The Book of Laughter and Remembering

Metropolitan Museum, Sculpture Garden, NYC

The sculpture garden at The Metropolitan Museum, New York

(For Kay, who wanted me to post a review of my cry-fest locales in NYC, as they say you’re not a real New Yorker until you’ve cried in public here).

The other day, I walked by a coffee shop in my neighborhood, in which I had cried my eyes out some time ago before going to a day-time orgy. I had buried my face in his chest, trying to avoid eye contact with strangers, but of course they noticed, and either tried to look at what was happening out of the corner of their eyes or to avert their gazes uncomfortably. I didn’t say many words at the time, or at least not many coherent ones. I didn’t need to. He knew what had happened. Continue reading

The Doctor Will See You Now

nurses, sexy doctors, role play

A couple of naughty nurses (photo by the talented Ms. Creamy Coconut).

When I interviewed my friends Trevor and Vanessa* about their open relationship, I also talked to Vanessa a bit about her funny experiences of running into her patients at sex parties (and vice versa) since she works as a physician at a local family practice in Brooklyn. I decided to do a whole separate post on those stories, as they’re quite amusing.

The first time she remembers running into a patient was at one of the Chemistry parties. She says she was mingling and meeting people and thought she recognized one woman from somewhere but couldn’t place where. “She said we probably had sex somewhere,” Vanessa recalls, “and I just laughed, but then Trevor came up and for some reason it occurred to him. He said, ‘are you her patient?’ and her eyes went bulging out of her head, like ‘Oh my fucking God!’” Continue reading

Orgy School

Side view of the Bushwick Mansion

Side view of the Bushwick Mansion

I walked by the house once, realized I had missed it. Walked back a second time. Confirmed that the number was right and then saw a couple of black guys sitting on the stoop and smoking cigarettes. I’m sure they saw me walk by twice as well, but I didn’t dare approach. What would I say? “I’m here about those orgies?” They would eat me alive, with their eyes at least. No, I didn’t really have the balls, so I decided to walk around the corner and wait for Jefferson to get there.

I was meeting him in the summer to get his edits to his profile and he decided to meet at this place where he was scoping out a house for throwing an orgy. A guy named “DopeRapper” had posted something on FetLife (for, you know, all of FetLife to see) saying: “BUSHWICK – MANSION – ORGIES” (caps, his), saying he was house sitting at this place for the summer and wanted to host sex parties there. I forwarded the link along to Jefferson, sort of as a “funny haha, isn’t this tacky?” kind of comment, but he decided to actually get in touch with the guy to a) see if our crew could host a party there and b) school the guy on proper orgy hosting, since he obviously had no idea what he was doing. (Lesson #1: don’t post this kind of stuff on a public forum). Continue reading

Drawers of Memory

Salvador Dali, chest of drawers

The Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers by Salvador Dali

There are so many memories that I try to push out of my mind. And yet, when I find myself actually losing some, I regret forgetting, especially when trying to piece together stories from years ago.

Sometimes, when the memories are too recent or too painful, I pack them away in drawers, like dresses and skirts put away for the winter or sweaters and coats put away for the summer. And when I go to retrieve them, if I find that some have been lost, misplaced or eaten by moths, I weave and knit around them to make them whole again. I embellish with imaginations and would-have-beens. A new sweater. A better story. A fragmented memory stitched and bandaged into a caricature of its former self.

Cojones

The backside of the Wall Street Bull in downtown Manhattan, whose balls you have to rub for good luck when you come here.

The backside of the Wall Street Bull in downtown Manhattan, whose balls you have to rub for good luck when you come here.

I forgot to mention that when I was prancing around all those fabulous Halloween parties and events, as documented here, I thought to myself: New York, I’ve got you by the balls. I know I talk a lot of shit about wanting to leave (and I still do, having been here close to 20 years, I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome and it’s time for other places) and how it sucks some of the time (it certainly does in the winter and I’m feeling that again now). But I can’t deny that I really do have this city by the balls. I know where all the best underground events are, I can get into most of them for free, I know the way into the exclusive, invite-only or super hush-hush ones. Whenever anyone comes to New York from out of town, I usually know exactly where and how to show them a good time. So, yes, I won’t deny it, I’ve pretty much got it made here.

And whenever I leave, I’ll miss having a city, especially New York City, so firmly by the balls. But I’ll always cherish the massive pair of my own that this place helped me grow. And that I can take anywhere with me. Cause it’s true what they say: you certainly can’t survive here without growing a nice pair of cojones. So, thank you, for that and everything else., NYC!

Cruel Intentions, Great Expectations

Placebo, Brian Molko, Joseph Llanes, Rolling Stone

Brian Molko, Placebo’s frontman, rocking it out in Los Angeles. Photo by Joseph Llanes.

