally published fetish model Bella is an award winning adult film star.  Bella Vendetta is also a B movie starlet, runs her own niche fetish site, and hosts a monthly naked cooking webcam show.  Colleges and Universities around the northeast frequently ask Bella to speak and lecture about Her experiences in the sex industry.  In addition to her work in the adult industry she also moonlights as a journalist writing about and interviewing tattoo artists, MMA fighters, rock and metal musicians.  To learn more visit www.BellaVendetta.com . Zinester erotica was originally published in “Screamer issue #2″ from MyOwnBrain Productions; the zine can be purchased for $5 by emailing BellaVendetta666@gmail.com

they are kissing on the edge of my bed everything off but shiny spandex leggings which remind me of when we first met years ago in a red room on Walker street and i watch for a while which helps to settle my nerves no matter how often we do this always nervous at first and soon clothes stripped and black lace everything with socks to knees i bend over back arched and her hands glide all over my ass and flirt with wet panties and she takes turns spanking each of us and tells me to lay my stomach on top of his back easier access and pussy grinds all over his skin spankings continue and i can feel my ass getting hot and red and like it and start to groan and grind louder and harder which makes him do the same and feminine whispers in my ear feel like tongue flicks naughty girls get what they deserve and wet turns to cream and soon we are facing one another double ended dildo buried deep inside both cunts and find a rhythm working it in and out and the piercing on her left tit looks shiny and edible i focus on that as i hold the hitachi to my clit and he licks hers and takes turns on us and we pass the wand back and forth creating a vibration through the long rubber cock and i watch him eat her out through my spread legs as my hips move up and down and direct the cock make it go harder and faster into her pussy just the tip and and i throw my head back it feels mind blowing and cigarettes and bad jokes and i am on my back she slides in between my legs hard cock ready to be swallowed and he is behind her and slowly works it in we find a beat and i let my legs fall to the sides and her hair tickles my face and i find her breast enjoy the softness run my other hand along her waist fondle curves and see his face over her shoulder he fucks her she fucks me and positions change and doggie style i lick his cock and she wraps her hand around hair and pulls the ponytail back hard throat opening and then pushes it onto his dick my mouth a fuck hole and she jerks him off into it with such ferocity that she punches my bottom lip repeatedly my mouth so full of cock i cannot protest so i shove my ass deeper in his face and everyone moans.

she fucks his asshole i watch and stroke my cock which feels real and gives me great pleasure and she tells me to get under and lick his balls i continue to jerk myself off and roll my tongue all over his hardness and we are one big fuck fest and out in the backyard by candlelight puffy coats over bare breasts and tea and spicy wonton dumplings and she’s ready for more i take out the rabbit and lay down beside them fuck myself watching everything through the mirror on the wall in front of us watch his ass move deep and slow her feet swing over his shoulders then jackhammer pound her hands grab his ass switch positions watch golden hair strands swing down her back and ass ride that cowboy up and down and i watch the porn through the dusty mirror being filmed alongside me so turned on by the reality of this fantasy and look to my left and touch his skin her skin his skin her skin until i cum hard and it is a powerful one that shudders throughout and waves into her seconds later and harmony rings and cigarettes are lit and we all agree this is the best yet and just keeps getting better.

He was a Marine and was recruited into the S.E.A.L.s.

He took me hiking once and I asked him if he took a cell phone when he normally went out alone.  He told me no.

“What’ll you do if you fall and break your leg or something?”

He turned and looked at me in all seriousness.

“I’ll crawl out.”

He suffered from congestive heart failure and was recently diagnosed with cancer.  He has to take twelve different medicines every day to keep his heart working, but has drawn the line at treating his cancer.  He’d prefer to go out his own way.

Sometimes I catch him out on the property somewhere, just sitting quietly watching the trees.

The other day he turned and looked at me and said, “When you were little, you were so little, but you weren’t afraid of anything.  You used to always try to run away.  You thought you could just survive on your own in Yosemite.  You always just wanted to be in nature.  Remember that? Everyone used to tease you in school and you would come home and tell me you were going to live in the woods.”

“I’m certainly in the Wilderness now,” I said.

“I’m not worried,” he said, “if anything happens, you’ll crawl out.”

In the words of the seminal punk band Crass:

“Do we owe them our lives? Of course we fucking do!”

Happy Veteran’s Day, pops.

Semper Fi.

the lemon curd cums all over the plate after i stick my knife into it and it wants to be inside of me in a bad way i can tell and Mel says it’s as if she’s bit into the sun and i continue to call out to God and sometimes Jesus and use the pecan crunch one to soak up the cream from the pistachio one and my teeth hurt and i keep going and it is my favorite thing that i have put in my mouth all day two days in a row and i could never wrap my head around grape pie think it’s weird and dam this doughnut channels fuck and my mouth gets wet just thinking about the next bite.

Last month I noticed how much I talk about pornography when a friend complained about the monochromatic tone of my conversations: “Not everything is about sex”, she said.

And she was right. Not everything is about sex. But everything is about porn.

Sex as power, as a space for dominance and social interaction, as an economic trading mode, does not exist in the love making format; it comes raw, violent, basal, instinctive, anonymous, and primary as a biological need. It takes places not in the Victorian bedroom we still reproduce in our bourgeois households, but out on the streets, where it can be noticed and acknowledged, accepted or repudiated. From the latest Nic Minaj video to Cronenberg’s (failed) attempt to portray female hysteria, through the endless flirt between Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy: it is all about PORN, not about sex.

