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.   

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.  

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.