Stephanie: Happy New Year, dear readers!
Reader: Wait, I'm confused, why is the date December 29th? I've been looking at this blog every day since the 29th and I don't recall seeing this post. Am I out of my mind?
Stephanie: I don't know, are you? All I can say is that if you were out of your mind, you wouldn't understand when I tell you that the date of this post is figurative.
Reader: What do you mean? I thought this was a sex blog, not some stupid ass poetry site.
Stephanie: Well, my intention was to close the year with final reflections on my columnist career at the New York Press and start the new year as fresh as a virgin in a summer dress. So I typed in the title for a new post on December 29th, intending to go back and write the damn thing before midnight on December 31st, but I got sidetracked by a singing gig in a charming little expat town in Mexico, then flew to Puerto Vallarta for a week-long beach vacation, without my laptop. Now, two weeks after the dawn of the new year, I finally have the time to pen this post, but I'm keeping the original date for poetic reasons. I'm going to write it as if I wrote it before I ate twelve grapes when the latin band yelled "uno" at midnight on the playa. Of course, I could just post it as December 29th and keep my hands off the keyboard for once. But that's not my style. I don't want to mystify you and my other readers into thinking that I made a chronological mistake or that it takes me three weeks to finish a post. I just want you to know how important it is for me to wrap up past events appropriately, through symbolically-intentioned pretense.
Reader: I never notice the dates, but thanks for clarifying.
Stephanie: Thanks for reading...and by the way, as this is a poetic sex blog, I don't mind if you read some of it to your girlfriend as a romantic gesture on Valentine's Day.
***
"These things are short-lived," David Blum said after he told me he was discontinuing my column. "Once you're fifty, life changes." Uh...and you're telling me this because you think if you don't fire me now I'll still be writing this column in twenty years when I'm fifty? In lieu of pointing out the ludicrousness of his statement, I said, "When I'm fifty, I'm not going to stop having sex...I'm not going to live my life differently just because I've reached a certain age."
Later it occurred to me that while he was offering a trite explanation for his editorial decision, he was probably also projecting resentment about his sex life (which I imagine isn't column-worthy) as well as envy toward my lustful experiences. Just a hunch. Because he's probably over fifty, and I'm not even close.
When the first issue of the New York Press appeared on the street-corners sans "Lust Life", I picked up a copy. I was appalled that there was a new sex column called "Outside the Box" by Kelly Kreth. Why appalled? Number one, when I asked Blum if he was hiring a new sex columnist, he said, "Eventually" and that he didn't have anyone in mind. Number two, more egregiously, was that the new sex columnist had recently written a feature for the paper, and that the title of her new column was the original title of my final column, which was published as "When One Box Closes." Hmmm.
Although I am not one to dwell upon conspiracies in the publishing world, especially as I am relieved of the weekly deadlines and people tell me my writing has soared far above the conservative slosh that is now the New York Press, Ms. Kreth's new column still felt like a slap in the face. Frankly, I am not a fan of her columns. If I had to admire her for something, it would be her boldness in alluding to a poop fetish, but why Blum might consider this less offensive than my flowery descriptions of orgies is beyond me. Unless...well, I'll just say that the thought of Kreth gleefully shitting on Blum while he jerks off screaming, "Yes, yes! I'll give you a column!" has crossed my mind more than once.
Recently, I received this email from a West Coast reader:
You don't know me, so no need to try to recall having met anyone by the name of _____. I live across the country from you....
A friend of mine mentioned your column to me a while back and I read several Lust Life entries. I saw recently that your column has ended. I feel compelled to write to you, and I sense by the way that you write that I can be honest about getting down to why I feel that I want to reach out to you.
So, here goes- you are about my age, have many of the very same skills, and talents - although you are applying them in very different ways on a daily basis. I, too, am unmarried, without children, and lover of theater, writing, art, sensuality, creativity- so you may think that I would be thrilled to find your work. But, no, I (and here is the honesty),- I found myself judging you. And I am generally not a judgemental person, so my awareness popped up immediately- saying "Hey, _____, wtf? Pay attention here."
The judgement reflex did not come from the sex content of your column. Not that at all. It came from this knee-jerk place of being put-off by the amount of attention you call to your self and your work; thinking that you must have quite a hungry Ego. Whether there is truth there or not does not matter at all, what matters is that having any judgement at all is just a projection of my own Ego. Seeing your work- the open and active expression in writing, theater, sexuality - is nearly like seeing a person living a parallel life that a sublimated part of me would be living even more actively. Cheers to you Stephanie! I don't know you at all, but welcome the expression of your human experience, in all it's creative and sensual exploration.
I truly apologize if this email is entirely unwelcome in your life, or oversteps a boundary; and you may be inclined to think something along the lines of, "Fuck off, person I've never met. :)" But, really, if I were in New York, I would come see a show, and say hello.
I am not writing you to tell you that I judged you as my point. I am writing to thank you for doing your work, and for the gift of seeing how quickly the mind can judge someone that is in fact expressing a repressed reflection of Self.
I am grateful for this message. Immediately I thought of Blum and his comment "Once you're fifty, life changes." Looking at the situation from a place of detachment, with the understanding that regardless of other influences (Manhattan Media, advertising, demographics etc.), he was quick to judge in my writing what I perceive as repressed reflections of himself. Whether or not this is true is unimportant. What matters is that I was able to turn this rejection into something positive--the death of my column wasn't about me or my writing; it was about the personal issues of editors at the New York Press and how desperately they are trying to stay connected to alt-weekly life support. Then I looked closely at these people I've never met and thought, "Blum may be an asshole, but he had legitimate reasons for discontinuing my column" and "Kelly Kreth may have poop fetish, but that doesn't make her a horrible person". Although I don't care to discover their redeeming qualities, I am glad that one reader's honesty helped me remember that I am sometimes as quick to judge as the next editor or columnist or lover or human being. In my writing I strive to be open to understanding ways of being and thinking that are not my own, even though I may criticize them.
And now, dear readers, I'm going to argue that I wrote some great columns at the New York Press. I'm grateful for the opportunity to write every week for paid publication. My writing has blossomed along with my lust for words, sex, love, and life. I am glad that the column ended when it did, because in spite of my anger about how it ended, I was ready for a change. No more weekly deadlines (for now) means more time to work on other projects (books, films etc.) and focus on other areas of my life (relationships, pleasure, spirituality). I'm not getting paid for the blog, but I have no word-count, no editors, no deadlines...which means more freedom and that's what Lust Life is about: freedom to live and love as I choose.
Thank you for reading. Here are some thoughts from fans, which I couldn't have written better myself.
Letters Sent to New York Press
No More Lust
Recently, I discovered that Stephanie Sellars column, “Lust Life” was being cancelled by you. How sad! I’m sure other readers as well as myself will miss reading Ms. Sellars column, which mixed both sophistication and sex so well. The NYPress will never be the same again. My condolences.
—Chris C.
Missing Writers Wanted
Congratulations on making a vanilla paper! I have been a reader of the paper for four years and have even given the new New York Press a chance, but this is enough. You think you have done something worthwhile? Where is Dr. Dot (an NYC Dear Abbey), the “Rental Dementia” guy who gave New Yorkers insight into apartment hunting, Ed Koch (a good read half the time) and the sexy girl Stephanie Sellars who always had something important to say about sex, NYC and relationships?
So glad the color escort services are out of the paper but we needed all the columns that I listed above. I was an advertiser in the old New York Press, but my dollars will not be spent with you now that you have destroyed the excellent journalism and fine paper to rival the advertising rag called the Voice. So, no flowers, no hearse, no tombstone = just tears. RIP.
—John Stevens, Manhattan
OurChart.com
The Hookup: In Bad Taste (posted by Trishatchill)
Taste is a funny word. It insinuates that there is some sort of value in one person’s opinion over another’s. New York Press editor David Blum fired sex writer Stephanie Sellars, despite her column being a huge success, and said it was “a matter of taste.” To read the full article, click here: http://www.ourchart.com/node/143772
Emails from Fans
"I wish I could say that I'm surprised, but it seems that this guy has
SOMETHING against all forms of sex!!! A real prurient asshole. I do intend to write a letter, since really they'll be nothing worth reading the NYP for so long as he continues to excise every form of sex. I've book-marked your new blog page."
"Ciao stephanie, i think that you should be proud that they fired you. the paper was becoming a piece of shit and you cannot write for such bastards ... !! Brava! Go on
on your writing without them."
"I can't believe this Stephanie.....I loved your pieces....just read the burning man piece......awesome.!!!!!!! sorry to hear the news....NY PRESS is crazy ....."
"I'm sooooo sorry to hear this! When we caught wind of the paper being
bought up by conservative shit-kickers, Adam and I worried they
wouldn't keep you on. But their rejection is just a testament to how
balls-out your writing is. And you've got a great attitude - just
keep working on that book and fuck anyone who can't handle your style!"
"First of all, wanted to write you to tell you that Lust
Life was the first thing I'd turn to every time I picked up the NYPress. Loved reading about your trysts and adventures. Secondly, wanted to write to tell you I haven't read or picked up the NYPress since I got your e-mail, saying the article was canceled. Really loved the work you were doing and the NYPress is nuts to not realize what an asset they had."
"At least you got to write a final column! That is the one thing I
found totally unforgivable about my firing, cause I never would've
ended on the note I did. I'm sure many more things will be headed your
way." Rachel Kramer Bussel
P.S.
http://gawker.com/341655/nypress-fires-second-sex-columnist-in-four-months
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Merry Solstice!