Sex is what happens when nobody is looking: porn is its embodied version into something that exists to be noticed, this way positioning participants in a given social economic loci by subjecting them to classification by observance. Sex is to be whispered about, barely noticed, while porn is this over-sized  grotesque body singing loud from TV screens in the broadcasting of cooking shows, soccer games, dance theater: it is all in the body, the human form, the assemble of limbs and muscles and skin, and it is all about pleasuring the taste buds, the eyes, the ears. Pornography is not about sex: sex is about pornography.

The private history of the subject has long become focus of the academic world, inasmuch as it is the primary configuration, the archetype of every process of come-to-being. The limits between the public and private, which appear to be the founding structure of our society, is being now constantly questioned by the use of social media and the internet: no longer I am able to “be” without “being seen”. And, aware of that, one can choose which facade to display: never, or quite rarely, there is a window that allows a peek into their fondness for pornography. While that eroticism is moderately accepted, pornography is dealt with as if deriving from twisted, darkened sexualities which are to be hidden – all this while the world wide web, the same frame which in current society locates the self, continuously bombards users with pornography in its most varied forms.

And while I was thinking about this, it dawned on me that the porn industry might be the most inclusive, most open, and most accepting of all industries, since it allows all sort of minorities to establish in a niche created specifically for them. While that some may argue that there is a ranking system, a price tag which differs to the products of each niche – as in this performer versus that performer, or this category over that one – it is society and consumers, not the porn industry, who ranks them. By allowing all forms of fetish to be equally represented, for example, pornography would be able to bridge private and public on a non-judgmental way, wasn’t it for its consumers denying its consumption. The irony is amusing.

It is in the tension between what is done (inside) and what is spoken (outside) that a solution for the demystification of porn lies. As Michel de Certeau poses, “Through stories about places, they become inhabitable. Living is narativising. Stirring up or restoring this narativising is thus also among the tasks of any renovation. One must awaken the stories that sleep in the streets and that sometimes lie within a simple name.” Let ‘s make it named: porn.

The Empire State Building as seen from Church Street in Tribeca

One of New York’s Finest cordons off an area around Pier 85 as the weather grows increasingly inclement.

A woman walks her dog as the storm approaches Manhattan’s Westside.

The waters of the Hudson River shortly before the notorious and destructive surge

The Space Shuttle Pavilion on the Intrepid Air and Space Museum collapsed during the storm and is currently being re-built.

Several large and magnificent trees were uprooted in Central Park and elsewhere throughout the city.

A parking meter in Coney Island

A woman at Columbus Circle looks at a street light that is neither where it should be, nor where it recently was.

The crane at the 57th Street construction site that collapsed during the storm

It takes more than a goddam hurricane and the chaos and destruction that it brings to keep this woman from getting in some cardio.

One of the many fallen trees along the Hudson River Park

If you tend to hold your head sideways, you may notice nothing wrong with the traffic light in this photo. Those who orient their heads vertically, however, will notice something amiss.

The boardwalk at Far Rockaway Beach was completely destroyed.

Solar One, a sustainable energy advocacy group, offered free phone charging at its solar-powered facility under the FDR.

Time’s Up, a bicycle advocacy and direct action organization, also offered free phone charging by means of a human-powered bicycle generator.

An Anarchist with a pair of scissors could have done enormous damage in the days following Hurricane Sandy.

These fliers notwithstanding, the situation in Far Rockaway was awfully grim, even two weeks after the storm.

A pedestrian surveys what remains of the facade that collapsed on Eighth Avenue and 14th Street.

With the subways closed and very few buses running, those of us with bicycles were at a great advantage in the days after the storm.

A woman shovels sludge off the esplanade under the FDR.

A Con Edison van rushes past a large plume of steam on West 40th Street.

Debris and detritus near the Westside Highway and Gansevoort Street

A volunteer stands in the basement of the Mt. Carmel Church in Far Rockaway.

This was a ubiquitous sight in Lower Manhattan in the days following the storm: water being pumped out of basements.

Volunteers clear the basement of the Mt. Carmel Church in Far Rockaway.

With no electricity throughout much of New York City, traffic cops were a common sight.

The sandbags in this photo differ from normal sandbags in one significant way: they are Wall Street sandbags, so they’re filled not with sand, but with gold coins and enormous diamonds.

…and counting

UPS was on the ground, delivering packages the day after the storm.

American Exceptionalism: Volunteers and donated provisions were both abundant at the MCU Park in Coney Island, though people often waited in line for up to four hours to claim food, water, and toiletries.

Two attractive people ignore each other and focus on their phones. Once power went out in Lower Manhattan and much of Midtown, cell phone reception was least dodgey along the river, which is where this was taken.

Urban hunting and gathering

Members of the National Guard make a rare appearance on a New York City sidewalk as patients are evacuated from the ICU of Bellevue Hospital.

Uprooted trees were and are a very common sight in Far Rockaway.

Post-hurricane traffic is the worst!

A pedestrian looks at a toppled phone booth on First Avenue.

A resident of the East Village prepares food for anyone who asks for it. Naturally, there was a separate grill for vegetarians. In this photo, she’s turning over some delectable tofu patties.