I recently saw the British alternative rock band, Placebo, play a concert in New York and fell in love with them all over again. So many of their lyrics speak to me on a deep level and at the same time, they’re so simple, that I think, “I could’ve thought of that myself!” But I didn’t think of that myself. That’s the thing about great literature, poetry and song writing: the writers find ways to concisely articulate something we’ve been feeling for some time that we haven’t yet managed to put into words quite as well.

Seeing the concert reminded me of how I get introduced to them: I heard their song Every Me Every You play in the opening of the movie Cruel Intentions, which came out in 1999 (when I was 16). Both the movie and the song really resonated with me at the time. The beginning of the song went like this: Continue reading

We Never Change, Do We?

Taken from an old letter from R. This was nine years ago and I find that the same dynamics still apply. Certain life events just bring them to the fore more so than before. But I still don’t have the answer, do you?

You know, consciously hurting other people is unfortunately an essential component of any decent human being’s behavior. This anomaly, of which I’ve been talking about for a long time, is obvious. The question is: Can you change it? There is no doubt that it should not be accepted as unavoidable reality. But what to do? The constant inner struggle with guilt drives you mad. You naturally seek happiness, but your behavior suggests otherwise. Nothing makes sense anymore. Life loses its meaning. Religion provides rules, but they are controversial, and the set of priorities is lacking.  You want to change yourself, but it results in vomit. You want to change others, but why would “happy” people want to change. Somehow you start being magnetically attracted to people similar to yourself. They turn out to be just similar, and not the same as you. More and more often you catch yourself thinking, that, perhaps, you are the only person “alive” in this world. You end up thinking that you are actually the only dead person walking the streets…

Letters from C

I’ll admit I’m a sucker for people who can write really well, especially if they can write sexy well. Erotica is hard to write without coming off cheesy and there are few people who’ve managed to master it. One of my lovers, C, used to send me some of the most deliciously dirty letters, so I thought I’d re-post them here on a recurring basis (with his permission, of course). He had left the country for several months after the first time we enjoyed a wonderful tryst together, so I suspect he kept sending me these letters while he was gone to retain my interest during that time (he succeeded, of course). These days we see each other often enough where actual play-time has perhaps replaced the need for inspiring letters of this sort (that admittedly make me squirm). But I always love a good sexy letter… ahem.

Without further ado, here’s exhibit A:

I daydream about having you as my captive. Your wrists chained together over your head, perhaps so high that you need to stand on your tippy toes. Oh, and a blindfold. Definitely a blindfold. So you can hear my slow and steady pace as I stroll around you, admiring your lovely exposed body from all angles while you stretch and strain. You have no way to anticipate when I’ll touch you, or where, or how. Lightly, at first, so that your flesh feels teased, and yearns for more. But little by little, my kisses and caresses turn more fierce and ferocious.

And you can feel my hunger growing, too: my breath getting deeper, my stiff throbbing against you. My admiration for the sounds that I squeeze out of you. And slap out of you. And shake out of you.

By the time I let your wrists down, your legs are wobbling and useless.  You collapse right where I want you.  You feel my boot prod you and turn you to admire you from different angles.  I toy with you, my prey, and make you feel it.  

 It’s times like these that I’m prone to growl.

 Times when I’m about to pounce.  

Cognitive Resonance

Speaking of psychology, I’ve been reading more about cognitive dissonance lately. You know, that uncomfortable feeling you get when you experience or witness something that conflicts with the beliefs and values you’ve always held to be true. I’m sure we’ve all experienced this at some point. It’s part of living and discovering new things.

But something occurred to me the other day: what about cognitive resonance? Is this a term that’s out there or would that just refer to your normal day-to-day state, where what you experience matches up with what you believe, so there is no need to call it anything?

What I’m thinking about here, specifically, is that state of feeling somewhat “high” or lightheaded when looking at a painting, or a piece or architecture, or the description of its history, or a piece of literature, that seem to really resonate with what you think/believe/hope for; with some kind of universal truth, if such a thing exists. It happens to me all the time, when I’m reading or in a museum. Does this happen to anyone else? Or am I imagining things here?

p.s. I’ve Googled “cognitive resonance,” of course. Nothing much turns up except for a band called that.

Are men really from Mars?

What is it that, seemingly, makes women more open minded about gender and sexuality (and many other things) than men?

When I was dating a trans woman, I told my mom and not my dad. I didn’t think he would understand or approve. K, who’s the subject of my latest profile and a trans sex worker, also told her mom about both things, but not her dad for the same reason as me.

In general, the women in my life seem to be more understanding and supportive of the alternative things in my life than are my male friends (at least when it comes to the straight, non-alternative lifestyle people).

So what is it? Some sort of gene or chromosome that women have and men don’t? Or is it just social conditioning: the fact that men have been culturally set up to act macho and maintain the status quo.

I’m sure there is some research on this somewhere in psychology. Related: I need to read/learn more psychology.