Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Elliot Masters stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, allowing his eyes to wander over the compelling angles and planes of his fit, hard-muscled physique. He played with the lighting in his penthouse condo, dimming and softening it in his mind’s eye until he’d achieved the backlit effect that most flattered him.
“Not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old superhuman,” he said to his image in the mirror as he bent the light, first this way, then that, to enhance what he saw. The ability to bend and direct light was only part of the portfolio of “special abilities” wielded by Elliot, a.k.a. “Lightworker.” He could also control the path and reception of light in others’ eyes—easily altering their perception. He could generate light with an intensity that had yet to be fully measured and documented. He also could move at roughly the speed of light, seemingly translocating himself as easily and quickly as he could think the thought.
Elliot couldn’t help touching himself as he thought again of the burglar he’d temporarily blinded earlier that evening when he spotted the thief tampering with the lock on the front door of a mansion in the well-to-do neighborhood just a few blocks away. He only got a brief look at the perpetrator after he’d stopped him cold. He was younger, probably late twenties or maybe early thirties . . . trim, tight build . . . dark hair and dangerous eyes . . . just the type who always turned Elliot’s head and fired the synapses leading straight to his groin.
The superhero caressed his well-defined chest and let his strong hands meander sensuously down past his flat belly to the patch of trimmed, dark blond hair between his legs. It was so out of character for Elliot to indulge himself this way, but he seemed to be spending more and more time lately in front of a mirror, noticing and exploring the contours of his body and feeling himself—literally and figuratively.
As he stood there moving his hands over the thick, veiny rise of his cock, he saw out of the corner of his eye, a fleeting shadow pass behind him, and he could’ve sworn he heard a faint laugh—almost a giggle. It wasn’t the first time. This shadow, or whatever it was, seemed to be haunting him lately—each time catching him in some moment of private reflection or indulgence, and each time leaving him feeling uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable.
He tried to pass it off as a byproduct of the stress he’d been noticing in recent weeks and months, the restlessness he seemed to be experiencing in spite of the intense purposefulness of his life and his mission. He tried to shake it off, push it to the back of his mind, but then he would find himself again standing in front of a mirror or window or some other surface where he could see himself, and hearing that increasingly familiar, slightly mocking laughter.
It seemed particularly linked to any thought or expression of sensuality. He noticed it any time he responded viscerally to an attractive man, and more and more it seemed that the criminals crossing his path were men whose faces or bodies provoked a response in Elliot that made him want to do much more to them than the law permitted. Damn superhero ethics.
This never used to happen. He’d always been able to separate his personal and professional lives. He’d never even allowed himself to notice a thief or an attacker’s appearance except to note the details relevant for their capture. But more and more the shadow seemed to be taunting him, and the perpetrators seemed to be sensing his ambivalence—and using it to their advantage . . .
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Erotica or pornography? To be honest, how I answer that question really depends on who asks it -- though I have often thought about the distinction. Personally, if it's a fellow writer asking if what I is erotica or pornography, in other words high literature or low smut, I have a tendency to answer with 'erotica' for obvious reasons. If it's someone who rings my doorbell late at night, or at some other obnoxious intrusion, I snarl that I'm a pornographer, and I have to really get back to writing nasty stories about equally nasty sex -- if just to get rid of them.
This playful ducking of the issue aside, some people really do take the idea of a different between the two very seriously. A common definition between the two is that pornography is 'just' sex, in other words the author appears to be doing nothing that just arouse the reader, while erotica is aiming for a higher purpose. The problem with that though is that one man's erotica is another's pornography: that the reaction to a story is completely subjective. Besides, who knows what the intent of any writer really is?
Another attempt at definition is that erotica is refined, while pornography is course, rough, ham-handed. The idea behind this is that there is some kind of vocabulary litmus test that can be made against a work to see if it passes or fails. This also falls flat because a lot of sexuality simply is course. An honest story, talking about someone's real sex life, can sometimes use language as salty as the crustiest sailor's.
A classic way of telling one from the other is the old favorite that pornography is "without any redeeming social importance." Again, this falls flat as who can say what impact anything artistic will have -- either today or hundreds if not thousands of years from now. I'm sure a lot of contemporaries of Beethoven, DaVinci, Shakespeare, Rodan, and so forth looked on their works and wrinkled their noses in disgust. Not that I think something from Hustler will seriously be hanging in the Louvre someday, but who knows what folks will someday find artistic.
What I think is even more alarming that censors and social commentators trying desperately to find some simple way of differentiating between smut and art, is that many writers are trying to separate the two as well. In other words, the same folks who are trying to keep it out of 'inappropiate' hands have intentionally or unintentionally, have joined forces with the people writing it.
Erotica has changed a lot in the last twenty or so years. Once the mainstay of the desperate writer, people are now actually either pursing erotica writing as a respected and fairly well-paying job or are using it as a stepping stone to bigger things. I wouldn't be writing this column, and having my stories, published in magazines like this without erotica. I even have books -- three collections, and have edited over a dozen anthologies -- because I write about sex. That's quite remarkable, especially considering the stigma sexual writing used to have.
