Happy Birthday to Me: An Exercise in Splosh Fiction

It wasn't my birthday. Or was it? It certainly felt like my birthday.

When I awoke, a slat of a sunbeam was shining through my window. It tickled my nose and pulled my irises east – to a bough speckled with festive birds, chirping and laughing. My alarm went off and I sprung out of bed and hopped downstairs, ready to embrace each and every forsaken soul. But first, I thought, I must check the mail.

Lo and behold: a yellow envelope. A letter from a friend bearing an embrace separated by a sea or so. I held the letter close to my breast and threw open my front door to inhale the nascent birthday morn'.

'Yes, it must be my birthday', I thought, perhaps aloud. Blueberry sunshine and nymph breath and iridescent particles. I was with the world and the world was with me. I was with the world and I closed my eyes and thought about poached eggs and fleece throws and other birthday thoughts.

A ring – the telephone.

“Yello?”

“Hello Steven, how are you?”

A thousand tiny pink images flashed shiny in my mind. A call from Melissa. It absolutely truly must be my birthday.

“Oh, I'm grand, Melissa.” The images formed a point and pricked my coccyx. “It's my birthday.”

“Oh Steven! How wonderful! I always thought your birthday was in January!”

“For some reason, people always make that mistake.”

Melissa laughed a distinguished string of pearls into the receiver. “Oh Steven, please! You don't have to try to spare me from embarrassment – I am used to it. I am always thinking mixed things.

Well then, very much a happy birthday to you. We must celebrate”

“Thank you. But really, I'm not the celebrating kind.”

“We really must. We just must.”

“Well, the kettle is boiling.”

“Goodbye Steven. Ring me soon and let's celebrate in high style.”

“Of course, Melissa.”

The phone clicked and I clung to the tips of her straight black hair that I'm sure was crushed against the receiver. Then I turned my mind. The room was still glistening. There was only one thing to do – bake a cake.

Everything in the bowl and two yellow yolks smiling back at me. I was wearing trousers and a sports coat. Birthdays are fancy. I used my forearm to stir the mixture happy. It yellowed until it glowed in the absence of its egg eyes. Life is easier when you don't see things coming. I pulled up my sock. It was grey with a green stripe. Birthdays are times for unexpected socks. I took a pinch of cinnamon and spread it on my forearm. But it was Melissa's forearm. I was aroused and the head of my penis pressed against my zipper. For some reason I laughed. Birthdays make me giddy.

350 degrees kissed my brow as I put my cake in the oven to coagulate. In the meantime, I set to mixing up some caramel toffee frosting. Brown sugar and eggs and milk wept into a curdle; This was going to be a sticky affair.

As often happens on charmed days, days of grand beginnings and infinite action potential, things were falling into place like there was One Way. A Goofy Movie was practically fingering the DVD player. In it went. Onto to the plush recliner I went, toffee frosting in hand. Off of my body my pants were. My smile was, as it were, irrevocably wide and ever planted. If a few drops of sticky toffee gooey caramel sludge drippled on to my half-hard cock, who could fault me on this blessed day? The viscous substance inched too slowly around the circumference of my cock. So slow that it invited interruption –

A knock – a guest.

“Hello? Steven? Hellllo!” – Melissa.

My pants were up and at 'em. I felt the sweet goo spread against and into the cotton fiber of my underwear. As reliable as dawn itself, the first birthday mess.

“Steven? Helllo! You must be in there somewhere.”

“Yes, Melissa, I'm here. One moment.”

An open door – Melissa.

“Really, you shouldn't have come. I never celebrate –”

“Exactly. That's why I came. Because you wouldn't have.”

A ring – the timer.

Involuntarily – “My cake!”

“Oh, how nice.” She said, dark purple aura dripping, staining my carpet.

* * *

She set the table while I busied myself over the frosting. The back of my knife grazed the top of the cake – her inner thigh – and created a flat golden plane. My mother taught me how to bake. She raised me in the kitchen.

“It looks lovely, Steven, almost professional. Did you go to culinary school?”

“No, I had a mother.”

Melissa didn't laugh. She didn't even look like she thought about laughing out of courtesy.

“Steven?”

“Yes, Melissa?”

“Where is the restroom?”

“Just down the hall and to the left.”

“Thank you. Excuse me.” She eyed the cake, squinting into saccharine. “Exquisite.” And padded off to the bathroom to fix her lipstick.

It was done, in that birthday way. Two tiers and light brown, the cake shone like the birds on the morning bough. A man of my age can't dally in petit fours or sugar statue accoutrements. I edged the top and bottom circumferences with a modest white buttercream piping. Melissa was lingering in her gone. I wondered if she was contemplating the prospect of sleeping with me out of a mixture of pity and birthday-induced affection.

I put the cake on her seat. The impending moment was born the minute I opened my eye to the slanted radiance of false rebirth. I could see her dress billowing out as her pale buttocks made gentle contact with my cake. I could see it in perfect birthday clarity.

Melissa padded back, lips curled into cat whiskers. She didn't even look down, She looked up at me with down eyelids as she bent her body and descended in a formal pivot. Then her eyes widened into a scream and I felt the sticky frosting insinuate itself into all of her feminine crevices, catching black hairs and moist. I felt my cock harden and my hand felt my cock harden. Watching spongy chunks fly laterally like a symphony, I came hard in sympathetic crescendo.

“Happy birthday to me.” I whispered.    

They THRIVE on NEGLECT

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

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

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

Ja, das ist wahr.

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

Weds//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ende //

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.

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.        

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!