The Sessions, a Review: Optometrist Recommended, FDR Approved.

Most of my optometrists have been somber folk, wizened over time, I assume, by traumatic exposure to eye goop, cornea tears, and severe tear duct malfunctions. Dr. Wax was different.

After arriving late to my original appointment, I was given to Dr. Wax. Dr. Wax was a different sort, of man and of optometrist. His voice was full of wonder, he "waxed" on about pop findings that affected him, like a recent History channel special about how state borders are decreed.

He asked, "I mean, do you have any idea how state borders are decided??"

I wanted to engage with Dr. Wax, with his overflowing earnestness, "By natural geological formations?"

"Wow. You have no idea how these borders are formed. Just fascinating! You have to watch this show!"

Then the conversation turned; it became more personal.

"So, what are you doing with your life? Do you work? Do you study? Do you study and wish you worked?" He asked, while shining a thin beam of light over the curvature of my lens. The questions and the light penetrated beyond the retinal ganglion.

"I'm studying for my GREs. For, uh, psychology. Yes, for psychology. I want to do clinical work."

"Ahhhh!" A chord in Dr. Wax's harp-strung soul was struck. "Psychology is a most magnificent field! Have you seen The Sessions?"

I hadn't.

"Oh, you really must see it! I just read an article about the woman they interviewed for the movie-- a sex.. surrogate-- who they based Helen Hunt's character on. You know, to figure out how the character really ticks."

Anyways, a long conversation about The Sessions, sex surrogates, and various strings of letters in different sizes ensued. I wanted a piece of his wonder because I'm tired of my own tired wonder. So I dragged my jaded-on-recent-movies ass to the theatre, alone on a Friday night, RE The Lovelessness of my previous entry, and watched The Sessions with no context (no trailer, plot summary, review, etc.), save the awe of Dr. Wax.

The good news is that my eyes improved, from -2.50 to -2.25! Oh, and The Sessions was a brilliant film.

***

Well, while I can imagine some of my friends criticizing the movie for its many uber dramatic plot developments-- it is a movie about a Devout Catholic cripple trying to lose his virginity to a sex surrogate/therapist (Helen Hunt), after all. Yet, I felt I wasn't crying enough for the first half of the movie, given the melodramatic premise. And that I was laughing far too much. Yes, laughing aloud and alone with free abandon!

But, oh mama, the tears eventually did come, and, so I left overwhelmingly satisfied (agenda fulfilled**). Logically, the waterworks started later in the movie, when the characters had been developed and I had grown fond of their company. The Sessions really is a movie of excellent development, artful crescendo, and masterful acting.

The flick opens with an odd scene, where the protagonist, Mark O'Brien (John Hawkes) graduates from Berkeley in (I think) the late 70's. The only thing is, O'Brien is confined to a gurney, and glides across the graduation stage with ghostlike expediency, draped in a black gown. His cap is hanging off the post of his reclining motorized hospital bed. It is like the worst David Foster Wallace nightmare coming true, and I grimaced imagining impending sexual scenes that would involve this pancake of a man.

Boy did I misjudge the sexy-potential of an iron-lung lifer, albeit played by a Hollywood actor! When we get to know O'Brien, a poet and journalist by trade, he is charming and shameless in just that way that people who have lived lives like A Series of Unfortunate Events seem to often adopt. The Sessions deserves a watch just for the jarring realism of O'Brien's performance, who kind of reminded me of a Catholic Woody Allen. Of course, I must also tip my hat to Ben Lewin (writer/director), who was able to capture the voice of the real Mark O'Brien (whose life the movie is based on) and his written words, without creating an insufferable pretentious atmosphere that is so common in movies created under the guise of an author's work.  

And, of course, O'Brien's mild kinkiness also helped endear the movie to me ;) Although, for being a movie framed entirely by The Catholic Church, represented rather one-dimensionally by Father Brendan (William H. Macy), there is little to do about Jesus-related sex hang ups.

Cheryl, the sex surrogate/therapist at one point makes an audio note that O'Brien has masochistic fantasies, probably related to his strong faith, and guilt stemming from the negative effect of his disabled condition on others. Fair. But this brief audio note is really all we hear or see pertaining to these masochistic fantasies. O'Brien's enthusiasm and insistence that Cheryl achieve orgasm during their therapy sessions seems to stem from his sensitivity rather than suppressed submissive side.

At one point, O'Brien describes part of a session with Cheryl to Father Brendan, his main confidante, loosely along these lines, "She either forgot to close the door or didn't care to. The sound of urine and ripping of toilet paper was so arousing. It was so intimate. By the time she came back to bed, my penis was so hard." However, it is clear that O'Brien isn't lusting after a golden shower, he just really can and does appreciate the closeness of cohabitation that most people, people who have seen many women come and go from their lavatories, take for granted.

So, where's the kink? you ask. Well, besides the fact that one of the last scenes does feature O'Brien offhandedly relating his slightly off-center sexual relations with his latest and last love and lover, Susan (Robin Weigert) to Father Brendan, "Oh yeah, she adores me. Let's me do anything I want, and I can get kinda kinky", the real kink is the sexualization of O'Brien himself.

O'Brien/Hawkes' body is startlingly erotic. All of the women in the movie (except maybe his first love interest, Amanda) seem genuinely emotionally and sexually attracted to him. It would be easy to attribute this to the fact that John Hawkes is just a studly, limbful guy playing a gimp, but I don't think that's it. In fact, I don't even really think Hakwes is all that objectively hawt. There is something about the fearless sexuality of O'Brien's character, his fixation on women and love, despite (Note to self: reviewing The Sessions requires a lot of italics) his physical lot, that kind of turned me on.