But as with many things, success has a price. Some writers are desperately trying to draw a line in the sand, if only so they can feel just a bit better what they do by elevating themselves through lowering others. "You," they say, "write pornography, while what I do is erotica." Their reasons are understandable, for the first time sex writing is getting respect, some money, and has been opening some otherwise closed doors. In their eyes, it doesn't do then any good to be grouped together with course, "just sex," or works "without any redeeming social importance." The problem is their criteria are just as nebulous as those who want to be able to prosecute for one, while grudgingly permitting the other. The problem is they are both have the potential to be very dangerous.
As I said, there is no absolute definition between literary erotica and pornography. A classic case of this was the quote from Justice Potter Stewart: "I know it when I see it." In other words, it's all a matter of opinion. The problem is, while some writers who are part of this new form of sex writing are looking for a way of telling apples from oranges simply to preserve their new-found self-respect, there are others who are trying to tell the two apart to send the writers of what they consider to be 'pornography' to jail. What better way, they are beginning to say, to draw the line than to use the rules that writers themselves are using?
Allowed to continue unchecked, puritans and hysterics who want to protect the world from what they see as the 'evils' of sex writing will be using these attempts to discriminate between high and low, art and "just porn" to draft laws, ban books, and possibly even fine or imprison authors.
My name is Chris, I write under the name "M. Christian." I am a writer. I write many things: essays, columns, reviews, articles, novels, short stories, and a lot of pornography -- and, no matter who asks or why, I'm very happy doing all of it, including writing pornography. Sex writing is daring, risky, innovative and touches on something that most everyone on this world has experienced, something that makes us human.
I'm a pornographer, and proud of it.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Joel is the sort of guy you just can’t take your eyes off. Tall, dark and yes, handsome. Graceful, for a guy. He moves like a dancer. Elegant. Cool. All those clichés. Always surrounded by a group of beautiful women; they gushing and drooling; he, always looking slightly bored. Whenever I see him, that song comes into my head; the boy from Ipenema. I’m the girl singing, and looking longingly after him, I sigh, but he doesn’t see. He’s out of my league.
We share the same friends, go to the same parties. Him dancing. Me sitting on a couch, usually giggling with my Gay men friends. Despite the girls surrounding him, I’d never seen him leave with any of them. Not that I was looking, you understand. I’m just interested in folk, what makes them tick. I’m a people watcher, and I like watching him.
I’d never thought he’d noticed me. I’m hardly what you’d consider his type. I’m not tall and willowy, like the girls draped over him. I’m small and plump. Designer clothes, well, they’re just not designed for me. My breasts are too large. For one thing, I’d be bursting out at the tiny seams. Killer heels help a bit, but I think they accentuate my lack of height, rather than make me look taller. I like my hair though. Surprising, considering how I was teased about being a curly redhead all through school. I get a lot of compliments about my hair, although I’m not sure how sincere they are. I know people like me, I know I’m smart and funny. I think people are just being kind; they want to make me feel good.
It was my birthday, and a couple of my friends and I were out for dinner. Dino’s was quite exclusive. Fantastic menu, the sort of restaurant you went to if you like food. Eating is one of my hobbies, so I fit in there quite well. Not that I can often afford their prices. It’s a special occasion place, and it was my thirty third birthday and Dino’s was where I wanted to go; even though I’d have to kick myself back onto my diet the next day.
We were seated at a large circular table, overlooking the river. It was a hot evening and the French windows were open. Diaphanous muslin curtains drifted around lazily on a cool breeze. Lights from the boats twinkled and sparkled on the water like a carnival.
There was a group of men dining at the next table and I know it’s silly, I know I’ve said he’s out of my league, but when Joel joined them, my breasts tightened. My face flushed and between my legs felt damp and warm. He glanced over to me and smiled. I managed to collect myself and concentrate on my friends, and of course the fabulous food. But I was conscious of him there, just a few feet away, all through our meal.
The waiter brought over a birthday cake, with a sparkly firework. My friends all sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and I blushed and giggled. I knew Joel was watching me and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, meet his eyes. He’s not for me, I thought sadly.
“Sally,” one of my friends touched my hand, bringing me back to reality.
The waiter was standing next to me, with an ice bucket and a magnum of champagne. I looked up. Joel raised his glass and grinned.
“From the gentleman,” the waiter told me, gesturing to Joel.
I met Joel’s eyes.
“Happy birthday,” his beautiful, sculptured lips mouthed.
I smiled my thanks, as the waiter poured, and though I turned my attention back to my friends. I could feel Joel’s eyes on me. My hand trembled as I raised my glass to him. This was impossible, I thought. Why would someone like him, be interested in me? He’s just being nice. He’s seen me around, and he’s being friendly.
Then, a little later, he was at my side.
“Sally. Can I give you a lift home?” he asked.
It was the first time I’d heard him speak my name, and I quivered.
He placed his strong hands on my naked shoulders. I wondered if he could feel my pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. He leaned his tall frame over me. His lips brushed my ear. Red shock waves of arousal blasted through me.
“Please let me drive you home.” he whispered. His breath was as warm as a caress on my sensitised skin. I tingled all over.
My friends gaped. I felt myself gaping back. I tried to pull myself together.
“Thank you,” I manage to mumble, as graciously as I could. “A ride home would be lovely.”
He escorted me to his car. I knew he drove a small Lotus; I was praying that I wouldn’t be too fat to fit in.
