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.

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.        

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!