Like so much else in Coney Island, The Shore Hotel took a terrible beating.

The South Street Seaport was flooded with several feet of water and the smell of diesel fuel was thick in the air for days after the storm.

A few days after the storm, this banner appeared on the north side of the Manhattan Bridge. The connection between extreme weather events and climate change is incontrovertible, as the good folks at 350.org are very aware.

I have a veiled ceiling in my bedroom, it makes me feel like I live in a harem.  I also live out in the country in a converted barn.  There are lots of drafts, and lots of mice, spiders, cats, squirrels, toads and birds that find there way into my house.  About six months ago, while lying in bed, I heard a stirring in the fabric swagged across my ceiling.  I figured that some mice had found their way in and that it was time for me to set some traps.

After a few days of this stirring happening at night, something literally fell down onto my bed through a part in the draping overhead; it was a little black kitten.  As soon as the kitten, well, she was more like a teenager, fell into my room, I kicked her out.  Now this routine went on for a few weeks.  She would find her way into the draping on my ceiling through a vent or something, fall onto my bed and then I would kick her out.

Finally one day, when I was very sick, she fell down and I let her stay.  She cuddled me on the bed and I was comforted by her.  I’m not a cat person, but she had the kind of personality that you normally find in a dog.  She can just lay there all day snuggling you and pretty much not make a nuisance of herself.  I started to fall in love with her.  I thought she was the perfect kitty.

I noticed that she starting to get fat, and quickly figured out that she was pregnant.  I named her Madonna.  She had her kittens on Mother’s Day and they were sweet and healthy.

Then a few months ago, Madonna got into a fight and the skin and fur on the lower part of her face was ripped off.  No one could figure out what had happened.  I’d never seen anything like it.  I took her to the vet, they gave her antibiotics and she was sent home for us to wait and see.

I caught myself caught.  The cat wanted attention, but I was repulsed by her and found it hard to forgive it.  I didn’t want her in my room, her hanging flap of fur dragging across my things or rubbing up against my leg.  Yet, Madonna couldn’t possibly understand why she was being turned out all of the time, why she was being ignored when all the animals would gather around me at feeding time to get petted.

Her face healed, though now she is permanently disfigured.

Maybe I’m turning into Colette, but watching my little kitty had given me pause for reflection.

I find it more difficult to pet her now.  Her face looks weird and in some way it frightens me.  Maybe its hardwired into us, maybe its biology that makes it so that we are immediately repulsed by injury or deformity, that it’s in our nature to turn away from any display of genetic error or physical weakness.

If we were part of a nomadic tribe, would I be thinking to abandon her because she is showing signs that I’ll have to care for her, that she won’t be able to pull her own weight?

Is it native, or is it more of a social thing?  Did I always find insects repugnant, or was that something I learned over time.  When I was eight or nine and couldn’t keep pets in the section 8 housing complexes we were always shifting around in, I would collect snails in jars.  I was obsessed with their soft bodies. the eyes at the end of the barbel stalks that sprout from their tiny heads.  Even the weird smell of their shells.

I watch Madonna now, with her weird healed face.  I can pet her.  She can even rub her naked jaw against my hand and lick my fingers and I don’t mind. I watch her, I watch the way that she conducts herself as she always has, like the cat she’s always been.  It seems she doesn’t even notice that her face is now different.  There is no adaption in her behavior for the way the tiny pink ribbon tip of her tongue always sticks out of her maw.

It reminds me of the time I was on the beach in Honolulu watching a little girl with deformed legs, they were short and folded in on themselves in an odd way that preempted walking.  She was building a sand castle, and she was no more than three or four.  Too young to know that her deformity was anything to be self-conscious of, any cause of discomfort in others, any thing that warranted her attention.

I looked around and saw that many other grown-ups were staring at her too.  We were all looking, all repelled and compelled at the same time.  I could see it in their faces like mirrors.  I think we were all full of that weird sorrow, knowing that some day this blissful time, this precious ignorant moment of innocence would end.

It’s weird.  We are taught to never notice mutations, illness, disfigurements.  We are told this is the polite thing to do, but sometimes it feels like a more insidious and primitive thing.  We turn our backs, because instead of ignoring the “handicap,” we tend to ignore the person altogether.

They become invisible.

To -some- unassociated with this world it might seem antithetical to suggest that the adult business, or the people who work in it (particularly the performers) have an authenticity when from the outside what one see’s is the packaged, final product: a generally concentrated, sort of glamorous, super sexualized idea. It is, like it’s sibling the mainstream movie industry, entertainment. Both these industries take some flack (sometimes rightfully) for being incredible superficial. But I’m not sure it’s entirely true or fully deserved. In many ways these industries aren’t too far related to theatre, say. Theatre, despite trying to reflect human nature, is a highly unnatural arena filled with artifice. But it still get’s a pretty good rap. But these three worlds are populated with performers who are pretty much similar. To me, at least. People, using their emotional and physical resources to tell stories. All kinds of stories: highbrow, lowbrow and sexual. The performers really are all cut from the same cloth. Adventurers from all walks of life compelled to take a risk, to put on the greasepaint, take part in a strange ritual, (get paid) and enact humans being well, human. But when they’re at home, busy not being famous or having beautiful looking sex for money they’re just like everyone else. Tired, happy, sad, lonely (or not) and taking solace in the company of their most intimate beloved, their pets.