We chatted, just small talk. I giggled a lot. He told me I’d got a lovely laugh. He lived in the next village to me and we giggled about the eccentricities of village life. The gossip. The curtain twitching. How someone was bound to see us arriving at my cottage so late at night. Our ‘affair’ would be all over the village by next morning. I did an impersonation of elderly Mrs Malone, spreading the news in the village post office. Joel though I was hysterical and had to slow the powerful Lotus right down, to keep the car on the road.
He turned off the engine and turned to face me. We kissed. Just gently, his tongue, cool, slipping into my mouth.
Then he held me at arms’ length. “Wow.” he said. “You’re so gorgeous.”
My disbelief must have showed in my face, because he said it again. “You are,” he insisted. “Your hair, your beautiful eyes…do you ever look in your mirror?”
I just looked at him, drinking in his beautiful face.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.
Here we go, I thought. He wants a date with my best friend. He’s Gay, and wants a date with one of my Gay friends.
He hesitated, and I felt alarmed.
“What is it?” I asked. Was he ill? “Joel. You can tell me anything.”
He closed his eyes. “Will you be my Mommy?”
As I’ve said, I’m a giggler. And I could feel the giggle rising in my throat, but I stopped it. This was not a moment for laughter. I could see he was distressed. When he opened his beautiful, brown eyes, I thought I caught the glitter of tears.
“You think I’m a freak,” he said at last.
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” I told him. “But no, never that. Never.”
I held him in my arms and he rested his head on my breasts. He nuzzled up to me; my nipples were erect beneath my dress. I knew he could feel them pushing against his cheek.
“If you knew how I’ve longed for this,” he murmured. His mouth found my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress and he suckled on me.
“But you could have anyone.” I gasped. The sensation of his mouth tugging on my nipple was incredible.
“Don’t want anyone. I want you,” he muttered, between sucks and nibbles.
We talked a lot more. He tried to explain, but he was nervous. He’d never tried to explain his need to anyone before and it all came out in an incoherent muddle. He wept, as he told me about the feelings of shame; the guilt. How he wanted a woman to dominate him. To set boundaries; to discipline him. He needed to be punished like a little boy when he misbehaved. He talked of spankings, of having his cock and balls tied up with ropes. It would be an emotional and a physical relationship. And sex, lots of sex. He wanted to fuck me, and then be punished for fucking his Mommy. He wanted me to fuck him with a giant, strap on dildo.
I tried to understand, I really did, but there was too much information. Finally, he asked me to call him the next day. But before he saw me to my door, he scribbled down his phone number and a web site address.
“Check that out,” he said humbly. “It’ll explain it all far better than I ever can. If you don’t call me, I’ll know you can’t deal with it. But if that’s how it is, please don’t tell anyone about this. That’s all I ask.”
I felt desperate for him and reassured him the best I could. I stroked his hair, to comfort him and pulled his head to my breast for purely selfish reasons; I liked the erotic sensation of his mouth tugging and sucking at my nipple.
I checked out the web site as soon as I got in and was overwhelmed. So many case studies, so many stories and fantasies, so many desperate guys out there. Sadness. Men living lonely lives, because they were afraid of communicating their needs. Men living in fear and shame and guilt. Neither they, nor their partners understanding their need. I kept thinking of his sad, dark eyes as we’d talked and he’d tried to explain and I hoped I could live up to the complex life he craved.
I called him early next morning. He must have been sitting by the phone because he answered on the first ring.
“Yes,” I said. “We can make this work.”
His sigh of joy was palpable. “Thank you Mommy,” he said, exhaling a long breath. I had plans, based on what he’d told me, and stuff I’d read about on the web. Before I’d called Joel, I’d called my friend, Lucy. Lucy likes to be spanked and goes to a spanking club. I asked her what was the best bit about being spanked?
“He strokes the swell of my ass,” she told me. “Then it’s that moment of anticipation before the spank lands. And then it does, and oh, it hurts, but I’m pushing up, waiting for the next one. I can come sometimes, just from waiting.”
I hung up, before she had the chance to ask, ‘why?’
I imagined stroking and spanking Joel’s naked ass. Yummy. I thought about making him come from a spanking. The idea was very erotic. I was very turned on and I felt that familiar warm wetness gushing in my panties.
I drove quickly to the village, where Joel lived. His house was far grander than mine. A small manor house, with purple wisteria, in full bloom, clambering over the walls. It was a Sunday, so neither of us needed to worry about work. We could spend the day getting to know one another.
I’d decided that in my role as Mommy, I should cook lunch. Joel helped, until I needed to use sharp knives, then I told him to go and play games on his computer.
“But check with me first if you go on the internet,” I called to him. I didn’t want him looking at porn sites. I’d decided that my little boy would be twelve years old. He was far too young to be looking at smut. Maybe we’d look at porn together later and I could explain to him what the men and ladies were doing.
I checked on him later and found him curled asleep on a couch. He looked so sweet; blissful contentment on his face. He looked much younger than his twenty eight years. He was tired. He’d told me he hadn’t slept, worrying about what my reaction was going to be. He thought he’d blown it. I brushed his dark hair back from his forehead and kissed him, gently. He looked adorable in his rumpled jeans and tee shirt. Just like a big kid. I glanced at his crotch; his erection was quite visible beneath his jeans. I placed my hand on it, gripping it tightly, relishing its hardness. He gasped and a shudder racked through him.
“Lunch is almost ready,” I told him. “Go and get washed and changed. Then after lunch, Mommy and Joel are going to have a long talk. I think there’s naughty things you haven’t told me. And I expect you’ve got some naughty toys. I’ll probably have to give you a good spanking.”