What better way to spend the longest night of the year than to cuddle up with your friends and lovers and sing pagan songs? Here are my revised versions of a couple of popular Christmas songs. Enjoy...
SWINGING AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE
Swinging around the Christmas Tree
at the Christmas play party hop
Strap-ons worn where you can see
No horny girl wants to stop
Swinging around the Christmas tree
Let the pagan spirit sing
Later we'll have some pussy pie
and we'll do some fellating
You will get a sentimental feeling
when you hear
voices singing "Let's be poly;
Lick his balls like a big lolly!"
Swinging around the Christmas Tree
Have a happy holiday
Everyone fucking merrily
In a new, old-fashioned way!
THE TWELVE DAYS OF SOLSTICE
On the first day of Solstice, my true love gave to me…
A peacock in a fig tree
On the second day...two rubber gloves
On the third day...three French men
On the fourth day...four calling girls
On the fifth day...five gold cock rings
On the sixth day...six chicks a-laying
On the seventh day...seven sperm a-swimming
On the eighth day...eight maids a-milking
On the ninth day...nine fairies dancing
On the tenth day...ten Toms a-peeping
On the eleventh day...eleven pipers pumping
On the twelfth day...twelve lovers coming
SWINGING AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE
Swinging around the Christmas Tree
at the Christmas play party hop
Strap-ons worn where you can see
No horny girl wants to stop
Swinging around the Christmas tree
Let the pagan spirit sing
Later we'll have some pussy pie
and we'll do some fellating
You will get a sentimental feeling
when you hear
voices singing "Let's be poly;
Lick his balls like a big lolly!"
Swinging around the Christmas Tree
Have a happy holiday
Everyone fucking merrily
In a new, old-fashioned way!
THE TWELVE DAYS OF SOLSTICE
On the first day of Solstice, my true love gave to me…
A peacock in a fig tree
On the second day...two rubber gloves
On the third day...three French men
On the fourth day...four calling girls
On the fifth day...five gold cock rings
On the sixth day...six chicks a-laying
On the seventh day...seven sperm a-swimming
On the eighth day...eight maids a-milking
On the ninth day...nine fairies dancing
On the tenth day...ten Toms a-peeping
On the eleventh day...eleven pipers pumping
On the twelfth day...twelve lovers coming
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A Strange Titillation
He broke our agreement. Charlie and I agreed that he would have a date with my friend Athena on a Sunday night while I was on a two-day writers retreat with the Princess Slut. We discussed every boundary, scoured every possible area of misunderstanding, smoothed over every foreseen wrinkle, or so it seemed. He assumed I would be royally entertained in the arms of the Princess Slut all of two nights. It turned out she was staying only one night, and we were both too exhausted for sex the first night. I felt safe spooning her in Montauk, knowing that my love was playing with my goddess friend back in Manhattan. I trusted them both--no need to escape into wild sex to distract myself.
I returned to the city content with the fire of creative productivity and the buzz of female bonding. I listened to my love relate his date, sexual summary included. I felt only tiny twinges of jealousy, until Sunday blended to Monday and one date extended into two nights of pleasure. (The agreement was for one date, not two, nor one and a half). It was challenging enough that he stayed overnight at her place. The fact that he went back for more on Monday was a slap in my crotch.
But that's not the point of this story. I'll just say we worked through the silence, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the assumptions. All was well again by the next morning. At least all was well between us. I still felt strange about Athena. She was hosting a play party that Charlie and I were planning on attending. On that day she told me over the phone that she could fall in love with Charlie. Naturally, I was wary. Would they exchange knowing glances behind my back? Would I feel jealous, even though Athena made it clear that she was backing off?
During the round robin massage portion of the party, Athena asked me if Charlie could be in her group. I thought it over and got back to her a few minutes later with a yes. Yes, I would give her that small pleasure, because she is my friend and I want everyone to be in harmony. Harmonious intentions notwithstanding...although the massage was strictly therapeutic and non-sexual, I couldn't help glancing over at the next table to see how they handled each other. His hand is kneading her flesh rather close to her pussy...
It's strange watching your lover interact with someone you know he has fucked. It would have been excruciating if he had lied and cheated. (Can you believe I've never been cheated on?!) But to give him my blessing to be with a woman I know and like...and then see them together afterward, that is strange. I can't say that I felt jealous. Nor can I say that I was thrilled for them. Instead, I was titillated by the mystery of what they shared. I will never know how he appeared before he penetrated her, or what things she said to him when they kissed. Did he cock his head and flash her his devilishly seductive grin just as he pushed her onto the bed? Did he moan with pleasure at the moment she surrounded his plush head with her lips? Did he moan in the same way he moans for me--surrendering to the ecstasy of a long-awaited offering? There are no answers to these questions, even if I were to ask them. Even if he were to tell me, "I looked at her like this, and then she laughed with girlish delight when she grabbed my rock-hard cock..." I still wouldn't know exactly what they looked like, exactly how they felt. I would never feel the energy that stirred between them during each moment of their one-on-one experience. I'd rather live with the mystery of these intimate details than hear them distilled through inadequate words, wasted words that may sting all the more for their inadequacy.
Yet as I watched him massaging her thighs with knowing hands, I chaffed with the thought that her body is familiar to him. Maybe I was a little jealous after all, jealous of his knowingness--that he knows her crevices and how to make them sing. I did not yet know her in this way.
And I didn't expect to get to know her that evening. I imagined that it would be too weird, whether it would be her and me or the three of us together. But when she expressed her desire to be passive with us, to wear a blindfold while we played doctor and nurse, I couldn't resist. I surprised myself with my willingness.
***
Although Dr. Bigcock has more credentials, we worked together as a team to treat our patient Athena. With his medical expertise and my intuition, we not only found the cause of her malaise, but successfully treated her using the most advanced techniques. I took her temperature, checked her vitals, examined her mouth and genitals while Dr. Bigcock stood back, taking note of symptoms and assessing the patient's reactions. As he mentored me all through nursing school, he fully trusts my capabilities as a healer, so much so that he lets me take charge--especially in this case. Athena responded successfully to my treatments; insertion of the red vaginal probe was smooth and effective, while the doctor's rapid manual vibrational therapy worked wonders. The treatment was so successful that the patient covered her face with a pillow (to muffle her convalescent screams). After Athena was released, Dr. Bigcock laid down to rest and receive his own special treatment from me, well-deserved after such a challenging case. Athena returned shortly for a follow-up appointment, and it was obvious that her symptoms had cleared and she was once again fully functioning in a state of optimal health.
History tells us that "clinical" stimulation cures a woman suffering from hysteria. But how do you heal a broken V? Dr. Bigcock and I agree: turn it into a triangle and thank her in the morning.
I returned to the city content with the fire of creative productivity and the buzz of female bonding. I listened to my love relate his date, sexual summary included. I felt only tiny twinges of jealousy, until Sunday blended to Monday and one date extended into two nights of pleasure. (The agreement was for one date, not two, nor one and a half). It was challenging enough that he stayed overnight at her place. The fact that he went back for more on Monday was a slap in my crotch.
But that's not the point of this story. I'll just say we worked through the silence, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the assumptions. All was well again by the next morning. At least all was well between us. I still felt strange about Athena. She was hosting a play party that Charlie and I were planning on attending. On that day she told me over the phone that she could fall in love with Charlie. Naturally, I was wary. Would they exchange knowing glances behind my back? Would I feel jealous, even though Athena made it clear that she was backing off?
During the round robin massage portion of the party, Athena asked me if Charlie could be in her group. I thought it over and got back to her a few minutes later with a yes. Yes, I would give her that small pleasure, because she is my friend and I want everyone to be in harmony. Harmonious intentions notwithstanding...although the massage was strictly therapeutic and non-sexual, I couldn't help glancing over at the next table to see how they handled each other. His hand is kneading her flesh rather close to her pussy...
It's strange watching your lover interact with someone you know he has fucked. It would have been excruciating if he had lied and cheated. (Can you believe I've never been cheated on?!) But to give him my blessing to be with a woman I know and like...and then see them together afterward, that is strange. I can't say that I felt jealous. Nor can I say that I was thrilled for them. Instead, I was titillated by the mystery of what they shared. I will never know how he appeared before he penetrated her, or what things she said to him when they kissed. Did he cock his head and flash her his devilishly seductive grin just as he pushed her onto the bed? Did he moan with pleasure at the moment she surrounded his plush head with her lips? Did he moan in the same way he moans for me--surrendering to the ecstasy of a long-awaited offering? There are no answers to these questions, even if I were to ask them. Even if he were to tell me, "I looked at her like this, and then she laughed with girlish delight when she grabbed my rock-hard cock..." I still wouldn't know exactly what they looked like, exactly how they felt. I would never feel the energy that stirred between them during each moment of their one-on-one experience. I'd rather live with the mystery of these intimate details than hear them distilled through inadequate words, wasted words that may sting all the more for their inadequacy.
Yet as I watched him massaging her thighs with knowing hands, I chaffed with the thought that her body is familiar to him. Maybe I was a little jealous after all, jealous of his knowingness--that he knows her crevices and how to make them sing. I did not yet know her in this way.
And I didn't expect to get to know her that evening. I imagined that it would be too weird, whether it would be her and me or the three of us together. But when she expressed her desire to be passive with us, to wear a blindfold while we played doctor and nurse, I couldn't resist. I surprised myself with my willingness.
