Je m'appelle Justine. I was born in Paris in 1832 to a French mother and American father. My father left when I was two. He left my mother and me with nothing but a mountain of debt. My mother was forced to sell her flesh so that we would survive. After a few years of being un putain de la rue, she met a man who liked her well enough to give her money so that she could open her own brothel. When I was twelve, she put me to work. I hated the men who fucked me; with their dirty hands and hairy bellies and rank breath. When I turned sixteen and nothing had changed, I had my heart set on killing myself.
Then he came. Tall, handsome, and clean. There was something different about him. It wasn't just his looks that set him apart; there was something in his eyes--a gaping mystery that I could not comprehend at my age. He was the only man who saw that I deserved better than the life I was leading.
When he first came in the room, I opened my legs as I had always done. But he didn't touch me. He didn't even come toward me. He just looked at me with those dark eyes and told me to close my legs, that he wasn't there to hurt me. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Get out! Degage!" I screamed. When I realized he wasn't lying, I cried. His kindness was too much for me. I cried as he held me like the father I never had.
After I had no more tears to shed, he told me his story. He called himself Dema. He said he was born in Latvia many, many years ago. When he was about my age, a strange man came to kill his father, who was a notorious alchemist specializing in poisons. The man tied Dema and his mother to a post, forcing them to watch as he hung his father from the ceiling, tortured him, skinned him alive and let him bleed to death. Dema watched in horror as the man raped his mother and killed her. However he spared Dema for his own purposes, giving him power in exchange for his devotion and loyalty.
Since then he has been roaming all over Europe, seeking suffering children. He uses his power to release a select few from their misery--those who are prepared and deserving. He first saw me when I was about five, begging for food in the streets. I was not ready then, he said. He was just passing through at the time and couldn't stop but he vowed to himself that he would return to see that I was safe. He said, "I know that you are safe now; you have your mother, a place to live, enough food and money, but I can see that you are not happy." He told me he could offer me a better life. All I had to do was trust him, and he would grant me power and love and endless adventure. "Do you want that?" He asked. As I was planning on dying, I had nothing to lose. "Yes," I said. He whispered promises in my ear--that he would protect me, that I would never be hurt by men again, that I could have all the pleasures in the world without the pain of humanity. Then he brushed my hair aside and leaned in as though he were going to kiss me...
Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I let out a little scream. It was akin to the pain I felt between my legs when I lost my virginity--an acute pain that dissolved into pleasure as it rushed through my veins. Then I felt something warm trickling down my neck, like a man's sperm running down my thigh. He licked my neck before I had the chance to wipe it away. Then gingerly he turned my head, looked into my eyes and kissed me. I tasted blood on his lips. Though it was my blood, I felt euphoria mingle with despair, as my heart crushed in sweet longing for him and thirst for that intoxicating red elixir of life...
To be continued...
Meanwhile, read my impressions of Halloween in last year's column.
There are a few editorial errors in the first paragraph:
"While Eve offered an apple to several salivating Adams, but nobody bit—as far as I know. However, there was at least one vampire victim in addition to myself and the Sea Nymph was nearly devoured by a delicious French creature in a black robe."
It should be:
"Eve offered an apple to several salivating Adams, but nobody bit-as far as I know. However, there was at least one vampire victim, while I, the Sea Nymph, was nearly devoured by a delicious French creature in a black robe."
Perhaps you will see me and Dema tonight, wandering through downtown New York City, seeking lost souls to satisfy our lust. I will be wearing a Victorian cape, and the corset and bloomers I was wearing the night he came into my life, the night I crossed over...
Happy Halloween!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Last Laugh
He didn't even have the balls to say it to my face.
Why do people break up with you in an email? Why do they say they didn't have time to call and yet they have the time to craft an email which probably took at least twenty minutes (editing and thought prep included), when they could've made a phone call in half the time?
Sometimes it's easier to be clear and bitingly eloquent in the written word, behind the mask of a computer screen. They need not endure the quiver in your voice or the pain on your face in our wonderful world of advanced communication.