“Yes Mommy,” he said, looking nervously at the large, heavy, wooden spatula I tapped against my thigh.
He reached up and squeezed my breast. I slapped his hand away, crossly.
“Not until Mommy says so,” I told him.
“Yes, Mommy. I’m very sorry Mommy.”
That was all two years ago. I moved in with Joel the following week, to the delight of the village gossips. Joel has his own bedroom and I have mine. He has football posters on his wall and I’ve allowed him one poster of that little slut Brittney. She’s in her ‘Oops, I did it again!’ costume. Joel goes to bed early, around nine pm. He always grumbles, but I tell him that’s quite late enough for a boy of his age. I always tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. I make sure his hands are above the covers. I won’t have him playing with himself. I never hear him creep into my bed, but he’s always snuggled up to me when I wake up in the morning. His hand sleepily caressing an erect nipple.
On my birthday, Joel and I got engaged. Joel hired Dino’s restaurant for our party. None of our crowd knows about our secret life, and that’s how it should be.
I haven’t told Joel, but my surprise engagement present to him is a course of hormone injections I’m giving myself. I got the treatment from the web. They’re to induce lactation. Joel is going to be able to suckle me for real. Drink warm milk from his Mommy’s tits. He’ll be delighted.
I see those tall, willowy girls looking from me to my gorgeous fiancé and back again. I know what they’re thinking. ‘How did she manage to catch him?’
Of course, I’m not going to tell them.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
It's no secret that I think that Sage Vivant is the bee's knees: for the marvelously caring person she is, definitely; for her magical smile, absolutely; for her sparkling mind, certainly.
But even more for the fact that she is a truly amazing writer.
So it's a real treat that the fun folks at Logical-Lust have just released two fantastic stories by Sage: The Yacht, and Chemistry.
Here's a sweet taste from Chemistry.
The paddle came down for a third time on his already stinging bottom. He was so hard and the pain was so sublime, tears welled up in his eyes.
“Unbelievable impudence!” Claire Chutney announced as punctuation to her third wallop.
“What kind of home do you come from, young man, that condones that kind of activity?”
Her lap was sturdy. With legs as long as hers—she was well over six feet tall—he didn’t doubt for a moment that she could support him indefinitely. And if she could support him indefinitely, how long might she spank him?
He heard a quiet thud on the carpet. Through his tears, he saw the paddle now lying on the vanilla-colored carpet. His heart felt swollen and lodged in his esophagus. She couldn’t be finished rendering her punishment yet! He needed more, deserved more, craved more...
And then her palm met with his unprotected behind. The slapping noise seemed to come several seconds before the delicious meeting of her skin against his. His ears perked up at the very sound of it, and then the heat spread out in concentric circles from the point of impact—to his thigh, his hip, the small of his back. His tears now rolled down one side of his face, which he didn’t think she could see.
“Oh yes, go ahead and cry. It won’t do you a lick of good. The damage has been done! You’re lucky you aren’t going to jail for your offense!”
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Maybe I'm weird ... okay, I KNOW I'm weird -- but, come on, I'm not THAT
Weird. I just can't suss it, can't comprehend it, can't wrap my five or so pounds of wrinkled gray matter around the idea that keeps cropping up in my writerly life these days: the notion that masturbation ain't okay.
Part of my writing life used to be answering questions from people about sex. I answered questions for quite a few sites, and before that, I was before that I was part of San Francisco Sex Information (415-989-SFSI or www.sfsi.org), a fabulous group of people that answer sexuality questions from anyone, anytime.
People have a lot of questions, it seems. There are lots of issues and discomforts: am I too small, too big, weird, 'normal', gay, a virgin...? But the one that really makes me scratch my head, and sometimes even frightens me is this one, asked in a zillion different ways: "Is is okay to masturbate?"
I know that people have issues. I have quite a few myself, but honestly, you're worried about masturbation? Maybe I shouldn't be writing about this; I feel like a blind man trying to understand color just trying to wrap my mind around how it could be a serious question -- or maybe I'm Van Gogh trying to describe a sunset to Ray Charles.
"I want to masturbate but every time I do I feel like I'm gay or something. All my friends make jokes about it and say how disgusting and gay masturbating is and that they'd never do it. I go along with there jokes but I never make any myself. Should I listen to my friends? Is masturbation something that only gay people do?" writes one kid, looking for answers.
Where does this come from, this fear, hatred, and homophobia? Are people like this so scared of their bodies that they resort to hysterical fear? It's easy to try and look around at bad parents, bad religion, hypocrisy, and so on. It's easy to try and dig for some kind of blame: we're a blame-based culture, we cling to illusions of cause and effect all the time.
But there's something here that really bothers me more than whatever it is that we might consider attributing this fear of masturbation to, something that I think is more important. Something that bothers me even more than the homophobia in the remarks I quoted above.
You see, the nature of this fear and hatred of masturbation -- it's more than a fear of sex, it's more than the terror of brimstone and demons. There's something frightening there, something a lot more base, a lot more fundimental. It's not really a cause, I think, but rather a symptom of something more sad and frightening. I see it in another comment by another letter writer, who writes "Why do people masterbate? I mean, masterbating is so sick."
