My Friend, Tony

Tony lives in a tree top, surrounded by old movie posters. They are tacked to the leaves with vinyl adhesive. They shine like Pyrite.

From up there it's hard to tell he's so short. 5'2 but square and sturdy. It always looks like he's about to spring up and take your nose between his forefinger and middle finger. Of course he would never do that – Tony's a nice guy.

Tony's the perfect wash-up. He transitioned from bit actor to experimental film maker to video clerk to my new best friend. In other words, from glitter to stone to corner to turquoise.

We are sitting in his living room, getting high: he on the weed, me on the sauce. He's mostly quiet and I fill the gaping silences with chatter. The room becomes me as I talk about me. Sometimes he talks about himself, but the room is still me, my conversation 10 minutes ago.

“I'm going to fuck you,” he says, clear blue eyes eyes lowered. “You don't think so. I know it. That's what the other girls said; but you will.”

Tony and I walk, while I talk. The street becomes me as the familiars give me their regards.

“I fucked that guy.” I say.

“Who?” Tony asks, eyes lowered again.

“The valet guy. The Afghani guy, I fucked him. It was just a one-time thing. I used to bike by all of the time and he would chat with me. I knew from the first few meetings or so that we were going to fuck. He kept asking me to come over and one day I said yes. On the car ride over he told me about his two kids.”

“You're so fucking dirty,” he says. Eyes as low as ever.

We walk and I talk and we laugh. I like that he thinks he's going to fuck me. It makes me feel sexy even though I know I won't do it. He's short and a stoner and 46 – all of the things that don't get my socks around my ankles, if you know what I mean.

“You know, all of this talk... about this shit. Fucking that guy. The fetish, the BDS stuff. It just turns me on more. The more you talk about it, the more turned on I get.”

Tony blinks a lot. He blinks hard, and lets blue crystals flash for seconds at a time.

In a parallel universe, I might fuck Tony. I might have fucked him in this universe, but now I can't. Now that he put a bounty on my cunt.

                                                                                  * * *

We are swinging from the tree tops but really we are both sinking into the couch. The Twilight Zone plays in the background while he talks about his bout with cancer and I talk about the STDs I've had and dodged. I eat his crackers, while he hits his pipe every 20 minutes or so – as if I'm the stoned one. He lowers his eyes at me – as if I'm the only freak in the room.   

My Valentine's Day: I Fucked My Bitch on the Kitchen Floor of the Dungeon and Then I Ate an Omelette.

I feel like the title pretty much says it all, but I'll expound for my own rumination's sake. Nobody asked me out on Valentine's Day. I waited and waited for my main squeeze-of-the-moment-- lo and behold, an ex-client from the dungeon-- to muster the guff to suggest something or other. But, nothing. Hung up, but held at bay by excessive pride, I wanted to work and spend the day fabricating meaning with the sick, sad souls of the BDSM romantixx. My boss sent word about a noon-time session with one of my regulars: I willed the work and there it was.

On the off-chance a sexy encounter emerged from the ether, I made sure to dress for sex. Thigh-high lace tights and one green velvet dress later, I was out the door and cruising south down the metro towards Hollywood. My session went as well as possible-- we watched Brazilian scat videos, he dressed up in a slinky black dress, and I fucked him with my massive black strap-on. Whilst soulfully pegging him, my dear slave looked lovingly up at me: “You look so cute while you're fucking.” I've never felt so emasculated.

Afterwards, I walked about town and contemplated my solitary situation. Up to Whole Foods and down to Starbucks, I thought about the meaning of initiative and monolithic commercialism. After all, I am a Starbucks to the dear slaves who curl up at my calves. A house of unshakeable bigness, security, and consistent quality to the littleons looking for a vinyl teet and a violent caress. My boss warned me that in order to get an inch with a truly submissive man, I would have to use that oft-occluded power of Female initiative. A force frequently regarded as the pathetic wile of weathered cougars. No matter; I gave in. The truth was, I was at the dungeon, and my slave lives but a few blocks away. In the name of proximal bitches and the power to enact, I summoned him.

And come he did. While I was lounging on a leather divan, drinking too much cheap wine and trying to read Marquis De Sade, but only stringing together one sentence per minute. I had willed work and now I had willed this amorous gallivant; I finally understood the real ire of manhood, the nature of conquest over the cagey and effervescent. His self-imposed restraint had been driving me mad for weeks, keeping me up at night, making me touch myself at the idea of overpowering and penetrating the dusk that shrouded him. And then suddenly he was there, ready and willing to unfurl.

In order to mitigate my fury at being cornered into initiative (though I was deep in it and enjoying it), I made plans to go out with some friends in the evening and leave only a small window for condensed romance, or whatever one would call this insanity. We chatted, and I chattered inanities as I tend to do when I really feel electrified by another. Somehow we drifted to the kitchen, still exchanging pure emptiness while positioned close, traction ensured by the red, unimaginably sullied shag carpet under our feet. I distinctly remembered thinking, as I reached over to press play on the CD player, that the soft granite wall I erected around out intimacy would not be broken tonight. But then I was on the carpet, under a body much longer than mine, and surrounded by the ghosts of all the souls I had beat mercilessly right where I lay.

It was simple, as sex tends to be. Even all dressed up in latex and Japanese candle wax, intercourse is a rather frank act. One minute we had never had sex, and, several minutes later, we had. I could already feel all of the pent up madness I had born for the last few weeks ebb and subside. The saga of us isn't over, but my conquest had been fulfilled. Running an hour late for my other evening plans, I cuddled on the quick and hustled him out.

When I was driving towards Mel's Diner in search of the cheesiest, meanest omelette I could find-- to replenish my pallor from fucking my bitch-- I realized that I hadn't witnessed Valentine's Day in LA for about 5 years. A strange palpable passion hung muskily over the streets; drama haunted every corner. I saw people crying, embracing more tightly than normal. Bitches were snapping their fingers (presumably at the rude idea of love). At Mel's a big, ugly Latino man was draped on a gaunt blonde: love was in their eyes. In fact, for the first time ever, love was laying heavy in Los Angeles.

I made it home at 3:30am, feeling glutted and victorious. The omelette wasn't amazing, but it was mean. I couldn't say my bitch was securely in my pocket, but I could say that I had wanted something and taken it-- roughly. When I opened my computer, one of my Indian employers (I've been doing some content writing, yee haw!) immediately g chatted me:

“happy vday dear”

“happy valentine's day to you, too”

“can you write about cheap car insurance”

“sure thing. It's 4am here but i'll get on it first thing tomorrow”

“yeah, u are up very early. do you have an exam or something?”

“something like that”

“can we skype dear? I want to see ur face. ur very prety mam. ”

And that's how my night ended, with $15 more in my Paypal account and a creepy transcontinental cyber chat invitation. I politely declined the latter.   

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

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.