These photos are just previews of a much larger project we’re working on tentatively titled “Pornstars and Their Pets” but I wanted to share a few photos because I thought they were right for the moment. These are just a small sample and there and many other people not yet shown. I’ve thrown in a few impressions about the performers here and there.

ELA DARLING: This is lovely Ela Darling with her doggie MC Gonzo Gwandoya Ghettoblaster Salinger: The Zombinator. Ela is an original. A former librarian, now a girl girl performer, a total comic and Harry Potter nerd and articulate presence in the adult field. She’s a gracious hostess frequently putting me up as I shuttle myself around LA. The yellow smudge is flower pollen from a gigant orchid I had her devour in some photos just prior. I generally retouch all photos but I thought these (and all the photos in this series wanted to come out of the camera unaffected-I hope the subjects can understand this one time) She’s gamesome and loved by all.

GABRIELLA PALTROVA and Bellatrix I met Gabby at AVN in Vegas through my friends Veruca and Damon James. I haven’t spent that much time with her but I loved her free and unaffected spirit-she was game to be in gesture share the awesomeness that the then tiny Bellatrix was. They are both two foxy felines:

VERUCA (and DAMON) JAMES with Gus, Suzy and Sashimi Veruca and Damon have become my LA family. They have a fiery (and authentic) love, are ambitious, wild, salty and loyal friends. They like busting my chops for things like pink manties (easy game) and my one bottle of whiskey limit. I love them to death, like they do each other.

KATIE ST. IVES and her doggie MR. BEAN. Katie is warm, wild spirit not to mention gorgeous as hell. I have a ton more photos from this shoot which I’m saving for a rainy day.

MADAME ROSEBUD This one is sort of cheating. Rosebud does have a dog and a pet husband (zing). This isn’t her cat. It’s a studio cat that walked up to her on our last shoot. I will shoot her with her pets soon but I can never remind people enough of the beautiful white witch magic that is my friend Rosebud. I hope her and Abe are in my life for a long time to come.

SOVEREIGN SYRE and COCO. Sovereign and I have had, and will continue to have I imagine, many kinds of relationships and colours both in our past and moving into the future. We were romantic partners for two and half years and now forge forward as friends and creative collaborators. Sov is as brainy and complex as people say but put her around an animal, almost any (amphibians included), and you’ll find her at her most unguarded self. When I first met her father he immediately pulled me into the house showing me a gallery of photos of her as child. In each of them she was holding an animal. He grinned his coyotes smile and said: “She loves animals” as if to say: “we both know this part of her”. Coco is our dog, the beautiful, floppy eared, mildy retarded child of the Darling/Syre divorce.

VERONICA RICCI and TWIX Veronica and mine is a new friendship, a very fun work in progress. I can say she is a delightful eccentric, a quirky mermaid of human and great American beauty. Despite her solid following and Penthouse Pet status she has a remarkably level head. She’s rad. Here are some previews of her and Twix.

I first met Mara when she and a friend walked by the studio where I shoot. Her friend was a young photographer and they were on their way to an exhibit at the local art college where Mara would be attending the following September, it was then May or April.

Her friend and I talked about the studio and what went on there and the conversation turned to my work. He asked if I was on Model Mayhem and I said yes, he asked what I went by and I told him. Mara then shoves him out of the way and says I know your stuff and I would love to shoot with you. I asked her her age and she replied seventeen. I said I would be happy to shoot with her but her mom or dad would have to accompany her. She said, “Fuck that. My birthday is soon and I’d rather wait.” We continued talking about photography and the studio and her friend wound up applying and getting hired as an intern.

A few weeks later I get an email from Mara, “I want to get naked for your camera, when can this happen?”

That was the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship and working relationship and I have had the distinct pleasure of watching an amazing model blossom.

This set was a spur of the moment shoot this afternoon and I really hope you enjoy looking at them as much as I enjoyed making them.

Mara: www.modelmayhem.com/1222550

I just finished watching a documentary on the state of Art in the era of the internet called Push Pause Play.  The documentary consulted a number of artists and thinkers from Robyn to Andrew Keen and attempted to cover mediums from the written word to film, to music, and on.  I think the question raised by the documentary that was the most intriguing to me (it didn’t really answer much of anything, excepting the tacked on solution that live performances would save music), was that of how the elitist endeavor of art could survive the radical democratization of all of its mediums.

My first reaction when watching the documentary was one of disdain.  I get tired of artists whining about how hard it is to get noticed because ANYONE can make art these days.  The knee-jerk response from me is: make quality shit, only do shit you believe in; and the moneys/security/recognition will come.  I do relate though, how does one stand out with so many options?  How does one survive when anything can be replicated or stolen?  The truth is though, as time has proven, when a product is good, people will pay for it, even when they have the option to steal it.  The problem of theft tends to be one brought about by the dilemma of too much choice.  People just don’t know if something is going to be any good and so they want to make sure their investment is going to be worth it.  The secondary problem is that the technology to create art, has made the creation of art so easy that the product is very often quite mediocre.

So what do I mean when I say that the artist should suffer but not the art?

