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!