Supine on a gurney, sucking air periodically from a portable tank, hands contorted, and sporting a paisley button-down, it is hard to initially consider O'Brien a sex object. And yet, throughout the movie, he becomes one. By the end of the film, when he's hitting on Susan, a volunteer at a hospital he is taken to after a near-death experience, he's almost a ladies man. She asks him if he wants her to come visit him, to which he snarkily replies, "Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have a husband? Do you have a significant other whom you are devoted to?" When she answers in the negative to all, he completes his suave play, "Then please come visit me as much as you can."

I don't think the positive sexualization of handicapped people was intentional (or maybe it was?), but it certainly made me question my own sexual attitude toward the disabled. Before last night, my only interaction with the idea of crippled sex was making fun of paraplegic porn. In fact, right before the movie I was texting with a friend about the existence of dating sites for gimps. Looking at the way Cheryl looked at O'Brien-- and I know it's just a movie-- made me wonder if I could get off on someone who couldn't get up (but could get it up :) ) I found myself uncontrollably intrigued by the deep curve of O'Brien/Hawkes' rip cage...

Anyway, this is leading into my final point. The true triumph of The Sessions, in my opinion, is that it allows a handicapped protagonist to live with love as his primary motivation, rather than running a marathon or saving the world. Many marginalized groups have had their sexual/romantic rights vindicated in films, but I have yet to see a good portrayal of such for the severely disabled.

It has always seemed to me that there is an expectation of the disabled, particularly physically disabled/mentally sound, like O'Brien, to operate entirely altruistically. In The Sessions, it is all about O'Brien (even though he is sexually attuned to his lovers' needs). He is a bit self-centered, needy, demanding-- all of his conversations with Father Brendan are about him and his sexual quest-- and I think that's pretty cool.

FDR would be proud.


**(((I should add that, in addition to fulfilling the will of Dr. Wax, I had my own agenda. Unlike many movie-goers who trot on to the theaters to laugh off the gray dust they accumulated on their shoulders and souls during the week, I go to the movies to cry. Seriously, to shed tears, not just "feel emotional".


My working theory is that because I graduated with honors from The School of Hard Knocks, I've learned to take things in stride; I very rarely lose control of my emotions in the midst of a real-life situations. Cinema is my locus for catharsis, where I let all my stifled "FUCKKKKS!!" seep out, liquified and compartmentalized in the womb of the theatre. But only when I'm alone. In company, my back stays straight and the "FUCKKKKS!!" remained broiled in my gut.

With my menstrual cycle in full swing and my mind consumed by worry over applications and job interviews, my agenda was bolded. In fact, I pretearjaculated during a terrible-looking preview for a movie from the makers of The Pursuit of Happyness. So, the fact that The Sessions is so emotional and heart felt works in its favor for the likes of me, while it might turn off mushier, diasffected folk. Okokokikowtimeforthereview)))

Nuthin for Nobodys and Pron for Homebodys

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This is not about kink. This is about hillbillies.

The San Fernando Hillbillies live a rollicking life, full of things. The perimeter of the 'billy plot in the heart of North hollywood is littered with derelict cabinet drawers, arthritic bicycles, chicken feathers, unidentified feathers, and children. The corn grows high in the summer, providing sanctuary for the resident Polish chicken and fluffed-up pussy cat. The corn grows high when the days linger long.

When we moved to North Hollywood, the hillbillies had already been subsisting in their little corner of the frying pan. The hillbillies were here before us, just like cockroaches predated Homosapiens. And gawd-- who knows quite how long they've been beening. They certainly know how to live: their kin, kind, and kinder mull around their dusty backyard, smiling, kicking-back, and hacking up wooden furniture into kindling.

On the curb, just beyond the grip of their trolling weeds' grasp, is a trailer, perennially parked. That's where the outlaws (outdoor in-laws) live. Usually the door to the RV is open, connecting the threshold to the greater hillbilly haven. I can't see past the doorway though, it is always consumed by a midday shadow. Sometimes new relatives will show up and expand the hillbilly's modest municipality-- I can tell because of the consistent facial features and sweat stains on their shirts.

When I moved here, and the hillbillies were still a veritable novelty, I remember thinking, "Wow, a movie about displaced hillbillies in LA would be genius." 10 minutes later, my head was lolling in shame; the Beverly Hills Hillbillies theme song wafted tauntingly between my cochlea.

My mom often comments on the Noho Hillbillies: she is envious. "They really live the good life..."

And it's true, their house is much bigger than ours. Their faces are weathered but contented. My mom is unrelenting in her praise.

"But really, they really do live good."

"Look how much fun they're having. Really."

"Have you ever heard of a Polish chicken??"

My mom wants to sit on a dusty lawn chair, day in and day out, as the children grow wild like weeds and the main event of the day is taking a dip in your above-ground deluxe kiddie pool. My mom dreams of the day when she too can snooze in the sun, playing refractor to the sunlight and pillow to the gaggle of cats. We drive by the Hillbilly fiefdom together in our beaten down Toyota, and our eyes remain fixed on the tall grass even when we have driven far away.        

Bar Sin, Fuer Immer & Ever

This weekend burned to blazes. So goes my heart and health. Embers of the former wholes burn like eyes in the immortal river Lethe. But that's neither here nor there: let's talk about Hallowienerschnitzel. 

* * *

Every time (or rather: all of the two times) I go to Bar Sinister in Hollywood, I get dressed up in something black or other and run to the door and then: stop: three steps back: this is Hollywood: drinks cost your future baby's future virginity: go to the kitchen: down as many shots of whiskey as possible before my ride gets antsy: good: fast forward: bound out the door and into the darkness. Let that river of consciousness serve as a disclaimer for ye-- that's how both my experiences were prefaced. And, for the record, the procedure works rather well every time. 

So, by the time I got to the little lair on Saturday night, nestled into the ass crack of a Hollywood Blvd. side street, my peripheral vision already had the consistency of cotton candy. On Saturday, as on the Friday prior, I felt exhilarated by the initial atmosphere. Waiting in line in front of me, there was a charming little wheel-chair bound goth-- or maybe he was dressed up as Marilyn Manson (the resemblance was frightening)-- I clasped my fist to my breast: "Oh, how darling!".