I mean that the technology that makes the creation of art easy, doesn’t make the creation of good art easy.  There was a reason why it was hard to get published by a publishing house as an author; there were gatekeepers there that helped to discern good writing from bad.  Granted these days everything is free and equal, but the person who wrote 50 Shades of Grey has gotten wealthy off of the production of truly awful prose.

I’m not championing the return of the publishing house determining what is good and bad, but I think that we do have to get comfortable internalizing a certain amount of elitism and judgment.  The solution to the problem is one of critical thinking and discernment.  The burden is upon us to become elitist in our own consumption.

Many of us feel strange thinking of ourselves as elitists, but I want to remove some level of stigma from that word.  The abolitionist movement was elitist, so was the idea of women’s suffrage and atheism.  The Age of Reason was brought about by a group of elitists.  These elitists realized that democracy was better than monarchy, but they also realized that democracy was useless if the general population didn’t develop the same ability to reason that they had…so the first thing they set about  doing (after a few bloody revolutions and a regicide in France) was creating a set legal code and public education.

I think we have to approach what we consume with more care and discernment, but that we must also consider what it is that we are putting out into the collective consciousness with more conscientiousness as well.  The answer to the problem is diligence, that we have to be more diligent in what we do and what we create.

I keep hoping that after the malignant digital narcissism of social networking destroys the very concept of fame, art will be left once again with actual artists that do what they do because it is a passion that burns them down to the quick.  If we are in the midst of a second Cultural Dark Age, as Andrew Keen believes, I look forward to the Renaissance that must follow.

Gonzo came from the journalism term popularized by Hunter S. Thompson. It was meant to convey a more ethnographic perspective in reportage. It simply means there isn’t necessarily a narrative plot, the plot is more about the subjective experience. It doesn’t mean POV or rough per say, but it does generally connote a more immediate pornographic experience.

When I first met Dana Vespoli I was taken with her beauty, intelligence, and raw sexuality.  She had been a gonzo girl and anal queen before taking a hiatus to nourish her soul by making a family, and I was one of her first scenes “back” in the business.  She played the annoyed boss to my bumbling secretary for Nica Noelle in an Office Seductions release from Sweetheart Video.

I could have never dreamt that we would become like twins, distinct beings, but in so many things, connected by a private language of desire, curiosity, ambition and well…and that indefinable thing that cocoons intense and meaningful relationships between people.

She has become a mentor to me, a dear friend, a dream sister, and more, the kinds of things I can’t share here because they are too intimate, and you couldn’t understand anyway, unless you remember those friends you had in elementary school that you made blood pacts with.

She helped me open my asshole.  It may very well be the most intimate relationship I’ve ever had with someone involving my sexuality, although we are not lovers.

Vukojebina: trans. “wolf-fuck”; A place where wolves retire to copulate, a remote, barren, or arduous place.

“Utter abandon.”

Those were my exact words. He’d asked me what I wanted and, at the time, it seemed like a good idea. Standing in the middle of our studio, the blindfold feeling more constricting with each passing second, doubt pricked the shiny bubble of fantasy.

What the hell had I gotten myself into this time?

Quiet, which normally wrapped about me comfortably, tightened its grip until my breath came in hard, shallow gasps. My voice ached to cry out, but it would not. It, like me, didn’t dare break the spell. It was too late to turn back, at least that’s how it felt. We’d already started so, if I kept my promise, the word no wasn’t mine to use, anyway.

Until He said otherwise, I belonged to Him.

Chivalrous as ever, He’d asked about boundaries and how far He should push. I, being my usual impetuous self, boldly told Him to, “Demolish them.” One of these days, perhaps I’ll learn to think harder about these things before I open my big mouth.

My hands, held behind my neck, shook and I clasped harder to try to keep them under control. Their weakness moved to my knees, which wobbled as unsteadily as a kid in high heels, but I had no shoes to blame. Beside the velvet tied over my eyes, I wore nothing but leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles, along with a bondage belt at my waist.

Though I’d been desperate for a sound, any sound, His low chuckle was not exactly what I was hoping for. It only served to stretch my nerves tighter until they were ready to snap. He didn’t have to enjoy my discomfort so much, did He? Swallowing hard, I choked down the kernel of indignation in my throat before it could grow into something more dangerous.

How could I blame Him? This was all my idea.

Just a few weeks ago, the notion of ceding consent was merely another bodice-ripping fantasy sloshing around my brain-pan. We’d explored S/M and power exchange, but it was like a game, playing with control. Something in me craved more, to strip away the safe haven of conditions until my submission was complete and irrevocable. I needed for Him to invade every sacred space, tear down the boundaries that stood between me and freedom.

So, there I was, stark naked and shivering, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

He was taking His time, footfalls slow and deliberate as He strode around me. Sometimes, furniture scuffed against the hard floor as He moved it toward the walls, clearing out the center of the room. Mostly, the room stalled in silence, and more ominous fucking silence, while my heartbeat thudded a staccato rhythm in my ears.

As His footsteps approached, pausing briefly before He stood directly in front me, I gulped to dislodge my heart from my throat. Warm breath, tinged with a hint of wine, fluttered against my cheeks before tickling at my ears. Moist lips sucked my earlobe as His hands traveled over my trembling body.

“I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of you, all of you,” He whispered, and a cold chill slithered down my spine, turning white hot between my legs. “You know why we’re here?”

“Um … huh?” I muttered back. My brain was a bit too addled for QnA.