What it is is a fear of what masturbation is all about. Think about it. What, after all, is the nature of masturbation? Autoerotic stimulation is the usual sex-ed buzz phrase, but there's something to it that goes beyond just stroking your happy bits 'til you lose control of a good percentage of your voluntary nervous system. Cousin-fucking ignorants call it 'sex-abuse.' 'Spilling seed' is the pet phrase of the Bible-thumpers. But what is masturbation, really, at its core?
Why do so many people feel bad about loving themselves? Why is it that they hold their genitals in their hand and feel shame and self-loathing? Why is it an insult to say "Go fuck yourself"? Why is "quit jerking me off" an expression of displeased annoyance? I've sought answers, but I'm still not sure. Perhaps it's a symptom of a deeper underlying malaise, a spiritual canker sore that flares up whenever we treat ourselves too well. Heaven knows that if we jerk off too much, we'll probably never leave the house... Civilization as we know it would come to a screeching halt. Gotta make sure we make it shameful.
Well, I've got news for ya, folks: I jerk off. As I've written: "Like it, love it, do it a lot." It's wonderful, it's glorious, it's a cheap night out. It's not "rather than sex", but rather a different kind of sex -- sometimes when I jerk off I wish for a partner, but other times when I'm with someone I'd much rather jerk off. There's no pressure to perform, there's no concern about the "You want me to do what?" syndrome. It's relaxing, stimulating, and fun .... I just wish the damned byproduct being a boy) wasn't so sticky and hard to get out of sheets. Small price to pay I guess.
I want to start a movement, a self-love movement. Yes, masturbation should be taught -- not technique (because that's something we all need to do for ourselves) but that the only real problem with it is cleaning up afterwards (you lucky girls). You won't go mad, grow hair on ypour palms, go to hell, become gay, run out of sperm, or any other hysterical fear. The worst that can happen is that you might give yourself Indian burn (use some lube, people, can't stress that enough!), and the best that can happen? Well, many people agree with me that it's a good thing to feel mind-blowing joy and loose control of major voluntary nervous responses. It's a very good thing. It's pleasurable, it's self-love: it's being able to be good to yourself, to give yourself joy.
That's it, more than the stroking, the vibrators, the butt-plugs, the porno -- it's getting down there with your own body, to touch yourself and give yourself what we depend too much on other people for: to make us feel good. Don't you deserve to feel loved, desirable, and happy? That's what jerking off is, that's what the nature of masturbation is: making love to yourself.
Love yourself. Aren't you worth it?
Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line: firstname.lastname@example.org.
or You're Just too Impatient
Ralph Greco, Jr.
So it's gone from talkers to text-ers.
I was sitting in a dance recital the other day, leaning back in the comfortable chairs of darkened plush theater in my local NJ suburbia, enjoying the fruits of a friend's creative labors, when what flashes in my peripheral vision…yes, some audience member text-ing. We all heard the announcement at the beginning of the performance to silence cell phones and pagers, but this warning/plea/what-have-you will did/not stop someone from receiving a text (which they can't help, of course) during the performance but responding to same…during the performance. Used to be (and still is) I’d have to sit in front of some asshole prattling on about God-knows-what during a movie, but now not only do I get the talkers I get the text-ers. People, young and old alike, who think it is perfectly ok to sit there and fidget their fingers across Blackberry's ® or cell phones in a darkened theater, as the light from their PDA or phone distracts fellow audience members.
'F' all of you, I'm not being picky! It really comes down to impoliteness. How is it we have come to think that the light from an open cell phone or PDA isn't distracting, rude in this circumstance? Do we really not care?
Here's my question…why are we even answering texts in this instance? Isn't that person out for the evening, afternoon, two hours of entertainment? Haven't they paid their money, sat their flabby ass down in a communal space to enjoy, or at least endure a performance? If you have such a busy social life that you can't spend two hours away from text-ing for 2 hours (and really, if it's all that God awful important, you can step out of a movie or wait for the intermission of a play) then don’t go out then!
I bet donuts to dollars (and in the current state of economy I don’t really know which is worth more) that no one who gets a text during a movie or a performance has to answer that text right then and there and disturb the darkness and my enjoyment of the show. ('F' you, I'm not being picky, tell me you don't see those little illuminated screens pop up in the dark and you're not momentarily distracted and if you're not, well 'F' you for being so anestized to common civility!) In fact, all of us with cell phones on our hips or in our ears don't need them there. In fact, I'd dare say that unless you are a doctor or a drug dealer, you probably don't need your phone, pager, PDA a third as much as you think you do (me included). What's more, I postulate that a good portion of our society texts, calls, check emails, lean the damn phone in the crook-of-their-ear during dinner, text while driving (yeah, this is one I am guilty of…so 'F' me) when we really don't need to at all.
We are simply not as important as we think we are.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
What do you get when you cross weird science fiction, bawdy adventure, sideways humor, and delightful strangeness?
"Sweat, a runner’s thing and not a girlish thing, pooled in her valleys and streamed down her creases. Salt stung her eyes and her shoes. The miraculous devices were wet and heavy; liquid gently surged between her cramped toes. Some of Gazelle’s sweat cooled on the top of her head -- natural air-conditioning made from the run itself and her soaked dreadlocks.
Her belt jumped and wore at her hips, chiming and jingling, adding a sharp downward tug to each step. The tube, the reason for this whole thing, jumped and tapped her back with each step -- a high-pitched feeling compared to the trembling bass of the belt on her itching hips. Her kit, the bag, wasn’t heavy because there wasn’t much in it. But anything, no matter now slight, was an ache as she ran: Her breasts -- hills and valleys -- pulled against her chest; sandbags tied to her lungs and her back.