If I really love someone, if I really care, and I need to communicate some unpleasant news, I would make time to call or set up a date regardless of how busy I am.
He said, "I don't want to break your heart" and "I don't want to hurt you."
Beware of people who say these things. They will do exactly the opposite.
The lines are ridiculous anyway, especially if you're feeling more than the other person. It is redundant to say, "I don't want to hurt you." It is already understood. (Unless the speaker is a sadist.) Inevitably, they will hurt you when you open your heart to them. But to actually say "I don't want to hurt you" is a cruel set-up spoiling the illusion of the moment.
Those lines and other signs pointed to the end. After "I don't want to hurt you" it was a question regarding another woman during one late-night conversation about polyamory vs. monogamy. He met her a week after me. They never had sex. They were just friends, he thought, until he began to feel more than friendly toward her. He said, "What if my feelings for her are stronger and I only want to be with her?"
"Choosing both would be ideal" was my detached reply.
Then came the sexual withdrawal with the intention to clarify his feelings and get to know me better. Then the changed tone in his emails--from romantic and flirtatious to pragmatic and distant.
I saw it coming just as I saw the death of my column. I thought about gracefully bowing out before it came to this. But no--I had to let it unravel outside the box and live in the possibility that his abstinence experiment would somehow bridge the gap between us. I had to give him the power.
But he buckled under the weight of it.
I will not be his friend.
And one day I shall laugh about the guy with the funny name.
Why do people break up with you in an email? Why do they say they didn't have time to call and yet they have the time to craft an email which probably took at least twenty minutes (editing and thought prep included), when they could've made a phone call in half the time?
Sometimes it's easier to be clear and bitingly eloquent in the written word, behind the mask of a computer screen. They need not endure the quiver in your voice or the pain on your face in our wonderful world of advanced communication.
If I really love someone, if I really care, and I need to communicate some unpleasant news, I would make time to call or set up a date regardless of how busy I am.
He said, "I don't want to break your heart" and "I don't want to hurt you."
Beware of people who say these things. They will do exactly the opposite.
The lines are ridiculous anyway, especially if you're feeling more than the other person. It is redundant to say, "I don't want to hurt you." It is already understood. (Unless the speaker is a sadist.) Inevitably, they will hurt you when you open your heart to them. But to actually say "I don't want to hurt you" is a cruel set-up spoiling the illusion of the moment.
Those lines and other signs pointed to the end. After "I don't want to hurt you" it was a question regarding another woman during one late-night conversation about polyamory vs. monogamy. He met her a week after me. They never had sex. They were just friends, he thought, until he began to feel more than friendly toward her. He said, "What if my feelings for her are stronger and I only want to be with her?"
"Choosing both would be ideal" was my detached reply.
Then came the sexual withdrawal with the intention to clarify his feelings and get to know me better. Then the changed tone in his emails--from romantic and flirtatious to pragmatic and distant.
I saw it coming just as I saw the death of my column. I thought about gracefully bowing out before it came to this. But no--I had to let it unravel outside the box and live in the possibility that his abstinence experiment would somehow bridge the gap between us. I had to give him the power.
But he buckled under the weight of it.
I will not be his friend.
And one day I shall laugh about the guy with the funny name.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Erotic Art and Fashion Show Recap
I was a last-minute model for Friday night's Erotic Art and Fashion Show presented by OneTaste. Shara, the organizer, had all the models lined up but one had a car accident and the other had a crisis, so an email calling for models was sent out the day of the event. I was planning on attending anyway, and here was a delicious opportunity to perform.
I met Shara at Gothic Renaissance to pick out our outfits for the Fashion Show. Shara was frantic because she was running behind and she hadn't found a second model. She grabbed an extra outfit (vinyl French Maid) and ran out, figuring she would find a willing woman at the event. I stayed a bit longer to buy a few necessities for myself (black and red striped hot pants, a French maid style waist cincher, black vinyl bra). I wasn't wearing any sexy underthings and justified the purchase as a necessary expense I could deduct from my taxes. At least I had the foresight to bring a pair of black fishnets and black patent leather five-inch heels.