***
Although Dr. Bigcock has more credentials, we worked together as a team to treat our patient Athena. With his medical expertise and my intuition, we not only found the cause of her malaise, but successfully treated her using the most advanced techniques. I took her temperature, checked her vitals, examined her mouth and genitals while Dr. Bigcock stood back, taking note of symptoms and assessing the patient's reactions. As he mentored me all through nursing school, he fully trusts my capabilities as a healer, so much so that he lets me take charge--especially in this case. Athena responded successfully to my treatments; insertion of the red vaginal probe was smooth and effective, while the doctor's rapid manual vibrational therapy worked wonders. The treatment was so successful that the patient covered her face with a pillow (to muffle her convalescent screams). After Athena was released, Dr. Bigcock laid down to rest and receive his own special treatment from me, well-deserved after such a challenging case. Athena returned shortly for a follow-up appointment, and it was obvious that her symptoms had cleared and she was once again fully functioning in a state of optimal health.
History tells us that "clinical" stimulation cures a woman suffering from hysteria. But how do you heal a broken V? Dr. Bigcock and I agree: turn it into a triangle and thank her in the morning.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Old Flame, New Love
There's only one excuse for falling behind with this blog: falling in love. Actually, the fall began several months ago. I loved him, but he was still entrenched in a lustless marriage. He loved me, but I was not revealing my whole self to him. We loved each other through walls painted with pretty pictures of hot sex. Sometimes I wanted to peel off those pictures, throw them in his face, and leave him to his marital counseling. Instead I gave him compassion. So I peeled off bits of the pretty pictures for nearly a year while distracting myself with other lovers.
In my final column for New York Press, I wrote that this lover--I'll call him Charlie, and I rediscovered our joy together at a film festival. Yet the questions remained. Would he ever have sex with his wife again? How many more months would he work on his marriage? How much longer would I put up with the situation? Even if his marriage were to end, would anything change between us? I wasn't even sure we were compatible enough to sustain a passionate, intimate, soul-connected relationship. When an undeniable obstacle is present in a relationship (e.g. one person is stuck in a marriage), the mind tends to create other obstacles to justify the imbalance.
And the heart tends to look elsewhere. At another film festival, I met a guy (with a funny name) who intoxicated me with an openness and a depth recalling the mysterious layers of my first love. Then while I was at a writing retreat in Vermont, Charlie called to tell me that he was done with his marriage. I was genuinely happy for him, but what did it mean for us? Our relationship had improved during the film festival. But now that the wall was down, would we grow closer? This change came at a time when I was questioning polyamory and falling for someone else--the guy with the funny name, a.k.a. Mr. Monogamous.
Crushing passion deluded me into believing that Mr. Monogamous and I would merge our ideals into a dynamic fusion. I would either abandon my libertine lifestyle for the innocent bliss of monogamy or seduce him into a compromised version of polyamory. Either way, we would be passionately in love. But I was meowing up the wrong cock.
He was too much of a beginner. Intrigued, but not curious enough. I thought I could give up polyamory and sex parties for a chance at the perfect love...WHAT WAS I THINKING? I can never go back. I will never be twenty again. Once you taste the delights of group sex, especially when it lives within an integrity-minded community of sexy people who become your friends, your supporters, your lovers, your family, you cannot go back to a vanilla life. As heartbreaking as it was when he pulled away from me, I am so grateful now that he did. If he hadn't, I might not have seen the perfection of the relationship right in front of me...
A week after Charlie told me he was done with his marriage, he told his newly-ex wife about us. After a year of his living in fear that she would be crushed by this knowledge, and my living with the burden of being denied for the sake of another, she wasn't surprised. Not only that, she was totally okay with it.
So here we are, Charlie and me, completely free with each other for the first time in a year! Within hours of his disclosure, energy began to shift between us. My icy airs dissolved as his beastly lust softened. Restrained kisses melted into sensual exchanges of loving lips. His cock, which used to be painfully large, was now beautifully endowed, sliding inside me with lubricious ease. Our mutual climax propelled us to a higher plane of ecstatic love. Transcendentally moved, we looked at each other with new eyes.
I've experienced a similar transformation in previous relationships, after a period of separation, or following a confession of repressed information or emotion. Time apart often realigns bonded lovers who find themselves in disharmony. A positive disclosure has the same effect as a reunion; the release of tension breaks down the dam of disconnect, allowing pure love to flow through, resulting in a blissful balance of familiarity and newness. Yet those previous experiences, as intense as they were, involved lovers who either didn't know me well enough, or didn't see me for who I am.
Enter Charlie. I no longer push him away in annoyance or perform fellatio with a sense of obligation. I no longer delay returning his phone calls or ignore his emails. How interesting that it no longer seems like he calls too much! Are his kisses truly sweeter or is it only my perception that has changed? Probably a combination of both. He told me once, "I don't think I could domesticate with you." I didn't see that happening either. Yet he's been living with me for the past couple of months--a temporary situation until he moves in with a friend. Our cohabitation couldn't be more harmonious. And I couldn't be more thrilled...
Of course! After a year of experience together, I can relinquish my role as sex ambassador. Now he's at a place in his life where he has the freedom and desire to take his exploration further...with me as his partner in crime. Arrest me please, darling. This is only the beginning.
In my final column for New York Press, I wrote that this lover--I'll call him Charlie, and I rediscovered our joy together at a film festival. Yet the questions remained. Would he ever have sex with his wife again? How many more months would he work on his marriage? How much longer would I put up with the situation? Even if his marriage were to end, would anything change between us? I wasn't even sure we were compatible enough to sustain a passionate, intimate, soul-connected relationship. When an undeniable obstacle is present in a relationship (e.g. one person is stuck in a marriage), the mind tends to create other obstacles to justify the imbalance.
And the heart tends to look elsewhere. At another film festival, I met a guy (with a funny name) who intoxicated me with an openness and a depth recalling the mysterious layers of my first love. Then while I was at a writing retreat in Vermont, Charlie called to tell me that he was done with his marriage. I was genuinely happy for him, but what did it mean for us? Our relationship had improved during the film festival. But now that the wall was down, would we grow closer? This change came at a time when I was questioning polyamory and falling for someone else--the guy with the funny name, a.k.a. Mr. Monogamous.
Crushing passion deluded me into believing that Mr. Monogamous and I would merge our ideals into a dynamic fusion. I would either abandon my libertine lifestyle for the innocent bliss of monogamy or seduce him into a compromised version of polyamory. Either way, we would be passionately in love. But I was meowing up the wrong cock.
He was too much of a beginner. Intrigued, but not curious enough. I thought I could give up polyamory and sex parties for a chance at the perfect love...WHAT WAS I THINKING? I can never go back. I will never be twenty again. Once you taste the delights of group sex, especially when it lives within an integrity-minded community of sexy people who become your friends, your supporters, your lovers, your family, you cannot go back to a vanilla life. As heartbreaking as it was when he pulled away from me, I am so grateful now that he did. If he hadn't, I might not have seen the perfection of the relationship right in front of me...
A week after Charlie told me he was done with his marriage, he told his newly-ex wife about us. After a year of his living in fear that she would be crushed by this knowledge, and my living with the burden of being denied for the sake of another, she wasn't surprised. Not only that, she was totally okay with it.
So here we are, Charlie and me, completely free with each other for the first time in a year! Within hours of his disclosure, energy began to shift between us. My icy airs dissolved as his beastly lust softened. Restrained kisses melted into sensual exchanges of loving lips. His cock, which used to be painfully large, was now beautifully endowed, sliding inside me with lubricious ease. Our mutual climax propelled us to a higher plane of ecstatic love. Transcendentally moved, we looked at each other with new eyes.
I've experienced a similar transformation in previous relationships, after a period of separation, or following a confession of repressed information or emotion. Time apart often realigns bonded lovers who find themselves in disharmony. A positive disclosure has the same effect as a reunion; the release of tension breaks down the dam of disconnect, allowing pure love to flow through, resulting in a blissful balance of familiarity and newness. Yet those previous experiences, as intense as they were, involved lovers who either didn't know me well enough, or didn't see me for who I am.
Enter Charlie. I no longer push him away in annoyance or perform fellatio with a sense of obligation. I no longer delay returning his phone calls or ignore his emails. How interesting that it no longer seems like he calls too much! Are his kisses truly sweeter or is it only my perception that has changed? Probably a combination of both. He told me once, "I don't think I could domesticate with you." I didn't see that happening either. Yet he's been living with me for the past couple of months--a temporary situation until he moves in with a friend. Our cohabitation couldn't be more harmonious. And I couldn't be more thrilled...
Of course! After a year of experience together, I can relinquish my role as sex ambassador. Now he's at a place in his life where he has the freedom and desire to take his exploration further...with me as his partner in crime. Arrest me please, darling. This is only the beginning.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A Week in the Life of Lust
SUNDAY: Play-party brunch in friend's apartment. Caramel French toast, mimosas, and a bowl of condoms. During the "Welcome Circle", I introduced myself as Ms. Sellars. "I'm here to teach some lessons, hand out permission slips (Kinky Sex Coupons), and discipline unruly students." Some of the guests who had seen me as the naughty schoolgirl two nights prior snickered and winked at my rapid graduation to sexy schoolteacher. When it was the Princess Slut's turn to speak, she expressed her desire to be held in detention.
She wore a leash around her neck. I held her taut on all fours as she allowed me to demonstrate the usage of the medieval Russian fur flogger she brought into class for her oral presentation. There was a minor interruption when I had to address another student who was wearing bright orange panties with a black bra (against school uniform regulations). Miss Slut graciously resumed her performance and proved to be a good student after all. I gave her an A.