He chuckled. “Rhetorical question.” A playful slap rang out and my ass warmed in its wake. “You’ve been holding back, haven’t you, pet?” His hand closed tight, squeezing the cheek hard, and I whimpered under my breath. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

Beeping interrupted Him, signaling an incoming message. “Hold that thought,” He said, stepping back, and I heard the keystrokes and whooshing sounds of texts being exchanged. What the hell was so important? My mind searched for answers, but found nothing but more questions. Finally, His lips pressed against mine, hot and urgent, as He held me close.

“Last chance to change your mind.” The words last chance echoed in my head, turning up the volume on my heartbeat until its throbbing pulse reached all the way to my clit. “Are you ready to serve me?”

“I’m ready, Sir,” I replied, though I was anything but.

“Open your mouth.”

Without hesitation, I obeyed, and my mouth was filled with what felt like a thick rubber bit gag. Except, it wasn’t smooth enough for that. Instinctively, I bit down and almost jumped at the loud squeak of a dog’s chew toy. Starting to mutter, I fought the urge to spit the damned thing out of my mouth and share a few choice words. My hands clenched into fists behind my head and breaths huffed, bull-like, in and out of my nose.

“I’d suggest you adjust your attitude before I come back.” With that, He turned and His footsteps left the room, followed by the front door opening and closing. Where the hell was He going?

Moments dragged like they were being pulled through tar while I tried to hold on to some semblance of composure. But there was no keeping my cool. Every dire possibility fogged my thoughts, blinding common sense. Yet, I couldn’t ignore the building heat, the trickle of wetness escaping my sex and snaking its slow, torturous way down my thigh. Dread was quickly winnowing itself down to a tantalizing glimmer of anticipation.

I resigned myself to obey Him as best I could. He’d test me, of course; that was the point. He’d push every one of my buttons and dare me to defy Him. All I had to do was let go of the inhibitions that held me back.

The door creaked and I immediately snapped to attention, scanning for any hint of a sound. I had to be imagining things, because I swore I heard a cluster of footsteps and hushed voices in the hall. They must be coming from the stairwell outside. Holding my breath, I focused harder. Holy shit! I wasn’t wrong. Several people moved through the foyer, headed toward the studio.

His whisper rose above the others, muffled by distance but just clear enough to make out words. “No talking.”

What the fuck was He playing at? I didn’t say yes to this … did I? The realization hit me like a punch in the gut: when I’d asked Him to disregard limits, I’d said yes to everything.

Footsteps approached. My heart raced, beating so hard I was sure it could be seen pounding away against my chest. I tried to remember to breathe, but kept losing the thread, gulping air frantically to catch up. Irrational hopes yammered in my mind. He wouldn’t actually bring them into the studio, would He?

My eyes reflexively squeezed shut, my jaw champing down on the hateful thing in my mouth. The damned squeak set off the intruders, and men’s raucous laughter burned my cheeks with shame as my stomach sank. Oh god, they were right here and could see everything. The blindfold caught the tears as they streamed from my eyes. I tried to plead with Him to change His mind, but all that came out from behind the gag were panicked bursts of garbled nonsense. It was no use. I was exposed and debased, and there was nothing I could do about it. So, why was my belly tightening as if I enjoyed the idea? I wasn’t actually turned on by this humbling spectacle … was I?

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we pet?” He sounded so calm, as if he hadn’t just invited god-knows-who in to look at me naked. Meanwhile, I could barely stand, my knees were shaking so badly. Dragging something along with Him, He lingered a moment before giving my ass a hard slap. “I see you’re still not ready to behave yet,” He growled in my ear, grabbing a handful of butt cheek.

All of a sudden, I was picked up and flung over His lap as he sat. Protests screamed in my head, but didn’t dare move to my mouth. One hand forced me down, holding my hands tight as He pushed me over, His leg pinning mine until I was completely immobilized with my ass raised high in the air. I barely had time to think about how mortified I was before His free hand rained a volley of slaps, hard and fast, moving from one cheek to the next as I tried in vain to wriggle away from the blows while the fucking chew toy squeaked in mocking bursts. My struggling only seemed to spur Him to spank even harder, moving His focus to my sit-spot and thighs, where the heat of the sting grew to unbearable fire.

He stopped, releasing His hold on my top half. Weakened, and too humiliated to care, I didn’t fight gravity and let myself fall limp. Clutching a handful of hair, He pulled my head back and removed the bit. My mouth went slack as a wracking sob shook me to the core.

Pain had nothing to do with my reaction, regardless of the terrible burn of His punishment. Helplessness ate away any hope of composure I might have had. I had no idea who was in the room with us. Were they strangers or friends I’d have to face later? I didn’t want to think about either possibility; they were both equally horrifying.

“I’ll ask you only once and, when you answer, you’d better mean it. Do you want to stop?”

“No!” The word blurted out so fast, it surprised even me. More surprising was that I wasn’t lying. Tempted as I was to end the ordeal, I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it. The little spark of erotic intrigue wouldn’t let me stop. It glowed brighter with each passing moment, luring me with the promise of unfettered release. Regardless of my terror of what might come next, I was hooked.

He helped me back up, replaced the gag, and led me to the edge of the room. “Stay here and don’t move.” A flurry of activity broke out, with His occasional whispers sneaking through the banging and clanking assaulting my eardrums.