I dressed up tastefully, as an SS-officer, complete with leather bra, iron cross necklace, and military pants sheared to short-shorts. I donned a heavy German accent as well (as the night wore on, and the libations flowed..) and introduced myself as Ilse. Only upon waking did I realize how truly horrifying the idea of a German emigreé dressing up as Nazi truly was. 

I'm not sure whether the tolerance towards my character was due to the coddling fetish-club womb or the sun-baked blas L.é. attitude, but, anyhow, nobody gave me a hard time. Some people tried to give me their hard ons. Some people tried to get me to rough up their girlfriends. But everybody believed me. And, I think, the general consensus was that it was hot... One guy who I befriended told me, "My lady friend really wants to play more with you, but she's afraid that the language barrier between us might result in some unfortunate misunderstanding/dismissal of an English safeword." It kinda made my night. So, ya hurd it hurr ferst: there is indeed a host of Nazi sympathizers/moaners roaming the chalky streets of Hollywood.   

Ok, enough about mich. 

I mean, Bar Sinister, in isolation, is not an extraordinary scene; but, compared to the other sullen alternatives (Sanctuary, Threshold), it is a whole lotta fun. Sooooo, it doesn't really have a good play space, and the duder man in charge of the meager supplies (suspended cuffs, two whips maybe) was a total jerkoffface. He was all like "I'm not gonna judge you on your accent, but you seem a little intoxicated, and we only allow perfect execution of flogging skills". Something like that, but much less articulate. It's a fucking fetish club for fuck's sake! That's when I knew I had to return to the Mutterland, where the cocktail of torture and ethanol is widely encouraged. 

BUT, DICKWAD DUNGEON MASTER NOTWITHSTANDING, I still think Bar Sinister is a neat little spot, if only because of its liveliness-- there are people there! So many people, that you might even have to nudge them aside periodically to resume your intended trajectory! I have spent so many minutes thinking to myself, "Where do the young, beautiful kinksters in LA play? Well, Bar Sinister is definitely one of probably many more loci I am not aware of. 

So, for me, Bar Sinister is more like a munch where you get to dress up all cray and ogle the go-go dancer in the goat head. 

Although, funny enough, the only guy I ever reconnected with outside of the bar turned out to be vanilla. 

I told him, "I'm not really so much in the scene" on our first and last date.

"The scene? What is 'the scene'?" He replied. 

Ahem. 

How can I explain how absolutely heartbreaking and beautiful the last metro car of the night really is?

In the burrow. Im büro.

Kafka sings them into a single metallic tune.

In German, but evident even in a shoddy translation.

In the burrow, Kafka crouches like a field mouse,

Furtive eyes a-glow,

Watching a little,

But mostly feeling the vibrations,

The reverberations of a thousand overlapping, shuffling gaits:

The heartbeat of the underground.

Kafka clings to the walls, and licks a heart clean through the grime.

He can't see it, but the whole frequency of the hovel/tunnel changes,

He feels it in his toes:

Paws a-tremoring, flippers a-dragging, heads a-lolling.

All under neon mosaics made by eight year olds in an inner city school.

The floor lurches and bodies slump. 

Kafka presses his face to the metro walls--

He finds them unexpectedly supple and buries his sunken cheeks even deeper into the soft.

Vagrants gawk and sway (on gentle ripples of intoxication)

But: hark! Kafka feels the steel INTRUDER hurtling

From rattling into sound.

The floor lurches and bodies slump.

Appendages bear adipose deposits across the threshold.

Into: Flash!

Kafka cries, "A reference point!".

But all the shuffling toes were long born away.

Gone and deaf to boot. 

They THRIVE on NEGLECT

No no, not me-- Birds of Paradise. You know, those chunky blue-accented orange flowers that look like exotic bird heads? Well, that's what one of my substitute teachers in middle school said, sort of inscrutably and menacingly-- that "they thrive on neglect". But not me. And not my blog neither. This ol' stone tablet is withering like a Bird of Paradise after getting snuggled closely by a hummingbird from its lack of exercise.

Things have certainly been happening. Apparently, there's some kind of presidential race going on. Apparently, there's some kind of unfriendly altercation going on in Syria. I know this because I watched 25 minutes of the news today, whilst running on the treadmill in LA Fitness.

I'm so horny right now; I totally want to jerk my clit right now. But I feel I have a moral obligation to this blog of immorality: so I gotta direct all my tuckered out synapses to this little missive. For you. For you don't thrive on neglect. No, you love stimulation, excitation, variety, profundity, dinner specials for two (special dinners for you).

Ja, das ist wahr.

Alright, I'm pittering out, like milk from a congested spigot (ur mom).      

Weds//

Watched presidential debates with my 21 year old boy thang. I had noticed an interesting pattern developing: the young little thang hated to be 'on top' in the boudoir. For everybody else, that would probably connotate a preference. For me, it sufficed as a sign. I turned to him, my hand tucked under my chin, completely unnaturally,

"Do you think you may just have like 1-4% kink in you?"

"Well, sometimes I think about being used... and using..."

???????!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!

So much for being 100% vanilla, my sweet tea cake!

I took off my tights, straddled the young one while he sat upright on the couch, and used my removed tights to tie his hands above his head-- I should teach an 'improvised kink' class, right? Then I bunched up my shirt and used it as a makeshift blindfold. Then I fucked him. My young one doesn't buck or bray, he just concentrates and comes. And that was it-- so simple. A simple, I hope, beginning. Today I bought a feather tickler at the Pleasure Chest for phase II-- a miniature one at that, to ensure micro baby steps in the kink direction.

I wish I could say that everything in my life was progressing, but it's really not. It's hovering. Everybody oscillates gently, in abeyance, at a fixed point in my orbit, and I watch and chart. Like a young and buxom Galileo.