A hot British girl with blue hair licked my pussy for an hour. I didn't come. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I already had three orgasms courtesy of Mr. Hitachi. My pussy was extremely sore after Friday night's teenage regression and a full day of lovemaking on Saturday.
I was going to share a cab with Princess and royal company to attend the open house party at Club Tantra but as they were headed toward the door, Ms. Blue was still licking my pussy. What a dilemma.
And what a party! Far more exciting than the New York Marathon, which was in full swing just a few blocks away. There's nothing like hearing cheers when you're in the middle of an orgy. What do those runners have to show for it anyway? We've trained for years to do what we do. It's about time we got some recognition!
I told Princess and her subjects that I would meet them there. After Ms. Blue lifted her head for the last time, I convinced her to come with me to Club Tantra. In the cab, she showed me photos of herself on her cell phone. There she was--red stripes and welts all over her naked body in a sexy pose. She likes it rough.
To be continued...
She wore a leash around her neck. I held her taut on all fours as she allowed me to demonstrate the usage of the medieval Russian fur flogger she brought into class for her oral presentation. There was a minor interruption when I had to address another student who was wearing bright orange panties with a black bra (against school uniform regulations). Miss Slut graciously resumed her performance and proved to be a good student after all. I gave her an A.
A hot British girl with blue hair licked my pussy for an hour. I didn't come. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I already had three orgasms courtesy of Mr. Hitachi. My pussy was extremely sore after Friday night's teenage regression and a full day of lovemaking on Saturday.
I was going to share a cab with Princess and royal company to attend the open house party at Club Tantra but as they were headed toward the door, Ms. Blue was still licking my pussy. What a dilemma.
And what a party! Far more exciting than the New York Marathon, which was in full swing just a few blocks away. There's nothing like hearing cheers when you're in the middle of an orgy. What do those runners have to show for it anyway? We've trained for years to do what we do. It's about time we got some recognition!
I told Princess and her subjects that I would meet them there. After Ms. Blue lifted her head for the last time, I convinced her to come with me to Club Tantra. In the cab, she showed me photos of herself on her cell phone. There she was--red stripes and welts all over her naked body in a sexy pose. She likes it rough.
To be continued...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Laundry and Blow-Jobs
Last night I gave my lover a homecoming blow-job in the laundry room.
I returned from the grand opening of Club Tantra to find him shirtless on my living room floor, doing leg-lifts to Peggy Lee. The sultry music begged for a strip-tease, which I fell into like a jazz singer who finds a scat outside the influence of preparatory thought. I danced around and seductively slipped off my jeans to reveal my retro pin-up lingerie. Then I straddled him while still standing, kissed and teased and shimmied over him till he was squealing with excitement, got up, grabbed my little coin purse of quarters, went to the door and said, "I'll be right back. I need to do my laundry."
I didn't put my jeans back on.
He laughed then watched me with a stunned look on his face as I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. As I was about to step into the elevator, my apartment door opened, revealing him looking rather incredulous.
When he realized I was seriously going to the basement in my lingerie, he followed me wearing sweatpants and an enormous erection.
Sex in the laundry room is hot! The lighting may be terrible, but it's private and warm and erotically confining. If you ever try this in an apartment building, I recommend that you play during the dryer cycle. There's no need to muffle your moans because the sound of the machine will drown out most other noise. (I'm not sure about orgasmic screams). And if you sit on a machine while it is running, I imagine you'll feel some nice vibrations. Unfortunately, the machines in my building are front-loading, so we had to settle for the little table in the corner.
The exhibitionist in me was disappointed that nobody else was doing laundry that night. How amusing it would have been if a neighbor had caught us in the middle of the spin cycle! Or in the elevator, with my lingerie and cum mustache and his "I just got great head" look! Oh well, the memory is just as good the way it is.
And with that memory, laundry will never be a chore again.
I returned from the grand opening of Club Tantra to find him shirtless on my living room floor, doing leg-lifts to Peggy Lee. The sultry music begged for a strip-tease, which I fell into like a jazz singer who finds a scat outside the influence of preparatory thought. I danced around and seductively slipped off my jeans to reveal my retro pin-up lingerie. Then I straddled him while still standing, kissed and teased and shimmied over him till he was squealing with excitement, got up, grabbed my little coin purse of quarters, went to the door and said, "I'll be right back. I need to do my laundry."
I didn't put my jeans back on.
He laughed then watched me with a stunned look on his face as I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. As I was about to step into the elevator, my apartment door opened, revealing him looking rather incredulous.
When he realized I was seriously going to the basement in my lingerie, he followed me wearing sweatpants and an enormous erection.
Sex in the laundry room is hot! The lighting may be terrible, but it's private and warm and erotically confining. If you ever try this in an apartment building, I recommend that you play during the dryer cycle. There's no need to muffle your moans because the sound of the machine will drown out most other noise. (I'm not sure about orgasmic screams). And if you sit on a machine while it is running, I imagine you'll feel some nice vibrations. Unfortunately, the machines in my building are front-loading, so we had to settle for the little table in the corner.
The exhibitionist in me was disappointed that nobody else was doing laundry that night. How amusing it would have been if a neighbor had caught us in the middle of the spin cycle! Or in the elevator, with my lingerie and cum mustache and his "I just got great head" look! Oh well, the memory is just as good the way it is.
And with that memory, laundry will never be a chore again.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Naughty Schoolgirl Reformed
Miss Stephanie Sellars,
Let this letter confirm that you have completed your detention and remedial work on Friday, November 2nd. You should be very thankful and indebted to our amazing teaching staff, Mr. Krass, within the Perverted Parochial School System. Were it not for their dedication and guidance, your situation would be far more grave. Perhaps even calling for private sessions with the Chancellor himself.
At this time, I deem it unnecessary to inform your parents of your unbecoming behaviour.
However, you are on notice that any future infractions may result in your parents being informed of your tartiness or Mr. Krass referring you to the Chancellor's office.
Sincerely,
Chancellor Morpheus
DISCLAIMER: If you think I'm really in tenth grade, you shouldn't be reading this. Furthermore, if you believe this account is meant to promote sexual behavior between teenage students and their teachers, I'm going to call your parents. Finally, although this is a fantasy role-play, it is not fiction. My "teachers" will vouch for the truth of the following events...
It began when I ran into Mr. Crane one crisp autumn afternoon. I was on my way to field hockey practice. I've always admired him, ever since we met at summer camp where he was teaching tennis. Although he's a lot older than me, I felt connected to him from the moment we met. He has a very direct way of communicating--a quality that eludes the boys of my age. Besides, Mr. Crane is pretty hot. I caught him looking at me while I was bending down to pick up a hockey ball. He had a serious, penetrating look in his eyes. I said, "Hello, Mr. Crane, where are you going?" He said he was rushing to a meeting with the Board of Education. I suddenly remembered that he was running for City Council...
Mr. Krass jerked me around to face Mr. Crane, whose accusation got me into detention. I had been in detention before, for being late and falling asleep in class, but never for seduction. This was serious. Mr. Crane said I showed him my breasts and invited him to touch them. Then he accused me of turning around, bending over and lifting up my skirt to show him my panties. He brought these purported (SAT word, thank you) actions to the attention of Mr. Krass, my primary teacher. The latter interrogated me in front of Mr. Crane, and when my answers failed to satisfy him, he forced me to demonstrate what I had done with Mr. Crane. Guilty or innocent--it didn't matter. I said I would do anything as long as they didn't tell my parents. Anything but that.
Just when I was bending over to show Mr. Crane my panties, Vice Chancellor Mary walked in. Oh God, not her. Everyone knows she's a kinky lesbian underneath that puritanical spinster exterior. She oversaw my humiliating demonstrations with Mr. Crane--feeling prurient (I'm headed to Princeton) delight, I'm sure, while assisting Mr. Krass in reminding me (as if I already didn't know) how "deviant" I am. Mr. Crane made a big deal about the fact that I was wearing different panties since the last time he had a glimpse of my a--, I mean derriere. As every detail provoked a question, I had to explain that I changed my panties since third period because they were wet.
"Why were they wet?" Mr. Krass asked.
I don't even remember what I said in response because at that point they made me sit down on a chair after handcuffing my hands behind my back.
The interrogation continued.
"Why did you seduce Mr. Crane, an upstanding citizen?" Vice Chancellor Mary demanded.
I couldn't hold back any longer. "Because he's running for City Council against my father and I don't want him to win!"
I think they misunderstood. My father has been on City Council for years, voting for the taxes that keep Perverted Parochial in a state of moral hypocrisy. I had a feeling Mr. Crane would be on the other side. Truthfully, I wanted my father to lose, and that's what I meant, but the pressure of the situation affected my expression so it sounded like I said the opposite. The confusion agitated Mr. Crane into believing I was setting him up for scandal. I wish I could take it back. Oh, Mr. Crane, don't you see? I want you to win. My wet panties had good intentions.
Before I could explain myself, VC Mary lowered her blouse to prove something. As she glided her breasts across my lips, she spoke about me as if I wasn't there..."I think she's enjoying it too much. I don't know, Mr. Krass, she's a good student, but we can't have this kind of indecency in our school."
"We might have to call her parents," Mr. Krass said.
"No!" I screamed and started to squirm. "Please don't tell my parents! If you tell them, they won't pay for my tuition to Princeton!"