Despite the fuzzy wonderfulness of endorphins, everything hurt. Painful, sure, yes, damned straight -- but even it was a pain she was used to, trained for, bred for. It was a natural kind of pain, one that was intimate and close to most of her memories: she was a runner from a tribe of runners, and pain was something that was a part of doing anything -- because running was everything.
She was a Messenger: hours, hours, days, days she’d run the track around the ancient fort (from the Age of Slavery), the Runnerdrome. Mile after mile on the crunching and hissing gravel had made her friendly, intimate, bored with the long run. The burning of her lungs, the jumping with a kick of her strong, strong legs (miles and miles and miles on that track) put her over the wall, gave her the high medicine -- the reward of natural drugs.
Excitement, thrill was cinnamon in her mouth. This was her trip. Who cared if her breasts hurt? Who cared if her legs ached? This was her run, the prize. She wouldn’t turn back until she’d completed her task, and then, when she did return, she’d be a woman, a Messenger with merit.
Gazelle ran, absorbed in the action of her arms and her legs, blurred by the chant of her natural stride. She ran through the City, pumping and pounding, proud full to bursting -- after all, she’d won, she’d emerged victorious from the Rivalry. She’d passed all their tests (no matter how weird), she’d run their course (no matter how hard), and she’d emerged the winner and claimed the prize: the honor of the run, this run, her run.
One thing bothered her, though, cutting through the fog of endorphins, the glow of accomplishment, the blister that may or may not have been forming on her left heel:
Spoke had smiled, had wished her well.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Jan Vander Laenen
(R. ARBORE, Il materasso)
Oh yes, for the last three years I have been almost irreproachably loyal to my present boyfriend, whose beautiful looks I am not going to describe for reasons of jealousy; however, it is a fact that I was at it a lot during my twenties, thirties and forties and was able to live out most of my erotic fantasies; yes, we can say without any doubt that “I have made love a lot”, a comment that a jaunty Brussels gentleman ascribed to me at the time I was moving from Rue Grétry to Rue fossé aux loups with the help of some burly friends and he, in passing, noted the large number of dried sperm stains on my mattress that was standing against the wall in front of the building, waiting to be loaded.
Mattresses! If I am not mistaken, I have worn out three mattresses since I started living on my own at the age of eighteen up to now - I am forty-seven - by sleeping by myself or with company, and naturally by playing on them.
The first one that accompanied me from my student lodgings in Louvain to my first little pad in Brussels, in Rue du Lombard, was nothing less than a discarded mattress from my parents' bed, an old model with iron springs, a red flowered cover and white fabric buttons. Incidentally, I presume I was conceived on this article of furniture somewhere towards the end of July or the beginning of August 1959 - I entered this world about three weeks prematurely - because, to my knowledge, I was born on 18 May 1960. I also believe that I relegated it to the rubbish dump around the end of the eighties; this first mattress witnessed visitors coming and going as if it were the busiest pigeon coop. Yes, maybe you know how these things go, you are a student, young, go out on the town with friends, drink a glass or two too much, and then crawl into the nearest bed together - normally mine. Oh yes, this is how I had close bodily contact with two girls on this mattress, friends of course, my Italian ex-boyfriend, and of course, a string of, as the Americans say, one-night male stands - AIDS was not really a doom image in Europe at that time.
And my best recollection of this first piece of bedroom furniture for my adult life? Gosh, I'm almost blushing with - false - shame, but since my apartment was located directly opposite the Brussels gay ghetto with a lot of coming and going from one bar to the next in my street, especially at the weekends, it was not rare for me to quietly smoke a cigarette in the open front doorway at night “just” to watch the passers-by.
Yes, “just”, “cruising” in English, “draguer” in French, “trimmen” in Dutch, was the most cherished activity of gays at the time, and it goes without saying that I was rarely able to finish my cigarette before taking someone up to my little hovel on the fifth floor...
... like Gustavo, for example, perhaps the most beautiful specimen that my antique bedroom furniture ever welcomed. And who was that Gustavo? Oh, just imagine a muggy night in June; I am standing in the doorway and then I watch him walking up, a bit short, burly build, a beard, curly hear and small black eyes, in other words the lovely Christ Child by Spanish painter Murillo in his thirties.
And this man gave me a friendly greeting of “ola!”, after which we started to chat, with him telling me that he was from Mexico but was staying in Brussels for some course to do with UNESCO, the organization that employed him, and that he might be searching for some company to spend this sultry night with...
...tequila boom boom! is the way I dare to describe our one month liaison; we frequently played with each other like foals, still innocent, with a lot of kissing and licking and now and then a game - active on my part - of sodomy; during that month, I also familiarized him with my city somewhat - for instance, he liked talking things over, afterwards, in the Falstaff cafe. And yes, after so many years, thanks Gustavo, thanks for your round buttocks, your nipples and your extremely hairy body! An anecdote? Oh, here is a rather innocent one. On entering the above-mentioned Art Nouveau establishment in Brussels, the waiter Jacques, former manager of the infamous café of the past “The Suspicion”, stared at Gustavo's blind side with a weak gaze one evening and then called out to me: “A bottom to say “Thou” to!” Ever since, that expression has been a classic in the Brussels gay scene...