I talked everything over with Officer Cowboy, over tea and crops.

"Well, it sounds like you have everything under control. You just need a German to pee on you. Do you think you could tell the young one that?"

Ende //

Dr. Oz Dr. Oz. Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz

I mean, is he a fucking elf? A fucking pedophilic elf-hybrid who's come to enforce Smallism on the American public? Behind those beady eyes lies a roaring fire, which only jelly rolls and spare tires can simultaneously stoke and contain.

An average-looking MILF sat beside him a few weeks ago. She was getting interviewed for her not-so-average secret: the flabby canvas of a corpus contained 9 nipples.  Not a g-thang, she said. She loves them all like little angel babies. 

"I mean, it makes me feel special" 

"I've heard one of them lactates." Dr. Oz sputters out anxiously, already at half mast (if you know what I mean).

"Yes, the one near my armpit, sometimes." MILF beams, proud. "Let's see if it works this time."

She takes two expert fingers and squishes the 9th nipple-- which looks more like a birthmark-- and THANKGOD BECAUSE EVERYONE IS WATCHING, a little dribble of milkish fluid drips down her creased pit. 

OHYAHHH! OHHOOYAA!

Infantile joy floods the room. Hearts open like the gates of heaven. But Dr. Oz grows serious.

"The only problem, insert MILFY name, is that the more breast tissue you have, the more at risk you are for cancer. So it's good you're comfortable with your body, but beware of the dangers."

The woman smiles, eyes blank and black as coals. She nods affirmatively. Dr. Oz signals for a commercial break and runs to his dressing room where he drops his scrubs to his scrawny ankles and comes onto his evening-wear crocs.  

REPENTANCE

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year.

I am, by a funny turn of historical events, a Jew.

(Yes, spare me the waggling finger. I understand the irony of my prevailing German fetish).

On Yom Kippur, an observant Jew is supposed to fast for one day and attend services so as to expunge his sins for the previous year; to be born anew.

I fasted with pleasure, avoided synagogue with finesse, and thought naught about no sins.

Instead, I made some bills.

I made some bills doing The Most Horrible And Dirty Things. But my conspirator was a Jewish slave, so I think that makes it OK or less not-OK. I filled an entire wine bottle with my urine (muddled with the dregs of wine) and allowed my slave to imbibe the solemn beverage in full.

I broke fast with a cliff bar and a bowl of cherrios. Then I drank two beers and called it a day.

THE SLATE IS CLEAN. MY SOUL IS IVORY.

An Ode to the Emperor (or Shall I compare You to the Parthenon

So, I've casually embarked on two separate, often overlapping quests of inquiry: 1) to define my own submission by experimenting with different Doms, and 2) to insinuate myself into-- or at least observe, in some capacity-- the LA kink scene. Last Friday, I decided a jaunt to Threshold in North Hollywood  with the clean-cut older Dom from the Gloryhole shindig would afford that sweet avian culinary & spiritual delight, Two Birds with One Stone. But first, we met at a nearby 50's revival tiki bar to talk about the weather.

(((((((Now that I'm a little older I can say that I'm amazed that (some) people's ability to socialize does not necessarily improve with age. I meet and fraternize with so many older (than me) folks (around 30-45) that seem plagued with some kind of interaction anxiety. I see this on the street, when I bike behind someone and whistle at them to get their attention; they tense up, begin to apologize profusely, and shuffle quietly to the side.)))))))

 Immediately upon arriving at the location, let's call him Officer Cowboy-- named for the plastic cap gun and badge that he genuinely used to "threaten" me-- began, at 200 words per minute, apologizing for everything and anything and the world and my sweaty brow and so forth, A gentleman is one thing-- I enjoy a gentleman Dom, who takes me out to lavish dinners, presents me with expensive gifts, and treats me (at least outside the bedroom) like a princess; but his niceties became ingratiating. He was so wrought up about me biking a few miles to our rendezvous that I became to feel embarrassed for myself, as if my indifference about making the dimunitive trek made me pathetic or too accommodating. Meanwhile, my German Dom was a little miffed when I told him that biking 14 miles to his place at 8pm might not be feasible for me.. There must be a happy medium..??

Before we even entered the bar, he looked at me, touching my forearm lightly,
"This is great. Yeah, this is great because nothing is going to happen between us because I'm 43, and I'm old enough to be your father and that's a problem and that's great because there's no pressure because you're so young andandandandandyeahyeahyeahuhyeahADINFINITUM."

I think, "That's a problem..?" But I say, "My father is 72." Granted, it wasn't a very witty reply.

His facial expression freezes-- a thought. "Well, (beat), yeah. Yeah, but I could still be your father if I was like 20 when...".

We were carded upon entering the bar. After, Officer Cowboy gave me a serious look, "I'm kinda glad he did that."

"What?"

"Carded you. I mean, just in case you're like 19 or something. I mean, riding your bike. Living at home. It's kinda teenagery, don't you think?"

It was already grossly apparent to me that our sexual interests did not coexist on the same tectonic plate.

****

But he was just such a sweetheart, and so submissive, and doting-- something about his persona was so juvenile, that I found myself deeply mentally enthralled by the possibility of what I could only imagine what an impossibility: that Officer Cowboy, a died-in-the-wool-cuffs sub, called himself a Master.

So, after a lovely conversation about film and kink and writing and crazy ex-wives and past lives, he suggested we play at Threshold and I agreed.

****

Both of us fully clothed, me between his knees, on my knees: I, in jest, told him I was 18. He became very alarmed and asked me in a nervous voice if that was true and that he would need to look at my ID. I confessed that, unfortunately, I was past my tender teenage years. But, if I was 18-- and I might be-- it would still be perfectly legal. He sighed, relieved that I was not that young. "You're right," he exhaled, "it would be legal."