"Shut up and sit down," said Mr. Krass. (Is this the same man that makes me melt in class?)
"She's speaking too much. We have to do something about that flapping mouth of hers," VC Mary said.
So she gagged me with a red scarf.
Now I'm on all fours, facing the wrath of their palms on my derriere. Mr. Crane made quite a brew-ha-ha about my panties--string bikini plaid with rows of lace on the back. "Those bloomers are not part of the school uniform," he said. "Look at that. They barely cover her bottom." You're weren't complaining earlier Mr. Crane!
My butt is flaming. I haven't had a spanking like that since I was like four. No wait, what am I saying! I've never been spanked in my life! It's not such a bad punishment. Even though it hurts, it kind of feels good. Especially when administered by the devastatingly handsome Mr. Krass.
Mr. Krass, besides being a TILF (teacher I'd like to flagellate), is a staunch disciplinarian of utmost meticulousness. Somehow he knew that I had been reading a book about ancient Greek culture and it was recorded in my file along with my "modern France obsession" among other acts of "depravity." He mentioned while torturing me in front of VC Mary and Mr. Crane, that I was caught perusing this censored material (including images of homosexual acts) in the girls' room. Naturally this was an opportunity for him to reinforce the mission statement of Perverted Parochial: "Sex should be only between a man and a woman...a penis and vagina...all other forms of sex are depraved and misguided...blah, blah, blah." As if you wouldn't jump on a guy if the mood was just right, Mr. Krass.
Instead the mood called for some serious demonstrations. They accused me of playing with myself in the girls room. I confessed that I had. I suffered a beating for that--but it would've been worse if I had denied it. They would've called my parents...anything but that! My college education and future financial support were at stake. Not to mention my position on the school paper!
It gets worse. It was clear, according to my file, that I had not only played with myself in the girls' room, but I had played with other girls.
"How do you play with girls?" Mr. Krass asked. "Mary, will you help Stephanie demonstrate exactly what she was doing with the girls?" (At this point I was laying on my back, still handcuffed and gagged.)
But wait...before that, Mr. Krass asked me if I had been with boys. I admitted that I had fooled around with boys, in accordance with school regulations. Then he asked me how many (at least five) and what I did with them! He wasn't satisfied with my answer--making out, second base.
"Second base! What does that mean these days?" Ms. Mary intercepted.
"Tell us exactly what you did with those boys," Mr. Krass said.
He removed the gag so I could speak. "It was behind the bleachers...at the football field...I was hanging out with this guy who's in the marching band...he played the trombone. I like your trombone, I said. I have another one, he said, do you want to see it? So then he took me behind the bleachers and we talked and..."
"And?"
"He kissed me. That's it."
Mr. Crane stepped forward. "They did more than that," he said. "I was there. I was a witness."
"You were spying?" I blurted.
"Shut up!" Mr. Krass said. Another wallop for my bruised bottom. "Mr. Crane, will you assist Stephanie in showing us what she did behind the bleachers?"
I had already been fondling Ms. Mary's pussy with one hand and now the other was forced to touch Mr. Crane's cock. (This school is really into hands-on learning.) The transformation of his cock from flaccid to hard distracted me from the business of my other hand.
"Don't stop!" Ms. Mary belted. "She's enjoying this too much," she said, turning to Mr. Krass. "I don't know...overall, she's a good student, but this behavior is unacceptable. We might have to consider suspension."
"Yes, I think we're going to have to call her parents," Mr. Krass threatened once again.
Just then, Chancellor Morpheus walked in. I nearly peed my naughty little panties! "What's going on here?" He barked.
After Mr. Krass explained the situation, Chancellor Morpheus reminded me of my inferiority with several excruciating squeezes of my nipples. The issue of girls came up again.
Just then Suzanne slinked into the scene. (She's not the brightest student, but definitely one of the sexiest. And her timing couldn't be more impeccable).
Mr. Krass didn't miss a beat. "Did you play with her pussy in the girls room?" he asked me.
As I hesitated, he turned to Suzanne and asked, "What grade are you in?"
"Twelfth grade," she said.
"And you're in tenth grade," he said to me.
"Yes, but she's twenty-two!" I blurted.
So she had to repeat a few grades...she's hot and French and smart enough to act cool in front of her teachers. So cool that when Mr. Krass asked her, "Did she play with your pussy?" She licked her lips and replied with a slow, sophisticated yes.
Bitch! On my stomach again, Chancellor Morpheus exercised his supreme authority upon my welted ass.
"You need to be more prurient!" He blasted.
"Prurient?"
"You know what that means don't you? You're literary."
"Prurient means lascivious...lewd. You want me to be more prurient? That doesn't make sense."
"It's called humor," he said. "We value humor at this fine institution. Isn't that right, Mr. Krass?"
"Yes Chancellor, but let's be serious. Stephanie has been playing with girls...Suzanne here confirms this behavior, and with the boys and that business with Mr. Crane...I think we have no choice but to call her parents and--"
"No! Please not that! I'll do anything! Just don't call my parents!"
"Quiet!" Chancellor Morpheus spanked me so hard I screamed. "You'll do anything?"
"Yes..." I whimpered.
"Yes what?" (spank)
"Yes Chancellor."
"Yes Chancellor?" (spank)
"Yes Chancellor Sir!"
"You know, Chancellor," said Mr. Krass, "What I think Stephanie needs is to learn first-hand what we stand for here, that sex is between a man and a woman only."
"I agree Mr. Krass. I'll leave you to teach her that lesson. I'm going to check on the other classrooms, but if you need assistance don't hesitate to ask."
***
I said I would do anything. Anything to get out of detention and into Princeton. So I took Mr. Krass into my mouth. I was doing alright, until Suzanne slinked around and pulled her pants down right in front of me, her bushy French pussy just inches away from my face. As if that wasn't torture enough...
Mary: "She's distracted. She'd rather be licking Suzanne's pussy."
Krass: "She's not concentrating. This is mediocre cock-sucking at best."
Mary: "She's faltering. She's not even paying attention to your balls."
Krass: "Well, I'm not surprised. She did very poorly on her PSAT's...
Mary: "If she passes this test, we won't have to call her parents."
Then Mr. Krass said to me, "At the rate you're going, you're never getting into Princeton. You'll be lucky if you make it into Devry."
But Mr. Krass, you know I don't test well! I'm creative! I'm going to be a writer! Wouldn't your pussy-licking skills be a little compromised if you had to perform under these circumstances! Maybe if your job were at stake and you had to demonstrate 5-star pussy-licking in front of Chancellor Morpheus to keep it, you'd have a bit more compassion!
At that moment, my biology teacher, Ms. Veginna, came in. Mr. Krass gave her a run-down of the situation. Before I even lifted my head, they were drooling at second base. Teachers have affairs all the time. Big deal. But to actually see it happening! Especially with Mr. Krass! Oh, he has no idea!
I thought it couldn't get any worse. Then Ms. Veginna pointed out all my faults to Mr. Krass. "She's not paying any attention to your balls. She's doing the minimum, no creativity whatsoever."
Mr. Krass then suggested she take over for a while to demonstrate the proper techniques. It would count as a lab credit.
I stepped aside and watched in awe as Ms. Veginna rubbed Mr. Krass's cock in between her massive breasts. I felt very inferior knowing that my A-cup teenage titties could never accomplish that experiment. Then she moved down and started demonstrating Fellatio 101. Mr. Krass encouraged me to get close to her so I could see exactly what she was doing...using her tongue to tease the tip then engulfing it with her mouth while moving up and down--sometimes fast, other times slow. She demonstrated a variety of skills that I absorbed like a sperm-filled sponge.
Ms. Veginna turned the experiment over to me again. I was much more confident now that I had some guidance. Mr. Krass noted my improvement as I relaxed into the sensations of his cock in my mouth and hands.
"I'm enjoying this now, Mr. Krass. I like you. I've always had a crush on you...when I look at you in class, I get so distracted and wet. You think I'm only into girls...it's just that I don't like boys my age. I prefer older men...like you."
Mr. Krass was much kinder to me after that. Honesty often has a way of winning people over, even if the truth is shocking. I also learned that sometimes it takes a painful lesson to really learn something.
Chancellor Morpheus returned and showed his approval. He even gave me permission to write about my experience in the school paper. Ms. Mary praised my performance and Ms. Veginna gave me an A in Biology. Even Mr. Crane expressed admiration for my backhand while he was teaching another misguided student a lesson.
As I continued that afternoon's work with Mr. Krass, Suzanne floated in and watched with a detached air.
"Do you ever plan on graduating?" Mr. Krass asked.
With a snobby nasal exhale and smug smile, she replied, "This school? Why?"
Suzanne may stay at Perverted until she's forty, but I have higher aspirations. Now that I know what pureient means, I'm going to Princeton.
Let this letter confirm that you have completed your detention and remedial work on Friday, November 2nd. You should be very thankful and indebted to our amazing teaching staff, Mr. Krass, within the Perverted Parochial School System. Were it not for their dedication and guidance, your situation would be far more grave. Perhaps even calling for private sessions with the Chancellor himself.
At this time, I deem it unnecessary to inform your parents of your unbecoming behaviour.
However, you are on notice that any future infractions may result in your parents being informed of your tartiness or Mr. Krass referring you to the Chancellor's office.
Sincerely,
Chancellor Morpheus
DISCLAIMER: If you think I'm really in tenth grade, you shouldn't be reading this. Furthermore, if you believe this account is meant to promote sexual behavior between teenage students and their teachers, I'm going to call your parents. Finally, although this is a fantasy role-play, it is not fiction. My "teachers" will vouch for the truth of the following events...