“Come here, pet,” He commanded. “I’m ready for you.”

My feet minced ahead in tentative, little steps. I could handle a lot of things, but the possibility of tripping and falling at this moment was more than I could bear. Toes then heels, rinse and repeat, I made my interminable way toward Him and whatever trial awaited.

Stopped, hands grabbed at my limbs. Each wrist had its own keeper, stretching them up and out. More hands held my waist from behind. They felt almost like His but rougher, chafing against my skin until I repeatedly flinched away from the contact. They gave my bottom a warning tap.

“Be still for me,” He said. I whimpered but froze obediently in place.

Rough Hands wrapped a wide swath of sturdy fabric around my waist, then wound it through my belt and pulled tight until it cinched me in. Holding my breath, I tried not to struggle as the hands at my wrists moved to my ankles, spreading me wide. Pulled by my waist up and back, I was lifted until my toes barely grazed the floor, floating weightless, bent over and indecently opened.

Dueling emotions wreaked havoc on my mind. Fresh tears breeched the soaked blindfold to pour down my face while wetness coursed, hot and sticky, down my legs. Rough Hands must have noticed, and traced fingers through its progress with an amused grunt. Without hesitation, they probed the source, assailing my hole with two long digits while I cried futilely from behind the gag. Teeth brushed against my nipple, biting down just as Rough Hands employed the hand not up my cunt to further redden my ass with a resounding twack. My wetness, no longer a mere trickle but a gushing flow, belied my outward discomfort, as my smoldering need flamed hotter.

Mouth continued devouring my tits, flicking the little silver rings with its tongue between bites, teasing my nipples to hard and agonizingly aroused peaks. It moved, working its way over my belly, each love bite triggering a renewed surge of blood following it downward. Rough Hands shifted attention to my backside, grasping a cheek in each hand as Mouth reached my cunt, swirling its tongue over the full of me. Electric currents of jolting bliss surged through my core. I struggled against them, but their force was growing all but impossible to resist. Just as Mouth hungrily bore down on my engorged clit, Rough Hands’ fingertip breached the tight ring of my asshole and a pleasured moan escaped my lips.

But, it wasn’t Him.

My mind repelled the indulgence. How in the hell could I let myself enjoy this? Despite the conflict raging in my conscience, my traitorous body didn’t give a shit. The more desperately I tried to fight the hot blood surging to my sex, the fire blazed even higher, my flesh relishing the shameless plunder and demanding more. I couldn’t give in, though all my body wanted was to arch into Rough Hands’ invasion. My hips pulled against their bonds, wanting to rock into each stroke while I bit back moans.

Mouth lapped at my parted slit, drinking me in. I wouldn’t let myself yield to the sweet hum of the building climax.
It brought its teeth down on my clit, sucking hard around them while a new set of fingers invaded my cunt. My pussy milked the fingers as it pushed into the Mouth feeding off its pleasure. Mouth, pleased, naturally responded, “Mmm, yes.”

It wasn’t Him, either.

My mind raced, panicked, as the truth of my situation dawned on me. Two strangers were fucking me and He let them. Oh god, what if they weren’t strangers? Resolve shattered and I screamed into the bit, confused tension flooding out reason. There was no reason in this. Madness held the reins and wasn’t letting go.

In a flash, He was beside me, lips brushing my ear. Caressing my cheek, He freed my mouth to cover it with His own and tenderly urged me open. His tongue explored, warm and moist against mine, tart and heady with fresh wine. Back in my home in His arms, the fight in me retreated, too exhausted to sustain itself, leaving no trace of its hysteria.

“Are you all right, pet?”

“Maybe it’s just too much … I don’t know … ” I muttered weakly.

“Since when is it a problem when I play rough with you?”

“Bu-but … ”

“Now that I’ve primed your ass, I’m going to fuck you like the horny slut you are, nice and hard in all your holes.” I could practically hear the wink in his voice.

Mental jackpot bells went off, accompanied by lights blinking the word mindfuck. I should have known better. My unseen lovers were Him after all, to a fashion. At least they were inside the fantasy he’d built for me. I only had to foist logic from the fore and accept it.

“Yes, Sir,” I answered. I chose to believe. What other choice did I have?

My bonds were loosened so He could be suspended beneath me. Straddling Him, I inched down onto His waiting cock until I’d taken the full of Him inside me. Stretched by His girth, my cunt flooded over, and the air around us filled with the musky, tangy cocktail of sweat and my essence. Slathered with lube, I clamped my mouth shut, afraid I’d cry out too loudly when He filled my other hole. Steeling myself, I tightened up as His cock slowly entered me. Groaning, desperate for more, nothing mattered to me at that moment but His cock stuffing me everywhere.

Pulsating violet light synched to my moans as He pumped my ass with achingly slow thrusts. Holding on to my hips, He swung me back and forth, diving deeper with each circuit, grinding my clit against Him beneath me. Moans turned to panting grunts and the light behind my eyes expanded to fill my mind while I started to fly. All other thoughts and cares fell away until only losing myself in ecstasy remained.

Gathering my hair, He positioned me to use the motion of His thrusts from behind to fuck my mouth. His pace quickened, His manner more savage as animal need took over. With each stroke, He’d pause before impaling me again so I could suck and swirl my tongue on His waiting cock while I lusted for the sensation of Him plunging deep inside me again. The urgency of His shuddering moans drove me to even greater abandon as He buried Himself in my flesh. At that moment, I existed only as His wonton dream, an extension of His hunger.