Later, he chained me to something that functioned as a St. Andrew's cross, but looked like a prop from a low budget vampire flick: a big iron "web" of sorts. I guess that made me the helpless moth. While I was subjected to "torture", like swats on the nipple, and violent verbal abuse, like "You're mine!", Officer Cowboy decided he would exploit me not for my young pussy, but for my literary talent.

"The Emperor demands a poem. And it must rhyme. Otherwise you will pay heavy penalties."

Between swats, tweaks, and flicks to my exposed sateen flesh, I babbled about how Officer Cowboy rendered the feats of Augustus, Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Napoleon totally worthless.  When I returned home in the wee hours I reworked it a bit...


Shall I compare you to the Parthenon?

Or the endless Aegean sea?

You, my gilded Emperor, my hero--

With all of your tics and trimmings,

Seem as loaded on arsenic as Nero.

Like Orestes to Athena, arms outstretched suppliant

Something soft sleeps between your thighs,

Your will feels just as pliant.

****

Anyways, the evening was efficacious. First off, Officer Cowboy and I remained good friends and writing buddies (besides our parallel kinks, we get along just dandy). Second off, I had a stark moment of revelation where I understood my fantasies are often considered distasteful, extreme, even within the kink community. All throughout my night at Threshold, I kept trying to classify my seemingly disparate, embarrassing fantasies, that have years laid unverbalized in my lizard brain... Somehow the umbrella term "humiliation" just seems lacking, limited...

((((((Officer Cowboy read my last post and immediately texted me, "I read your last post about German kink. NOW I agree with you. I could not do the things he can do to you. I'm not a spit or a fluids guys as you can tell by the large bottle of a sanitizer in my car lol. Honestly, I couldn't even spit on you. I could, but it would not feel good for me."))))))

My revelation drove me to a frenzy--- the minute I got home, I joined the

I Have Sick, Disgusting, Sometimes Violent, Incest, Rape, and Molestation Fantasies

[[I Have Sick, Disgusting, Sometime Violent, Incest, Rape, and Molestation Fantasies]]

group on Fetlife.

Thinking, I had finally found my place in the >sun<.

An evening of German kink/ eine Nacht der deutschen Kink

I bike over to my German's haus;

Natürlich: modern art on the walls, bier on the table.

We watch the German news and drink Stellas.

I slyly angle my feet under his thighs.


He quizzes me on German phrases in the textbook I checked out from my local library:

Sehr gut! Ausgezeichnet! Furchtbar! Nein!

When my garbled approximations don't match the typed words--

Ach! He twists my nipple until I scream, "bitte!" or "danke!"--

Sufficient enthusiasm is the key.

When I recite in proper Hochdeutsch, I am rewarded with a little spit.

There are many words contained in the viscous string that I don't understand:

A fluid continuum of English and Deutsch,

They churn frothy in my mouth.

 It ends in me.


After, we talk about my day-- always about me & ending in me.

My, i, ich, sick, ugh, ach, me.

Like, today I beat my submissive's ass until it burned blue (true story).

All the while, we sit feet to feet on the couch and I lick his sole between words.

Heel to toe; toe to toe; toe crest to toe trough.

He rated my performance a 2 out of 10.


[[German kink is embedded in the language. It is essential:

Never capitalize I (ich), always capitalize you (Sie).]]


I have to go-- I have 13 more miles to ride until I'm home.

If I make it that far.

"You are lucky today", he says. "I have to pee and you will get a little bit."

I think,  "I can't", but I know I will.

Prostrate on white tile, I attempt to elicit pity, "ein bisschen...bitte"

I drink some until I can't. Then I drink a little more.

Until my head bows to the open white plain.

"Dankeshön".

He makes fun of my heavy, neon pink back pack,

"Du bist siebsehn."

He walks me to my bike, and makes fun of my viel heavy steel frame.

He makes fun of me for riding a bike at all.

He kisses me goodbye, and I start on my 18th mile.


The day after, I sit at a cafe reading a novel, underlining words in black ink:

It's not my pen; it's his.

The top is chewed and I chew on top of the chew.

A warm feeling spreads across my groin.

I return to reading, chewing, lining.

* * *

The Implied Slave

Ok, I just want to preface this post-lett with a disclaimer: as thoroughly kinked out as my brain might be, I did not sojourn to the theatre to see P. T. Anderson's latest flick, The Master, due to an unconscious affinity for its aggressive title. Nor, after having seen said flick, would I ever make the claim that P. T. was angling for some tongue-in-cheek BDSM subtext. BUT, I will say that I found that there was much to-do and explicit meditation on the Master-slave dynamic AND that the lessons gleaned from Anderson's live-action thought experiment (brought to the flesh by Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd and Joaquin Phoenix as Freddie Quell) are applicable to D/s lifestyle.

Like I said, an expectation of kink-relevance was far from my mind last night at the Arclight. I don't even think I once thought about the suggestive, provocative title: and it certainly didn't make me wet! Perhaps this avoidance of the elephant was reinforced by A. O. Scott's review of the film for the NY Times, which I read before I watched the movie myself. Scott says a lotta wacky things, and describes the dynamic between Dodd and Quell as almost every fathomable permutation except master and slave: "They are father and son, guru and disciple, passionate friends and bitter competitors locked in a relationship whose sexual undercurrents are as palpable and mysterious as the motion of water under the surface of the ocean." And later in the review,"Each is, in turn, hero and villain, master and disciple, con man and patsy." 

And yet, Dodd's repeated sobriquet, "The Master", implies a complete dominion over someone or somebodies. Cue Freddie Quell: half-witted, slack-lipped, and hunch-backed, who performs menial tasks for Dodd (it is athletic Freddie who carries back the buried trunk of Dodd's unpublished treasure) and performs tricks at his behest (running from wall to window, while mush-minded minions gawk): Freddie is the implied slave and yang to Dodd's Master and Yin. While this visceral dynamic was either over-looked or decidedly too tension-fraught for Scott to mention in his piece, it really defines the entire film. 