It began when I ran into Mr. Crane one crisp autumn afternoon. I was on my way to field hockey practice. I've always admired him, ever since we met at summer camp where he was teaching tennis. Although he's a lot older than me, I felt connected to him from the moment we met. He has a very direct way of communicating--a quality that eludes the boys of my age. Besides, Mr. Crane is pretty hot. I caught him looking at me while I was bending down to pick up a hockey ball. He had a serious, penetrating look in his eyes. I said, "Hello, Mr. Crane, where are you going?" He said he was rushing to a meeting with the Board of Education. I suddenly remembered that he was running for City Council...
Mr. Krass jerked me around to face Mr. Crane, whose accusation got me into detention. I had been in detention before, for being late and falling asleep in class, but never for seduction. This was serious. Mr. Crane said I showed him my breasts and invited him to touch them. Then he accused me of turning around, bending over and lifting up my skirt to show him my panties. He brought these purported (SAT word, thank you) actions to the attention of Mr. Krass, my primary teacher. The latter interrogated me in front of Mr. Crane, and when my answers failed to satisfy him, he forced me to demonstrate what I had done with Mr. Crane. Guilty or innocent--it didn't matter. I said I would do anything as long as they didn't tell my parents. Anything but that.
Just when I was bending over to show Mr. Crane my panties, Vice Chancellor Mary walked in. Oh God, not her. Everyone knows she's a kinky lesbian underneath that puritanical spinster exterior. She oversaw my humiliating demonstrations with Mr. Crane--feeling prurient (I'm headed to Princeton) delight, I'm sure, while assisting Mr. Krass in reminding me (as if I already didn't know) how "deviant" I am. Mr. Crane made a big deal about the fact that I was wearing different panties since the last time he had a glimpse of my a--, I mean derriere. As every detail provoked a question, I had to explain that I changed my panties since third period because they were wet.
"Why were they wet?" Mr. Krass asked.
I don't even remember what I said in response because at that point they made me sit down on a chair after handcuffing my hands behind my back.
The interrogation continued.
"Why did you seduce Mr. Crane, an upstanding citizen?" Vice Chancellor Mary demanded.
I couldn't hold back any longer. "Because he's running for City Council against my father and I don't want him to win!"
I think they misunderstood. My father has been on City Council for years, voting for the taxes that keep Perverted Parochial in a state of moral hypocrisy. I had a feeling Mr. Crane would be on the other side. Truthfully, I wanted my father to lose, and that's what I meant, but the pressure of the situation affected my expression so it sounded like I said the opposite. The confusion agitated Mr. Crane into believing I was setting him up for scandal. I wish I could take it back. Oh, Mr. Crane, don't you see? I want you to win. My wet panties had good intentions.
Before I could explain myself, VC Mary lowered her blouse to prove something. As she glided her breasts across my lips, she spoke about me as if I wasn't there..."I think she's enjoying it too much. I don't know, Mr. Krass, she's a good student, but we can't have this kind of indecency in our school."
"We might have to call her parents," Mr. Krass said.
"No!" I screamed and started to squirm. "Please don't tell my parents! If you tell them, they won't pay for my tuition to Princeton!"
"Shut up and sit down," said Mr. Krass. (Is this the same man that makes me melt in class?)
"She's speaking too much. We have to do something about that flapping mouth of hers," VC Mary said.
So she gagged me with a red scarf.
Now I'm on all fours, facing the wrath of their palms on my derriere. Mr. Crane made quite a brew-ha-ha about my panties--string bikini plaid with rows of lace on the back. "Those bloomers are not part of the school uniform," he said. "Look at that. They barely cover her bottom." You're weren't complaining earlier Mr. Crane!
My butt is flaming. I haven't had a spanking like that since I was like four. No wait, what am I saying! I've never been spanked in my life! It's not such a bad punishment. Even though it hurts, it kind of feels good. Especially when administered by the devastatingly handsome Mr. Krass.
Mr. Krass, besides being a TILF (teacher I'd like to flagellate), is a staunch disciplinarian of utmost meticulousness. Somehow he knew that I had been reading a book about ancient Greek culture and it was recorded in my file along with my "modern France obsession" among other acts of "depravity." He mentioned while torturing me in front of VC Mary and Mr. Crane, that I was caught perusing this censored material (including images of homosexual acts) in the girls' room. Naturally this was an opportunity for him to reinforce the mission statement of Perverted Parochial: "Sex should be only between a man and a woman...a penis and vagina...all other forms of sex are depraved and misguided...blah, blah, blah." As if you wouldn't jump on a guy if the mood was just right, Mr. Krass.
Instead the mood called for some serious demonstrations. They accused me of playing with myself in the girls room. I confessed that I had. I suffered a beating for that--but it would've been worse if I had denied it. They would've called my parents...anything but that! My college education and future financial support were at stake. Not to mention my position on the school paper!
It gets worse. It was clear, according to my file, that I had not only played with myself in the girls' room, but I had played with other girls.
"How do you play with girls?" Mr. Krass asked. "Mary, will you help Stephanie demonstrate exactly what she was doing with the girls?" (At this point I was laying on my back, still handcuffed and gagged.)
But wait...before that, Mr. Krass asked me if I had been with boys. I admitted that I had fooled around with boys, in accordance with school regulations. Then he asked me how many (at least five) and what I did with them! He wasn't satisfied with my answer--making out, second base.
"Second base! What does that mean these days?" Ms. Mary intercepted.
"Tell us exactly what you did with those boys," Mr. Krass said.
He removed the gag so I could speak. "It was behind the bleachers...at the football field...I was hanging out with this guy who's in the marching band...he played the trombone. I like your trombone, I said. I have another one, he said, do you want to see it? So then he took me behind the bleachers and we talked and..."
"And?"
"He kissed me. That's it."
Mr. Crane stepped forward. "They did more than that," he said. "I was there. I was a witness."
"You were spying?" I blurted.
"Shut up!" Mr. Krass said. Another wallop for my bruised bottom. "Mr. Crane, will you assist Stephanie in showing us what she did behind the bleachers?"
I had already been fondling Ms. Mary's pussy with one hand and now the other was forced to touch Mr. Crane's cock. (This school is really into hands-on learning.) The transformation of his cock from flaccid to hard distracted me from the business of my other hand.
"Don't stop!" Ms. Mary belted. "She's enjoying this too much," she said, turning to Mr. Krass. "I don't know...overall, she's a good student, but this behavior is unacceptable. We might have to consider suspension."
"Yes, I think we're going to have to call her parents," Mr. Krass threatened once again.
Just then, Chancellor Morpheus walked in. I nearly peed my naughty little panties! "What's going on here?" He barked.
After Mr. Krass explained the situation, Chancellor Morpheus reminded me of my inferiority with several excruciating squeezes of my nipples. The issue of girls came up again.
Just then Suzanne slinked into the scene. (She's not the brightest student, but definitely one of the sexiest. And her timing couldn't be more impeccable).
Mr. Krass didn't miss a beat. "Did you play with her pussy in the girls room?" he asked me.
As I hesitated, he turned to Suzanne and asked, "What grade are you in?"
"Twelfth grade," she said.
"And you're in tenth grade," he said to me.
"Yes, but she's twenty-two!" I blurted.
So she had to repeat a few grades...she's hot and French and smart enough to act cool in front of her teachers. So cool that when Mr. Krass asked her, "Did she play with your pussy?" She licked her lips and replied with a slow, sophisticated yes.
Bitch! On my stomach again, Chancellor Morpheus exercised his supreme authority upon my welted ass.
"You need to be more prurient!" He blasted.
"Prurient?"
"You know what that means don't you? You're literary."
"Prurient means lascivious...lewd. You want me to be more prurient? That doesn't make sense."
"It's called humor," he said. "We value humor at this fine institution. Isn't that right, Mr. Krass?"
"Yes Chancellor, but let's be serious. Stephanie has been playing with girls...Suzanne here confirms this behavior, and with the boys and that business with Mr. Crane...I think we have no choice but to call her parents and--"
"No! Please not that! I'll do anything! Just don't call my parents!"
"Quiet!" Chancellor Morpheus spanked me so hard I screamed. "You'll do anything?"
"Yes..." I whimpered.
"Yes what?" (spank)
"Yes Chancellor."
"Yes Chancellor?" (spank)
"Yes Chancellor Sir!"
"You know, Chancellor," said Mr. Krass, "What I think Stephanie needs is to learn first-hand what we stand for here, that sex is between a man and a woman only."
"I agree Mr. Krass. I'll leave you to teach her that lesson. I'm going to check on the other classrooms, but if you need assistance don't hesitate to ask."
***
I said I would do anything. Anything to get out of detention and into Princeton. So I took Mr. Krass into my mouth. I was doing alright, until Suzanne slinked around and pulled her pants down right in front of me, her bushy French pussy just inches away from my face. As if that wasn't torture enough...
Mary: "She's distracted. She'd rather be licking Suzanne's pussy."
Krass: "She's not concentrating. This is mediocre cock-sucking at best."
Mary: "She's faltering. She's not even paying attention to your balls."
Krass: "Well, I'm not surprised. She did very poorly on her PSAT's...
Mary: "If she passes this test, we won't have to call her parents."
Then Mr. Krass said to me, "At the rate you're going, you're never getting into Princeton. You'll be lucky if you make it into Devry."