The event was held at Centerpoint Studios, a wonderful yoga center with comfy zen lounge and walk-in kitchen. While the art was being installed in the yoga room, the models had their make-up done. The talents of a lovely little make-up artist named Lena B. transformed me into a veritable goth girl with menacing shadows over my eyes.
Shara looked hot in a ratty-slinky black dress and big dominatrix police hat. I gave her my riding crop (which I brought as a prop) because I thought it would look better with her outfit. Besides she was the one in charge.
After I was dressed and made up, I had nothing to do but observe and enjoy myself until the fashion show at 9. People started arriving around 6:30. For the first couple of hours, men dominated the scene. When you open a $5 erotic event to the general public, it inevitably attracts all sorts of fetishists and prurient men who see it as an easy opportunity to get laid. I got some creepy looks during the first few hours. Yet they had no power over me as I walked around like I was in my own living room, not even giving them a smidgen of a smile. Instead I focused on savoring my portion of delectable vegan food--mango couscous and fresh greens, tingly Aphrodisiac Elixir, and organic dark chocolate fondue with fresh fruit and cookies. Yum.
At around 8, the scene was more gender-balanced and appealing with sexy women and several cross dressers added to the mix. I chatted with a couple of friendly ladies involved with Cross Dressers International. They share a communal apartment in Hell's Kitchen. I told them I had been there once when I was interviewing a trans-woman for an article on the transgender experience--she was part of CDI, and we had the interview in the courtyard. So now the two sophisticated ladies who showed up at the erotic art / fashion show were complimenting my make-up and inviting me to dinner at the house. I told them I enjoy dressing in drag and would love to join them sometime.
Meanwhile, across the room, a woman was all knotted up in red rope while being massaged by what is possibly the best vibrator in the world--the Hitachi Magic Wand. This was only a demonstration. Ladies--please try it at home.
At this point several people had asked me, "When does the show start?" Soon, soon...they had come specifically for the fashion show and I had no clue when (other than the approximate hour) I would be walking down the runway; there was no rehearsal nor designated order nor direction on what to do when you reach the end of the runway. I was not worried however. I'm a professional.
A professional model walks with purpose without being obvious, each step crossing gracefully in front of the other, arms hanging loosely and swaying naturally along with the hips like the back end of a cat. The face is forward and expressionless, as if to say "I don't care about you." And yet she exudes confidence. At the end of the runway, she turns (here is where I deviate from the robotic high fashion pivot) and poses--nothing too forced, a subtle suggestion of attitude is best--and looks. It's all in the eyes. I did a few poses then turned around on the "stage," bent over, and lifted my skirt up to expose my ass and new sexy underthings--a purely professional move. Then I walked back in the same mode as I came in.
Many cheers and compliments came my way. "You must be professional. Have you done this before?" (The most professional modeling gig I did was a $1500 job wearing one of Natalie Portman's Queen Amidala costumes in a Star Wars fashion show at the Ziegfeld Theatre--you have to be professional, I guess, to balance a 20 pound headpiece and not fall off the runway while being blinded by camera flashes. Other than that, I got paid to pose nude at art schools and for individual artists for three years, and did a few other amateurish fashion shows like this one. The professionalism has more to do with being a performer, being comfortable in front of an audience, and know-how acquired through observing models at professional shows--a few moments of haute couture shows captured on TV was enough for me. You must have a certain look too, which I've been told I have, although my petite stature has kept me off the Versace runways and out of the Victoria's Secret catalog. Maybe Playboy won't mind that my curves are packed into a tight 5'4'' frame.) "You had it...what you did with your eyes..." "You were by far, the best model."