My second mattress must have accompanied me from Rude du Lombard and, after a short intermezzo in Rue Grétry, to Rue fossé aux loups- where I still live - and served me up to about the late nineties. That period must have been the most sensual one of my life, a period during which I went “messing around” almost daily, in saunas, porn cinemas, public toilets, bars and the street of course.
And if I were to award a prize to the best lover on this second piece of bedroom furniture? Oh, without any doubt this would go to Fittim, an Albanian in his forties with a blocky build and well-proportioned phalanx who, along with his two sons - yes he was married - ran “Fritland” (French Fried Land) at La Bourse. And oh, what wild fantasies did I cherish about this man every time I stilled my hunger with a bag of French fries and a sausage after my drunken jaunts in the gay bars of Brussels! For a year or so, he knew how to still my sexual hunger, on Mondays, because, yes, yes, on a rainy afternoon I came across of him in a gentlemen's sauna; he immediately dragged me into a cabin, plunged his head between my buttocks exclaiming “ah oui, ton trou!” and then added with a hoarse voice “J'ai une réservation.” Naturally, in the half dark of the sleeping cabin I looked at him somewhat confused - was it really necessary to make a reservation to revel in my arsehole for a short time? However, when he fetched a condom from his locker, I understood that for this simple inwijkeling “réservation” and “préservatif” were two words phonetically very close to each other.
I loved Fittim very much. In fragments, he narrated his eventful life as an Albanese fugitive and our sessions of tumbling around - without a condom the second time as we trusted each other... - were particularly passionate; yet the fact that he was working in a chip shop and that his entire body was actually imbued by the odour of fat, to such an extent that, at times, I had the feeling that we were making love to each other in a real frying pan, certainly conjured up tender feelings in me for this man. Another salient detail, perhaps? Yes, as I knew what time he would be coming, I used to purge myself before his arrival, but since I had read somewhere that there was much less risk of running into certain viruses via the oral rather than the anal route, I always asked him to release his little lot of sodomy in my mouth, something he really appreciated … Anyway, after all those years, wherever you may be, still above or already under the ground, thank you Fittim!
Next, for reasons story telling technique, I shall skip my third mattress for a moment and now talk about my fourth and present item of bedroom furniture first.
Oh, my love, there it lies, my fourth mattress, bought some three years ago in “Au bon repos”, with neat, fresh sheets changed weekly, two multi-coloured pillows on a Moroccan bedspread, and a large, gilded standing mirror behind it. Apart from myself, it has only greeted one other man, my permanent partner, at night, in the afternoon for a quickie, in the morning before breakfast, yes the French claim that “les gens heureux n'ont pas d'histoire” (happy people do not have stories to tell) and sometimes it is indeed better to keep that little happiness for oneself.
Now back to my third mattress, which is probably now somewhere in a brothel in Rue d’Aerschot, or maybe it has also been dragged out of there in the meantime, presently serving as an outside bed for homeless alcoholics.
That third mattress witnessed my “most meagre” years up to now, say from 1998 to 2005, years during which my alcohol problem might be called serious. And yes, the fact that alcohol removes many inhibitions - and results in the less than optimal functioning of a certain organ...-, is something that I was able to observe personally. And God, I believe that most of the gays and a lot of straight people go through a period in their lives at some time during which they “get ecstatic”, also sexually; so, do not expect me to rake up all the perversions, with or without accessories and latex gloves, with many or very many poppers, and with or without a third, fourth or fifth partner or a male prostitute, or explain in detail the origin of all those multicoloured stains - ranging from brown to yellow and faded white to red; no, for this I happily refer you to Ralph König's comic strips. And I am really unable to answer the question of whether I enjoyed it or not; yes, this period may, at least for the time being, still be too close to catalogue it as part of the past.
The delivery of the third mattress, somewhere in the spring of 1998, appeared to have heralded what was in the offing at the time ....
... I ordered it somewhere in a bedroom furniture store in Rue de Laeken; it was to be delivered to me and my old one collected for the rubbish dump. I also had to pay a visit to the police in order to keep a parking area in front of my door free for one hour between 9 and 10 o'clock....
OK, the delivery. At exactly 9 o'clock, my intercom bell tinkles and some ten minutes later two men enter whose names I would get to know soon: Antonìn and Rachid. And how did they look? Well, Antonìn was a big, sturdy Pole with a moustache, a gilded necklace with a crucifix around his neck, hands like shovels and a few gold teeth; Rachid, a typical Moroccan, was a bit shorter and more plump, also with a moustache, stubble and a pair of absolutely sharp eyes; Italians would probably describe his gaze as “furbo”, the gaze of a man, in short, who knows how to benefit from any situation that arises. And pleasure...
First, they place my new mattress against the wall in the corridor, strip off its protective plastic cover and then ask me where the one to be loaded is.
“Here, in the bedroom,” I say. I have already taken off the sheets and, apart from some stains suspiciously like dried sperm, it still looks quite acceptable.
At that moment, Rachid's mobile phone rings with the “Toreador” tune from Bizet's “Carmen”.
“Rachid and Antonìn, Clio here from Rue d’Aerschot, have you seen the old mattress yet?”
“We are standing in front of it.”
“It still looks decent.”
“Come and drop it off at my place a bit later, but you'll have to wait a little for payment; I am tired, have my period at the front and piles at the back.”