If you are hesitant to agree, recall one of the final scenes, where Quell sits before his one-time Master, Dodd, and finally shatters the unspoken manacles lovingly fastened by the latter. Dodd asks Freddie something along the lines of (the verbatim quote escapes me), "If you can find a way through life without a Master-- any Master-- let me know". The Master/slave relationship is acknowledged explicitly in the film, even if the title "slave" is omitted, while I found that the homosexual overtones delineated by Scott were at most ghostly-- now matter how badly I wish they were there :))         

Anywayssss, my main point is that Freddie is a contented slave, if not happy, while he serves Dodd. Sure, he eventually outgrows and sheds his bondage, but that does not negate the positive growth that he makes while in servitude. Truly loyal like a pedigree Doberman Pinscher, Quell repeatedly physically attacks revilers of the Word-of-Dodd. Every hiatus in their friendship ends with a heart warming embrace (and sometimes a butt slap or a rolling bout on the grass). In other words, it is love (of the not-necessarily-romantic variety). 

The characters are not healthy, mentally or physically, but their relationship is. Dodd and Quell reach a mutually beneficial symbiosis through mutually consenting roles of Dominance and submission, respectively. And they achieve it with the natural finesse that I find so hard to accomplish in my own boudoir and beyond... Sure, the journey of their relationship is studded with its share of tragedy, disagreements, and stumbling blocks, but what relationship is not? I also acknowledge that neither Dodd nor Quell is as simple as Black/Master or white/slave (Quell is no bashful lackey when it comes to pressing a lady he fancies...), but it seems difficult to deny that those are the most salient characteristics they exhibit.     

So, I'm not at all trying to argue that this is The Theme of the movie-- there's a whole hootenanny about cults and stuff-- but it is A Theme that needs to be reckoned with if the film is to be understood. And, like, it's so cool to see a confident, affirmative depiction of consensual inequality/power imbalance! Right? Right! Cool.  

Looking into the Hole of Glory

Gloryhole @ the Pleasure Chest in West Hollywood 9/13/2012

I walked up to a wall of white fur, dotted with circular puncture wounds-- holes, some might call them. Other party-goers at the Pleasure Chest event were pressing their eye sockets to the wound-holes and sedately buzzing about something. So I followed suit-- these were people 'on a list' after all, so I figured their actions were worth an act of mimicry. I a-pressed and found myself staring into a life-size diorama of a dingy bathroom, complete with lewd slang, like "i'm banksy" scrawled on the dirt streaked walls. But, apart from the faraway suggestion that this was the collective conscious rendering of A Raunchy Sex Place, there wasn't anything actually going on beyond the fuzzy firmament. As in, no fucking.

I turned towards my friend's (the one who put me "on the guest list") boyfriend and tried to formulate my impressions. All the sudden it was clear, "Wait, that's not what a glory hole is... A glory hole is where you stick your cock, not your socket: eye, electrical, or otherwise". I could hear other people musing about the same apparent misunderstanding/disappointment. Of course, I'm sure something did happen behind the furry curtain eventually, but I was only able to party it up for an hour, and never did return to seek the glory of the white hole.

Anyway, that moment was kinda the microcosmic event that summed up the whole shebang. It wasn't a traditional gloryhole; no cocks came to greet my retina. But it did relay a poignant truth: sometimes there is nothing behind the alluring partition, no matter how downy its backside. Sometimes there ain't even hot-monkey shenanigans in the shit-streaked gas-station bathroom in West Hollywood. Well, at least not at the exact moment you decide to peer into a Shakespearian chink while holding your wienerschitzel. The Gloryhole party was real talk.

People mulled about, chipper but contained. The atmosphere was rife with lots of good feelings and relatively low-key costumes. Sure, there were lady-girls speaking in falsettos, donning full leather corsets (and stilettos, for the rhyme), but nobody's garb really stood out to me. There is a possibility that after 5 years of working in a dungeon I have become desensitized to such things, but I imagine most people in that scene have also seen their share of the dark arts. When a guy in a conservative suit and a I-might-try-to-sell-you-something tie chatted me up, I indulged myself and easily answered his query about how I paid/made my way, "I'm a professional dominatrix".

The words floated gently on his ears. The reaction was mild-- inside the corral of the Gloryhole, kink was the reigning stasis. For those folks who predominantly congregate with kinky coevals for this feeling of acceptance, this probably seemed like no big G-thang. But for a girl who hasn't learned her lesson, and frequently finds herself chasing the shirt-tails of vanillas, this was an incredibly calming experience. Our conversation continued in this vein, as he expounded on his proclivities and travails-of-late. It turned out that this guy (who I had quickly and incorrectly pegged a "normal") and I actually had quite a bit to talk about. Now we're real-life Fetlife friends! Again, in the parallel universe of the Glorified Hole, one's deviancy was the conversational equivalent of talking about the weather.

My bout of Glasnost (openness), in conjunction with the free champagne being proffered by circulating womanfolk, was making me giddy. I started prancing around in a Hunter S. Thompson-type gallivant. In a corner, there was a small spanking demonstration (act?) where 2 pretty ladies were stacked on top of one another and leaning on a black Prop. The uppermost pretty ass was being spanked by a pretty hand connected to a pretty lady. I rubbed my hands, licked my lips, and ventured to the outdoor section.  I saw a man chewing his gum like cud, getting tied up by the hired professional bondageur. He looked too dumb to be sassy, but still appeared to be thinking something vaguely ironic, like, "I bet Cheryl's gonna get a kick outta this one". I was getting the fear.