The other models weren't bad. Shara was her best the second time we went out, when she told me to stop in the middle of the runway and bend over so she could flog me a few times. The French maid walked front and back like a virgin at an orgy, smiling uncomfortably (she was truly a last-minute model). The boys modeling scary-looking spiky pants and masks (the spikes were hard plastic bits resembling twisty-ties) were awesome, considering they could barely see. The third group was most creative, modeling Burning Man-style fashions by Wheylan. They strutted and danced and showed off their tricks on stage (back-bends and glowing hula-hoop spinning). Sure it was all a bit amateurish (we didn't know when we were going out until Morpheus announced the fashions off index cards) but anyone who can turn a yoga studio into a classy art gallery and runway (a path created with strips of masking tape lined with candles) deserves a standing O. Here's an orgasm for you Shara, even though you lost my riding crop half the night.
Overall the event was salaciously successful. I reconnected with several lovers and friends...The Princess Slut (who was pussy-dripping hot modeling a curve-clinging glittery fuchsia body suit by Wheylan) and her ex whom I'll call Nature Boy, the Scottish Princess, my Burning Man Sheik and his Queen, the Pornologist who takes care of my pussies when I'm away, and Anton from Sexy Spirits. I met some intriguing strangers as well--besides the lovely ladies of CDI, I connected with a few men and an attractive butch who graced my neck with luscious vampire nibbles. Oh I musn't forget the sexy woman selling sex toys from Sugar--a lesbian-owned sex store in Baltimore, who looked so familiar...it turns out we used to know each other through my ex-boyfriend when she was married to a man. It really is a small, sexy world, especially when you work and play within the pleasure-positive community.
After the fashion show, I removed the outfit I was modeling to reveal my sexy underthings. Photographer Michael H. Morgan gave me the most memorable compliment of the night: "For a white girl, you got a great ass." It was worth being a last-minute model just to hear that.
I met Shara at Gothic Renaissance to pick out our outfits for the Fashion Show. Shara was frantic because she was running behind and she hadn't found a second model. She grabbed an extra outfit (vinyl French Maid) and ran out, figuring she would find a willing woman at the event. I stayed a bit longer to buy a few necessities for myself (black and red striped hot pants, a French maid style waist cincher, black vinyl bra). I wasn't wearing any sexy underthings and justified the purchase as a necessary expense I could deduct from my taxes. At least I had the foresight to bring a pair of black fishnets and black patent leather five-inch heels.
The event was held at Centerpoint Studios, a wonderful yoga center with comfy zen lounge and walk-in kitchen. While the art was being installed in the yoga room, the models had their make-up done. The talents of a lovely little make-up artist named Lena B. transformed me into a veritable goth girl with menacing shadows over my eyes.
Shara looked hot in a ratty-slinky black dress and big dominatrix police hat. I gave her my riding crop (which I brought as a prop) because I thought it would look better with her outfit. Besides she was the one in charge.
After I was dressed and made up, I had nothing to do but observe and enjoy myself until the fashion show at 9. People started arriving around 6:30. For the first couple of hours, men dominated the scene. When you open a $5 erotic event to the general public, it inevitably attracts all sorts of fetishists and prurient men who see it as an easy opportunity to get laid. I got some creepy looks during the first few hours. Yet they had no power over me as I walked around like I was in my own living room, not even giving them a smidgen of a smile. Instead I focused on savoring my portion of delectable vegan food--mango couscous and fresh greens, tingly Aphrodisiac Elixir, and organic dark chocolate fondue with fresh fruit and cookies. Yum.
At around 8, the scene was more gender-balanced and appealing with sexy women and several cross dressers added to the mix. I chatted with a couple of friendly ladies involved with Cross Dressers International. They share a communal apartment in Hell's Kitchen. I told them I had been there once when I was interviewing a trans-woman for an article on the transgender experience--she was part of CDI, and we had the interview in the courtyard. So now the two sophisticated ladies who showed up at the erotic art / fashion show were complimenting my make-up and inviting me to dinner at the house. I told them I enjoy dressing in drag and would love to join them sometime.