But Mr. Krass, you know I don't test well! I'm creative! I'm going to be a writer! Wouldn't your pussy-licking skills be a little compromised if you had to perform under these circumstances! Maybe if your job were at stake and you had to demonstrate 5-star pussy-licking in front of Chancellor Morpheus to keep it, you'd have a bit more compassion!
At that moment, my biology teacher, Ms. Veginna, came in. Mr. Krass gave her a run-down of the situation. Before I even lifted my head, they were drooling at second base. Teachers have affairs all the time. Big deal. But to actually see it happening! Especially with Mr. Krass! Oh, he has no idea!
I thought it couldn't get any worse. Then Ms. Veginna pointed out all my faults to Mr. Krass. "She's not paying any attention to your balls. She's doing the minimum, no creativity whatsoever."
Mr. Krass then suggested she take over for a while to demonstrate the proper techniques. It would count as a lab credit.
I stepped aside and watched in awe as Ms. Veginna rubbed Mr. Krass's cock in between her massive breasts. I felt very inferior knowing that my A-cup teenage titties could never accomplish that experiment. Then she moved down and started demonstrating Fellatio 101. Mr. Krass encouraged me to get close to her so I could see exactly what she was doing...using her tongue to tease the tip then engulfing it with her mouth while moving up and down--sometimes fast, other times slow. She demonstrated a variety of skills that I absorbed like a sperm-filled sponge.
Ms. Veginna turned the experiment over to me again. I was much more confident now that I had some guidance. Mr. Krass noted my improvement as I relaxed into the sensations of his cock in my mouth and hands.
"I'm enjoying this now, Mr. Krass. I like you. I've always had a crush on you...when I look at you in class, I get so distracted and wet. You think I'm only into girls...it's just that I don't like boys my age. I prefer older men...like you."
Mr. Krass was much kinder to me after that. Honesty often has a way of winning people over, even if the truth is shocking. I also learned that sometimes it takes a painful lesson to really learn something.
Chancellor Morpheus returned and showed his approval. He even gave me permission to write about my experience in the school paper. Ms. Mary praised my performance and Ms. Veginna gave me an A in Biology. Even Mr. Crane expressed admiration for my backhand while he was teaching another misguided student a lesson.
As I continued that afternoon's work with Mr. Krass, Suzanne floated in and watched with a detached air.
"Do you ever plan on graduating?" Mr. Krass asked.
With a snobby nasal exhale and smug smile, she replied, "This school? Why?"
Suzanne may stay at Perverted until she's forty, but I have higher aspirations. Now that I know what pureient means, I'm going to Princeton.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Elixir of Life
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!
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!
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.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Sexual Starvation
The guy with the funny name doesn't want to have sex with me. Dozens of people would like to have sex with me, and they can't because either I don't have time for them, I'm not choosing them, or they don't know me. Yet he who could have my juices all over his face within seconds of his penetrating gaze is turning me down. Let me add that we had already been fucking for a couple of months.
This is not a complete rejection. He didn't say he doesn't want to date me, or that he doesn't desire me. He just doesn't want to have sex with me. When he first told me this in a nervous rambling of confused logic, I was so thrown off that I temporarily regressed to the self-pitying mentality of a prom-date reject circa 1993. A litany of excuses followed: "There's so much more to life than sex--not that sex isn't enjoyable, it's just not a priority. Something is missing, I feel shitty afterwards, empty. Maybe I don't know you well enough."
These are all valid reasons for wanting to slow down...if he had a pussy. Don't get me wrong--I adore emotionally-liberated men. I'm just not used to a straight man refusing sex from me, or any hot and horny woman for that matter. If he is physically attracted to me, I expect he wants to fuck me, regardless of whether I pay him any attention. If the attraction is mutual, and we connect on many levels (erotically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually), but he does not wish to act on lust, I am one vexed vixen. Unless he is monogamously married / committed to someone else, frightfully religious, ill or paranoid of STD's.
The guy with the funny name is none of the above. Last time I checked, he was passionately into me. "There's fire between us," he said not too long ago. So why the sudden withdrawal?
He who has only had sex within the context of longterm monogamous relationships threw himself into my libertine world for the sake of trying something new, and now he is experiencing emotional backdraft. Apparently the fire of curious desire was depleting the oxygen of his romantic ideals.
So he says he doesn't want to have sex with me. Chaos of impending doom followed initial shock. "Why does it feel like a break-up? What does this mean? You want an old-fashioned courtship? Can we hold hands? I guess we could only meet in public places. But if I see other people, well, I do see other people, and if I'm having sex with them and not you, I'm going to feel closer to them, and consequently I might lose interest in you."
"I know...that's a reality I have to face," he said.
Later that night, he came up to my place to use the bathroom, and we ended up having passionate sex. He slept over, entwined in my perilous arms. The next morning we fucked again like genuine lovers, for old times sake. I refrained from seduction. He couldn't resist his own desire.
We haven't had sex since then. I respected his needs and convinced myself that it might not be such a bad idea to abstain. It could be romantic. I could fantasize that we're living in the 1950's, or that he's my medieval knight aspiring to the purest form of love. We had a few dates and grew closer as he helped me through a recent crisis. I forgot about the sex for a while, and saw the value in his decision. Maybe there is something about getting to know someone before you get to know his body. But he interrupted our sensual flow! Come on, be an optimist. Intentional abstinence can be erotic. Arousing each other with kisses and eye-gazing then refraining from going any further, building up desire and anticipation while space is filled with meaningful mindful connection...think of it as extended foreplay. And if it doesn't work out, I won't be bawling over orgasms never had.
We were progressing nicely, until I read an article: "He's Just Not That Into It" by Em and Lo on Men.Style.com. It was about how men are increasingly rejecting casual sex. I forwarded the article to the guy with the funny name because certain parts resonated with me and I thought he might relate to it on some level, particularly the line: "Putting aside any situation-specific reasons—she's too drunk, she's a stalker, she's got a goiter—some guys are finding they don't like how casual sex makes them feel."
His response was confounding. Despite a few flattering words, it felt bitter and disparaging toward casual sex in a way that negatively reflected onto me. It also had the careless undertones of someone who is drifting away.
I never felt like our sex was casual and I suppose he felt the same, but now it seems that anything but that completely in love soul-connected sex is casual to him. Casual sex means different things to different people. I don't like disconnected sex...so I guess disconnected sex is casual sex for me. And disconnected sex can exist in any context. I'd rather have a one-night stand with someone with whom I feel a really strong lust connection than disconnected sex within a long-term love relationship--(which is worse than a disconnected one-night stand because you can't just forget about it and move on with your life the next day.)
He wrote that casual sex is a "selfish, empty way to live" and that "using people to quench some temporary lust" leaves him cold. Well, I could say that he used me to investigate something he had been curious about. So what? Everyone uses each other. It may as well be for pleasure than for pain. For me, sex is not just about giving. Most of the time it is give and take--an exchange of desire, pleasure, and ultimately love. Other times it's just for the taking. If it's just desire and pleasure, usually it's great. I've also had the experience where it was just pleasure (passively slipping into a sexual situation without much desire for the person), and although that's not my preferred form of sex, part of me still enjoyed it. (I've had this type of one-way sex in long-term relationships as well). In most situations there was no reason to refuse pleasure if someone was willing to give it to me.
Sex is, above all, pleasure wrapped within a biological drive. Of course sharing this biological drive with someone you deeply love is the highest form of sex. But that type of sex is rare. I have slept with dozens and dozens of takers and encountered the highest form of sex only a few times. Most people are lucky to discover it once in a lifetime. Many people never find it. Should they deny themselves the highest form of physical pleasure on account of an elusive feeling? Are they selfish for taking the least of what is offered to them?
Am I selfish for enjoying sex for whatever it's worth, in all its wonderful variety?
But he says I'm different than the rest! I am, but I'm also part of the rest. I don't judge them for using people to quench their temporary lust. I'm no stranger to that motivation.
What is most authentic about the topic in the article is this: "Women, it seems, just aren't used to guys not wanting sex." Especially me. Says "Jeff," a 27-year-old grad student in New York, "We're socially conditioned to feel like pussies if we don't live up to the guys-will-fuck-anything stereotype. And because of this stereotype, women take sexual rejection more personally than men do." This resonated with me as the guy with the funny name doesn't fit the stereotype. And I definitely felt personally rejected when he first expressed his desire to bottle up our sex.
Ironically, we share the same romantic ideals. The difference is that I don't stop eating if I'm not in love with the food.
This is not a complete rejection. He didn't say he doesn't want to date me, or that he doesn't desire me. He just doesn't want to have sex with me. When he first told me this in a nervous rambling of confused logic, I was so thrown off that I temporarily regressed to the self-pitying mentality of a prom-date reject circa 1993. A litany of excuses followed: "There's so much more to life than sex--not that sex isn't enjoyable, it's just not a priority. Something is missing, I feel shitty afterwards, empty. Maybe I don't know you well enough."
These are all valid reasons for wanting to slow down...if he had a pussy. Don't get me wrong--I adore emotionally-liberated men. I'm just not used to a straight man refusing sex from me, or any hot and horny woman for that matter. If he is physically attracted to me, I expect he wants to fuck me, regardless of whether I pay him any attention. If the attraction is mutual, and we connect on many levels (erotically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually), but he does not wish to act on lust, I am one vexed vixen. Unless he is monogamously married / committed to someone else, frightfully religious, ill or paranoid of STD's.
The guy with the funny name is none of the above. Last time I checked, he was passionately into me. "There's fire between us," he said not too long ago. So why the sudden withdrawal?