I ran towards the throbbing music emanating from the taco stand area. My feet started kicking up to the beat but my eyes wandered, longing, taco-ward. And then: strike of luck! My friend and her boyfriend were eating tacos but a few feet from my gyrations.  I greeted them and crooned my neck to perv on the asada, "You want one?" The Taco Man asked. "Oh. Oh yes." He waved my money a way. I can always tell when I'm in my element by the amount of free food that materializes. When I turned around, smiling wildly with asada excitement, an older man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me, "Who are you?" as if I was really a somebody. I replied, "My name is Nobody", trying to make an out-of-context Odyssey reference and feeling very clever. He didn't get it, but we chatted and talked shop and I made another Fetlife friend.

DING DING DING!

The clock struck 9:30 and it was already time for me to leave-- lest I be transformed back into a kinkster living behind murky curtains. Me and and my uneaten taco rushed to the dungeon to pick up heels and then to Torrance (I.e., the end of the earth) to do a session that would turn out to be my most lucrative one to date. I walked in and my client was raving drunk, watching TCM: "I just love Laurel and Hardy", he gurgled. I would not emerge until 5 hours later...

* * *

And so, my experience at the Hole was curtailed but enjoyable. The night left a strong impression on my psyche, not because of its intensity or outlandishness-- I found it to be utterly neither of those things-- but because of the comfort it engendered. It offered a fun, frisky, safe place for me (I'm hoping others, too) to let my two discreet lives blur together for an hour and a half. Honestly, I probably just need to start hanging with a kinkier crowd.

I probably shouldn't write posts from 5-7 in the morning...

Somehow I managed to narrativize and sentimentalize my truly hedonistic travails. Balance and rhythm have never been intuitive to me... just ask my ukulele teacher (har har...sigh).

Anywho, I must really be in full-fledged sub-space because all of the sudden Doms have been sidling out of the woodwork and trying to snatch me up. whereas for YEARS I was totally dessicated & Domless. It frightens me terribly to think of what actual qualitative aspects of my "subby aura" are that these dinosaurs are sniffing out.

EXHIBIT A: THE GURU

The other day I biked over to the local library to check out some German language textbooks (to please Mein Kommisar) and locked my 'cycle to the little curvy hoobly outside. This dark-skinned guy with sunglasses casually commented, in a strong Indian accent, on the aesthetic niceties of my bike. Anyways, for some reason I felt an immediate compulsion to befriend the fellow. So, after I did my book borrowing, I skulked around the foyer until he approached me.

Within minutes, he began describing his aberrational sexuality-- "a desire for SLAVE-ish woman", he said, "even though it has been a long time." Of course, he told me he clarified further for Jesus, "I tell Jesus my kinks do not affect my love for him.."

Our attraction to one another seemed genuinely a-sexual/friendly; we exchanged numbers and decided to be in touch. He was busy for a few days, he told me, but maybe we could hang out sometime next week and do some yoga. See, I didn't title this THE GURU because I'm a racist bitch (although I swear all Indians do possess a special veracity), but because he really was in touch with the forces of kink and human kind, por la general.

His last text confirmed it, "My gut feeling is that u have had dark desires since very long probably when u were a little girl ur number is that of saturn the most evil planet hehe".

:)))))))))))))))))))))))))))
!

***Ok, I'm going to the Pleasure Chest party tonight-- "Gloryhole"-- and a shpankin new write up uf the affair will be forthcoming. Be sure to hold dem panties up! Ladies! Boys! Lady-boys!***

What, you don't like German kink??

Well hallo hello. I've re-entered the land of the eating-- it turns out it takes sustenance to fuel one's lascivious dealings, with the devil and otherwise.

It's 5:14 am and I just returned home (both my parents were up and about) after sleeping, for the first time, with the current object of my spring (the one to which I am sprung...). A precocious, scrawny 21 year old doctoral student, with a whole lotta of wit and a lot to learn. Of course, being 21 and tender, I cannot divulge the depths of my debauched wiles and desires to him. We had long, sweat-entrenched sex, which I had hoped would be more emotional & vulnerable, even though our dynamic is almost entirely light and comedic in nature. Maybe it is for that reason that I want to know him all the way, from the outside to the in, from the beginning to the distant branches.

When I came for the second time during our micro-marathon, I came to the memory of the recent experience I had at the dungeon, with my (potentially) new German Dom. He had been sending me messages on OKC for weeks, with body messages like, "I am kinky also. What is your number?"; "I like it rough and fast and I like dominate."; The best one, sent after I didn't respond for a quite a bit, "What, you don't like German kink??" Finally, I relented and we met for drinks. There is no use being coy at this point: persistence is a sure way into my pants.

After downing a few drinks and chatting through our respective language barriers, I realized I actually really really like German kink-- the accent, the coarse attitude, the love of high-performance automobiles. I think I finally had an experience akin to what my subs with Asian fetishes experience when they interact with a woman of that ethnic persuasion. I didn't care what he said, what he did for a living, or even exactly what he looked liked... I mostly just wanted to hear him speak in broken-ish English. Anyways, I checked out a few German language textbooks to pursue my newfound fetish.

While we were sitting at the bar, he asked me if anyone had ever spit in my mouth, and I answered, truthfully, that one person had. After some time passed and conversation evolved he looked at me, told me to open my mouth, and spit in my mouth in the middle of the packed lounge. I'm honestly not terribly aroused by public play, but my interest was piqued so I invited him to a tour of the dungeon-- I didn't even conceal the fact that I was a Dom (in the daytime c: ). Well, I won't get into graphic detail, but a little romp in the dungeon ensued... It was really fascinating to be "on the other end of the spectrum" of a real D/s session: I felt as if I had already been there because, I think, of the empathy I share with my slaves. So, I didn't feel terribly shocked at what transpired, despite the fact I had never been heavily humiliated before.

And, so, the sum total? Nothing. This is just a little snapshot of the week in sexual stills, c/o Ms. Carrion. Both of these bonds are nascent and therefore necessarily unstable, unpredictable: I am not sure what shape they will assume even a week hence. Truly, though life is never so benevolent, I could really dig on the balance created by the stark contrast of these two lovers, Degradation and Young Romance.        