As He reached a fevered pitch, we moved together like frenzied cogs, naturally fitted to fuck with feral brutality. I soared, swimming in voluptuous light as He hammered my every hole. He shook violently, desire piqued to the brink of explosion. The violet light burst into chards, millions of stars floating in the charged air, and I bathed in their glow as they swirled about me. A shuddering wail burst out as rapture claimed me at last.

“Happy birthday, pet,” he whispered as I melted into oblivion.

The author

Mich Masoch is a writer, fetish and erotica photographer, designer, and lifelong pervert. With her husband and partner, Jimi King, she owns and runs Circus Hooker Smut Regime, an independent erotica production and design studio in Los Angeles, Ca. She is currently writing the soon-to-be-released vampire erotic romance novella, “Reaper Perfume”, as well as a series of cookbooks for fellow hedonists. Her spanking erotica short story “Discipline Me” is available at Amazon , Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and other eBookstores. You can find her photography work and updates, along with behind the scenes peeks of photo and video shoots, on the CHS Regime site, Twitter (@MichMasoch), and Tumblr (This Sexy Life).

the sea urchin looks spongy yet it melts in my mouth surrounded by nori paper and cucumber slivers for crunch and fatty tuna high glossed with a special sauce that only Takahashi san knows the ingredients to and he paints it on with a brush and the coat drips over and around the flesh with such an erotic charge and a blowtorch creates glaze and crispens the fish placed on top a single bed of rice and served on a fresh banana leaf and it all started with monkfish liver pâté wrapped in sashimi no soy sauce necessary and i prefer to sniff rather than sip my sake now and it does the deed and wasabi is from a root and ground against shark skin but he uses a similar yet different texture for reasons that are beyond me and only seven customers allowed in the restaurant at a time and i watch him prepare each guest’s meal piece by piece and it is a massage for my eyes i feel so zen a calm inside just staring in silence at the way he slices the fat off of the fish meat with such exquisite precision a sacred act and it reminds me of rope sliding across silk stockings held around a slender thigh and ankle sushi and shibari it makes perfect sense and i bite down sink my teeth in deep and savor the flavor leaving a red lipstick kiss around the rim of the roll.

“Comment is free, but fact is sacred.”–CP Scott

I’m going to start using this as a diary because I can fancy myself as Anaïs Nin.  I’ll start calling myself a diarist and spare myself the shame of ever being labeled a blogger (neither a journalist or a writer, just an asshole with an opinion inbetween).

I posted a picture of my mouth and someone commented that it looked like I had a cold sore.  I actually in point of fact, have never had a cold sore, but people think that sometimes in pictures.  I don’t have either strain of the herpes virus, but a lot of people do and its nothing to be ashamed of.  Its just part of nature and nature is obscene.  If I did have a cold sore though, I probably wouldn’t post a photo of it because most people don’t want to look at sores without warning.  I brand myself as a sexual person, so posting pictures of my face with visible sores on it wouldn’t be a very clever marketing strategy. It was more of a logic fail on the part of the commenter.

It did inspire me though, to tell you all a story.

The bump or irregularity on my lower lip that I believe the person was referring to, is actually scar tissue.  A lifetime ago (doesn’t the past feel like a distant country sometimes? Or is that just my peculiar affliction….), I was completely out of my mind on methamphetamine and thought my lips were actually made of two fat worms that had burrowed under my skin.  I tried to dig them out with a sewing needle.  I spent close to six hours trying to suss out the bloated grubs I thought were living inside me.

It’s weird how anxiety and adrenalin can numb you to any kind of pain.  All I really remember feeling, was how cold my fingers felt. You’re always cold on meth, or too fucking hot.  I remember how sticky the blood was making my skin as it tried to dry and congeal.

I watched my best friend slowly pull off her thumbnail with a nail file to get rid of her cuticles. So, my experience was hardly extraordinary.

I should tell this story to girls that I hear about in the industry who are getting “really messed up” on drugs, but I don’t.

There’s no bigger waste of time than trying to talk a junkie out of her habit, except maybe trying to talk a girl out of her abusive husband.  I should know, I’ve been both.

The irony to me is that none of this happened while I was doing porn.  Instead it happened in the squeaky clean confines of University.  This dark phase had come and gone all in the time it takes to rack up a degree.  It’s funny, the whole time I was there, no one really cared if I was taking mysterious tumbles down the stairs or using a teener of meth a week to help animate the sagging skeleton of my inner life.   As long as I was making grades and writing good poems no one really noticed a thing.

I actually entered the adult industry painfully sober (let’s face it, pain is pretty much the only true teacher), and in the context of a loving, nurturing relationship with a decent man and a long term relationship with an equally gracious woman.  My parents are gingerly supportive of my decision to ditch my academic pursuits in favor of a life time dedicated to erotica because they’re not used to seeing me so happy and well adjusted…pretty much ever.

It always frustrates me to hear people malign the adult industry as a place where no one cares, full of outlaws and ne’er-do-wells.  That’s not because its not true, but because its said in a way that is meant to distance “their” world, from the “porn world”, as if there’s a lick of difference between the two, when they’re both inhabited by people.

Authenticity.