“Okay,” responds Rachid and turns off his mobile phone.
A stroke of luck, what? I tell the two gents, with a voice already hoarse with excitement, that I do not mind at all taking Clio's place for a short while, and since the parking space outside has been reserved for one hour ...
... Yeah, “Manic Monday” by The Bangles resounds on the radio, but we knew very well how to chase away the blues of this first working morning of the week. How? Yeah, we are living in a society of images, so just imagine a porn movie in which an innocent victim - me - is taken anally while satisfying another man orally at the same time. And who does what? Oh, after some foreplay I uttered my wish for Rachid be in front of my mouth; I simply prefer circumcised a circumcised penis.
Anyway, this “livraison” heralded the most erotic period in my life, a period in which I was still sufficiently young and attractive to satisfy my erotic needs without too much trouble.
And Clio, that infamous Clio? Oh, a few evenings after that lust-arousing Monday morning, I took a walk along the red glow of Rue d’Aerschot and, just as I was level with Café “Clio”, I saw the lady concerned, a dark haired specimen of about thirty-five. She was letting a customer out, a lumpish black African.
“Did my old mattress arrive in good shape?” I asked her.
She stares at me inquisitively for a moment.
“Rachid and Antonìn.”
“Would you like some a service in return, too?”
My eyes fall to the floor.
Silence for a moment.
“A glass of sparkling wine?”
“Did,” I am now stammering a bit, “that last customer use a condom?”
And? And? Yeah, for some five minutes I was allowed to crawl into the skin of a real soupeur; you know those males who feast on the contents of used condoms in brothels with considerable smacking enjoyment.
Anyway, regrettably not a word of my story about my mattress is true, and as far as I know I never entered into a discussion with a prostitute, let alone begged her for such favours ...
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Jan Saudek (b. 13 May 1935, in Prague, Czechoslovakia) is a Czech art photographer.
Saudek's father was a Jew and the family was therefore persecuted by Germans. Many of his family members died in the Theresienstadt concentration camp during World War II. Jan and his brother Karel were held in a children's concentration camp near the Polish border. He survived the war and worked for a printer starting in 1950. After completing his military service, he was inspired in 1963 by Steichen's Family of Man to try to become a serious art photographer. In 1969 he traveled to the United States and was encouraged in his work by curator Hugh Edwards.
Returning to Prague, he was forced to work in a clandestine manner in a cellar, to avoid the attentions of the secret police, as his work turned to themes of personal erotic freedom, and used implicitly political symbols of corruption and innocence. From the late 1970s he gradually became recognised in the West as the leading Czech photographer, and also developed a following among photographers in his own country. In 1983 the first book on his work was published in the English-speaking world. Following this, in 1984 the Communist authorities allowed him to cease working in a factory, and gave him permission to apply for a permit to work as an artist. In 1987 the archives of his negatives were seized by the police, but later returned.
His best-known work is noted for its hand-tinted portrayal of painterly dream worlds, often inhabited by nude or semi-nude figures surrounded by bare plaster walls or painted backdrops, frequently re-using identical elements (for instance, a clouded sky or a view of Prague's Charles Bridge). In this they echo the studio and tableaux works of mid nineteenth century erotic photographers, as well as the works of the painter Balthus, and the work of Bernard Faucon. His early art photography is noted for its evocation of childhood. Later his works often portrayed the evolution from child to adult (re-photographing the same composition/pose, and with the same subjects, over many years). Religious motives or the ambiguity between man and woman have also been some of Jan Saudek's recurring themes. His work was the subject of attempts at censorship in the West during the 1990s.
Some of the works of Jan Saudek have entered popular culture in the West, being used as covers for the CD albums of Soul Asylum (Grave Dancers Union), Daniel Lanois (For the Beauty of Wynona), and Beautiful South (Welcome to the Beautiful South).
Saturday, June 6, 2009
“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”
There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.
You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.
Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.
For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.
You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.
As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.
Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.
You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.
In the middle of the room stands something between a saw horse and a massage table. The top is padded, the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.
She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.
From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.
Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the table top. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.
You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.
The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.
“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”
You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.
You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.
“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I weill gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”
And so you do.
There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.
It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.
A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.
The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.
But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.
Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.
A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.
In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.
You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.
She is yours.
You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.
She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock.You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.
“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.
I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.
You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.
You are whatever I want you to be.
You are mine.”
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Nyotaimori(Japanese: 女体盛り, "female body presentation"), often referred to as "body sushi," is the practice of eating sashimi or sushi from the body of a woman, typically naked. Nantaimori (Japanese: 男体盛り) refers to the same practice using a male model. This traditional and widespread Japanese custom is a subdivision of food play. As a result of being served on a human body, the temperature of the sushi or sashimi comes closer to body temperature ...
... Before becoming a living sushi platter, the person is trained to lie down for hours without moving. She or he must also be able to withstand the prolonged exposure to the cold food. Body hair, including pubic hair, would also be shaved, as a display of pubic hair may be seen as a sexual act.
Before service, the individual would take a bath using a special fragrance-free soap and then finish off with a splash of cold water to cool the body down somewhat for the sushi.
In some parts of the world, in order to comply with sanitation laws, there must be a layer of plastic or other material between the sushi and the body of the woman or man. Wrapping a naked person in cling film may also be regarded as a form of fetishism.