An Ode to Marian

Oh Marian: the most beautiful supermarket checkout boy,

This if for you.

This is for your burnt sugar skin,

Your clear blue eyes,

Your indeterminable accent,

Your effeminate name,

Your inexplicable presence at Ralphs,

At midnight,

On labor day.

Any day.

I would say you don't belong there, but you do.

Because your immaculate kindness cuts through the San Fernando Valley grime,

That the customers brush off their lapels,

Onto your radiant cash register,

Made bright with goodwill and the refracted light of your wedding ring,

Which you are too young to wear.

* * *
I saw the way you made tie-dye, bag lady's heart swoon,

When you loaded her armageddon-supply of water bottles into her personal cart.

(Where do they sell those things? The almost-homeless surplus store?)

And even though I was on guard,

Aware of your saccharine side-smile,

Gracious ways,

You still raised my inner blood,

When you heaved my gallon of whole milk onto the raised shelf on the counter and said,

"I help you a little bit". Then: flash!

Golden beams dash out from the corners of your mouth into the corners of my skull.

Retinal ganglions on fire: red, green, blue, BLACK BLACK BLACK GOLD.

Hallelujah!

* * *
I'd say this was an ill-placed missed connection,

A finger signing in the dark,

But I look for you every time.

You can't hide from My Eye.

If you are in the express line, I toss my sixteenth item to the wind.

If everyone is jamming up your aisle, craning for a glimpse of your ambiguously european chin,

Then I ignore the market monitor, asking me once, then twice, whether I might prefer taking advantage of the self checkout system.

No, thanks, I'm fine.

It will be Marian and I, until the receipt prints,

And he hands it over bashfully,

"Thank you, um, Ms. Carrion."

I think "My dead flesh for your caress,

Pliable carrion for your gentle teeth."

Amen.

FUCK YOUR BODY, FREE YOUR MIND!

Biking south on Highland yesterday afternoon, in the thick of my liquid fast-- about 2 days-- my mind wandered to the inevitable foodlessness of the day to come. I wasn't even hungry, but the thought rolled out like a horizon, spreading out into an eternal rug. It was in my head, though, not my stomach. Grappling with no food for the day unconsciously elicited a related string of thought-- could I live without solid food forever? Was I, indeed, already in the belly of that forever? When I quit cigarettes, for example, I embarked on a new eternity; an eternity defined by a lack. Like I said, the effect of the fast is mostly on my mind, rather than my forsaken corporeal bits.

And, in a strange way, the hunger (more aptly, lack), that infected my brain was really creating a soft fence around it, and a cushion of amniotic fluid protected me from the outside world. I was going to work, to see one of my first and oldest clients, who loves to consume all fluids and bodily products of women. The session went fine; I was, after all, nothing but  excessive fluids, draining out in hypertime as my body tried to make sense of my batshit shenanigans. But a strange wax-paper visual-filter somehow became activated so that everything I saw was translated through it. That evening, as I sat at a cafe writing away, I had a spontaneous thought that I wasn't part of the living.

But I was being productive, more productive than normal, because the fast turned my self inwards, so that it wasn't difficult to think, perhaps that was even expedited, but it was difficult to communicate to others. People and faces glided past me, strangers even conversed with me, but they passed over me like oil, and I was left in a state akin to pressing one's face to a mirror. I felt a strange calm, knowing that I would not partake in the activities of these living people, like alcohol consumption or talking excessively.

The thought, that I wasn't part the living, played in a quiet loop the entire night. It played as it occurred to me that this kind of state would be ideal for something like religious contemplation. That monks like St. Augustine, who avidly practiced fasting, were turning them selves inward, much like myself, to press their noses to God and their bums to their earthly neighbors.

My fast, based loosely on the "Master Cleanse" formulated by a crazy man name Burroughs (no no, the other crazy Burroughs) entails consuming many glasses of a strange "lemonade" (lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne paper mixed into lukewarm water) NOTE: to would be cleansers, smoked Paprika looks a lot like cayenne.. juz sayin..., drinking laxative tea, and doing a daily salt water flush (yes, I have flushed and lived to tell the tail). Anywho, today is my third and final day, and most of my ecstasy (mostly experienced on day 1) and delirium has dissipated, giving way to the comfortable realization that I will soon join the ranks of the living, as a solid-foodist no less.  

First Verse, Worse as the Hearst

What the ef are you supposed to do with a blog you feel compelled to write, but want no one to read? And by you, I mean I. And by no one, I mean a few people-- mostly strangers or my artsy facebook friends who might get a kick out of the weird things I get up to. How can I explain this phenomenon...When you live a double-ish life, the occluded half sometimes gets lonely and wants to surface, to nestle up to the sun from which all things derive their life-blood. Except blind cave newts. Those things worship only Satan. #El diablow

Recently I came home to roost in Los Angeles, which may very well be the best damn nest on the Americas. Here in LA everyone walks around with crud and gold sparkles in their tear ducts. When I ask the barista what she does, she tells me she's a lion tamer. When I ask the bus boy what he's doing on his break, he tells me he's memorizing lines for a play he's writing/directing/starring in. When I ask the movie director what he does on his off days, he tells me he roofies 16-year-old girls. It's really great. I love it here.

So I'm not so much unlike my friendly neighbors, Barista, Bus Boy, and Lecher: I have two jobs just like everybody else. I get paid for one of them just like everybody else. The only difference is that I work two crooked jobs, instead of one, like most of the other townies. I.e., today I worked on my web series that I'm trying to actualize and tomorrow I will work in a modern-day dungeon, devising torturous scenarios for overpaid, overaged professionals. That's right mami, I'm a real bad bitch. I'm the one who whips your boss while he's wearing pink, satin panties after a long day at the office. You know, that day where he insinuated he thought you looked fat in your pencil skirt.  

Ahem. Anyway, happy Labor Day!