Meanwhile, across the room, a woman was all knotted up in red rope while being massaged by what is possibly the best vibrator in the world--the Hitachi Magic Wand. This was only a demonstration. Ladies--please try it at home.
At this point several people had asked me, "When does the show start?" Soon, soon...they had come specifically for the fashion show and I had no clue when (other than the approximate hour) I would be walking down the runway; there was no rehearsal nor designated order nor direction on what to do when you reach the end of the runway. I was not worried however. I'm a professional.
A professional model walks with purpose without being obvious, each step crossing gracefully in front of the other, arms hanging loosely and swaying naturally along with the hips like the back end of a cat. The face is forward and expressionless, as if to say "I don't care about you." And yet she exudes confidence. At the end of the runway, she turns (here is where I deviate from the robotic high fashion pivot) and poses--nothing too forced, a subtle suggestion of attitude is best--and looks. It's all in the eyes. I did a few poses then turned around on the "stage," bent over, and lifted my skirt up to expose my ass and new sexy underthings--a purely professional move. Then I walked back in the same mode as I came in.
Many cheers and compliments came my way. "You must be professional. Have you done this before?" (The most professional modeling gig I did was a $1500 job wearing one of Natalie Portman's Queen Amidala costumes in a Star Wars fashion show at the Ziegfeld Theatre--you have to be professional, I guess, to balance a 20 pound headpiece and not fall off the runway while being blinded by camera flashes. Other than that, I got paid to pose nude at art schools and for individual artists for three years, and did a few other amateurish fashion shows like this one. The professionalism has more to do with being a performer, being comfortable in front of an audience, and know-how acquired through observing models at professional shows--a few moments of haute couture shows captured on TV was enough for me. You must have a certain look too, which I've been told I have, although my petite stature has kept me off the Versace runways and out of the Victoria's Secret catalog. Maybe Playboy won't mind that my curves are packed into a tight 5'4'' frame.) "You had it...what you did with your eyes..." "You were by far, the best model."
The other models weren't bad. Shara was her best the second time we went out, when she told me to stop in the middle of the runway and bend over so she could flog me a few times. The French maid walked front and back like a virgin at an orgy, smiling uncomfortably (she was truly a last-minute model). The boys modeling scary-looking spiky pants and masks (the spikes were hard plastic bits resembling twisty-ties) were awesome, considering they could barely see. The third group was most creative, modeling Burning Man-style fashions by Wheylan. They strutted and danced and showed off their tricks on stage (back-bends and glowing hula-hoop spinning). Sure it was all a bit amateurish (we didn't know when we were going out until Morpheus announced the fashions off index cards) but anyone who can turn a yoga studio into a classy art gallery and runway (a path created with strips of masking tape lined with candles) deserves a standing O. Here's an orgasm for you Shara, even though you lost my riding crop half the night.
Overall the event was salaciously successful. I reconnected with several lovers and friends...The Princess Slut (who was pussy-dripping hot modeling a curve-clinging glittery fuchsia body suit by Wheylan) and her ex whom I'll call Nature Boy, the Scottish Princess, my Burning Man Sheik and his Queen, the Pornologist who takes care of my pussies when I'm away, and Anton from Sexy Spirits. I met some intriguing strangers as well--besides the lovely ladies of CDI, I connected with a few men and an attractive butch who graced my neck with luscious vampire nibbles. Oh I musn't forget the sexy woman selling sex toys from Sugar--a lesbian-owned sex store in Baltimore, who looked so familiar...it turns out we used to know each other through my ex-boyfriend when she was married to a man. It really is a small, sexy world, especially when you work and play within the pleasure-positive community.
After the fashion show, I removed the outfit I was modeling to reveal my sexy underthings. Photographer Michael H. Morgan gave me the most memorable compliment of the night: "For a white girl, you got a great ass." It was worth being a last-minute model just to hear that.
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