He who has only had sex within the context of longterm monogamous relationships threw himself into my libertine world for the sake of trying something new, and now he is experiencing emotional backdraft. Apparently the fire of curious desire was depleting the oxygen of his romantic ideals.
So he says he doesn't want to have sex with me. Chaos of impending doom followed initial shock. "Why does it feel like a break-up? What does this mean? You want an old-fashioned courtship? Can we hold hands? I guess we could only meet in public places. But if I see other people, well, I do see other people, and if I'm having sex with them and not you, I'm going to feel closer to them, and consequently I might lose interest in you."
"I know...that's a reality I have to face," he said.
Later that night, he came up to my place to use the bathroom, and we ended up having passionate sex. He slept over, entwined in my perilous arms. The next morning we fucked again like genuine lovers, for old times sake. I refrained from seduction. He couldn't resist his own desire.
We haven't had sex since then. I respected his needs and convinced myself that it might not be such a bad idea to abstain. It could be romantic. I could fantasize that we're living in the 1950's, or that he's my medieval knight aspiring to the purest form of love. We had a few dates and grew closer as he helped me through a recent crisis. I forgot about the sex for a while, and saw the value in his decision. Maybe there is something about getting to know someone before you get to know his body. But he interrupted our sensual flow! Come on, be an optimist. Intentional abstinence can be erotic. Arousing each other with kisses and eye-gazing then refraining from going any further, building up desire and anticipation while space is filled with meaningful mindful connection...think of it as extended foreplay. And if it doesn't work out, I won't be bawling over orgasms never had.
We were progressing nicely, until I read an article: "He's Just Not That Into It" by Em and Lo on Men.Style.com. It was about how men are increasingly rejecting casual sex. I forwarded the article to the guy with the funny name because certain parts resonated with me and I thought he might relate to it on some level, particularly the line: "Putting aside any situation-specific reasons—she's too drunk, she's a stalker, she's got a goiter—some guys are finding they don't like how casual sex makes them feel."
His response was confounding. Despite a few flattering words, it felt bitter and disparaging toward casual sex in a way that negatively reflected onto me. It also had the careless undertones of someone who is drifting away.
I never felt like our sex was casual and I suppose he felt the same, but now it seems that anything but that completely in love soul-connected sex is casual to him. Casual sex means different things to different people. I don't like disconnected sex...so I guess disconnected sex is casual sex for me. And disconnected sex can exist in any context. I'd rather have a one-night stand with someone with whom I feel a really strong lust connection than disconnected sex within a long-term love relationship--(which is worse than a disconnected one-night stand because you can't just forget about it and move on with your life the next day.)
He wrote that casual sex is a "selfish, empty way to live" and that "using people to quench some temporary lust" leaves him cold. Well, I could say that he used me to investigate something he had been curious about. So what? Everyone uses each other. It may as well be for pleasure than for pain. For me, sex is not just about giving. Most of the time it is give and take--an exchange of desire, pleasure, and ultimately love. Other times it's just for the taking. If it's just desire and pleasure, usually it's great. I've also had the experience where it was just pleasure (passively slipping into a sexual situation without much desire for the person), and although that's not my preferred form of sex, part of me still enjoyed it. (I've had this type of one-way sex in long-term relationships as well). In most situations there was no reason to refuse pleasure if someone was willing to give it to me.
Sex is, above all, pleasure wrapped within a biological drive. Of course sharing this biological drive with someone you deeply love is the highest form of sex. But that type of sex is rare. I have slept with dozens and dozens of takers and encountered the highest form of sex only a few times. Most people are lucky to discover it once in a lifetime. Many people never find it. Should they deny themselves the highest form of physical pleasure on account of an elusive feeling? Are they selfish for taking the least of what is offered to them?
Am I selfish for enjoying sex for whatever it's worth, in all its wonderful variety?
But he says I'm different than the rest! I am, but I'm also part of the rest. I don't judge them for using people to quench their temporary lust. I'm no stranger to that motivation.
What is most authentic about the topic in the article is this: "Women, it seems, just aren't used to guys not wanting sex." Especially me. Says "Jeff," a 27-year-old grad student in New York, "We're socially conditioned to feel like pussies if we don't live up to the guys-will-fuck-anything stereotype. And because of this stereotype, women take sexual rejection more personally than men do." This resonated with me as the guy with the funny name doesn't fit the stereotype. And I definitely felt personally rejected when he first expressed his desire to bottle up our sex.
Ironically, we share the same romantic ideals. The difference is that I don't stop eating if I'm not in love with the food.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Death of a Sex Column Part 1
I saw it coming. It was as nebulously foreboding as an impending break-up, triggered by a single practical change. You know how it is: something's not right, but you're not sure so you convince yourself that they still love you and therefore stay where you are. No, I will not quit, you say to yourself, out of fear of being dumped. I will not race to the end without any specific reason for doing so, or just to avoid a broken heart. And yet your gut is burning with intuition.
The single practical change in this case was when Manhattan Media bought the New York Press. I was not alarmed by this news; actually, my first thought was that I would possibly get paid more than the paltry $100 per column, and if not that, at least get paid on time. (New York Press is notorious for dysfunctional payroll...once I deposited a check that bounced and it took them months to reimburse me for the $10 fee my bank charged).
I visited Jerry Portwood in his new sanitized office then met with the new publisher, Tom Allon, who had nothing but positive things to say about my column. Jerry had prepped me with the news that I was one of the few writers they were keeping. Not only were they keeping me, they didn't want to change a thing. Allon even wanted me to get more involved with the NY Press website; we discussed cultivating reader interaction through sex polls and a blog. Other than the elimination of the sex ads in the back of the paper (I admit I miss those girly Asian asses and She-Male crotch shots) and a few formatting changes, the New York Press was relatively intact after changing ownership. But the offices were too clean, too khaki. And the letters on the wall in the lobby spelling "New York Press" blended eerily with the names of the other publications: The West Side Spirit, New York Family, Our Town.
Everything was cool for about a month. My column, as usual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had completed a "Lust Life" book proposal, and was prepared to write this column every week for at least another year, riding the waves of my inevitable book deal until a few months after publication, when I would appropriately, nobly resign.
That seemed to be the ideal progression, as long as the paper remained an edgy backdrop for my uncompromising style. But I, as well as you readers of the New York Press, saw that "edgy" started to lose its edge when the paper made the ungraceful transition from being "New York's Premier Alternative Weekly" to "New York's Independent Weekly Newspaper."
"Independent." What is independent? Someone or something independent is not influenced by outside authority, opinion, jurisdiction, or corporate sponsorship. I am independent.
As I was independently travelling to Washington D.C. for an independent film festival, I opened that week's "independent" issue of the New York Press (Sept. 12-18) to my independent column, and was horrified that a NYU Cancer Institute ad was placed right in the middle of "Lust Life." A conservative woman posed purse-lipped with the quote "I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life." Now, I have nothing against reaching out to the cancer-stricken population, but why was this ad stuck in the middle of a column about sex at Burning Man? Maybe it had something to do with the title "Burning Desire" (which was the editor's invention after my original title "Erotic Desert"). Mmmm. Burning Desire. That's hot. And that reminds me of my burning intestines. Oh God, maybe I have colon cancer. Now I can't finish reading Lust Life because I'm worried I might have colon cancer. I better call the number in this cancer ad before it's too late. Hey, I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life either--that's why I get colonics.
Wait--there's more! On the editorially devoid page opposite Lust Life / Colon Cancer, were ads for five NYC hospitals, The Conservative Synagogue of Fifth Avenue Family Programs and Tribeca Spa of Traquility (their typo, not mine). Still slackjawed, I turned a few pages and landed upon "Hudson Valley Happenings"--a 10 PAGE promotional guide to regional fall festivities such as organ recitals, Dutch Weekend, Family Day at Constitution Island, and Family Fun Events at Hudson Valley Center for Contemporary Art. It's not that I wouldn't go to Hudson Valley for a pleasant weekend of fucking in the foliage. What disgusted me about these changes was how incongruent they were in relation to my column and New York Press as a whole. New York Press wasn't founded on family values. It was founded on the enlightened cynicism of young liberal urbanites that wouldn't read The West Side Spirit if it was the last free paper in New York.
My lover, who was sitting next to me in the bus, said, "This is not the New York Press. This is something else." We discussed my position in this morass of conservative change. He suggested that the Village Voice might be a better place for my column. For a few moments, the current Voice seemed significantly more appealing than the family-fun filled pages in my hands. Then I remembered that not too long ago, sex writer Rachel Kramer Bussel had her "Lusty Lady" column unceremoniously booted from the other NY alternative paper that used to be cool. "Maybe it's better to stay where I am for now," I said. "The new publisher kept my column; that must mean something."
I saw it coming. After the film festival, I went to an artists community in Vermont to work on my book for two weeks. Alternative Newspaper Suffers a Long, Slow Death, I wrote as a mock headline in a piece about my romantic adventures in DC.
I saw it coming. While in Vermont, I googled myself and found some unflattering comments about me in response to a post on Gawker regarding an offensive rejection letter sent to an aspiring sex columnist for pitching a new column to the Village Voice.
I saw it coming. A couple of days before I finished my column for that week, I received an email from new NY Press editor-in-chief David Blum, saying, "Please call me." I didn't call right away.
I saw it coming. After I emailed my column to Blum and Portwood, I received another email from Blum, saying "Please call me tomorrow morning." I was going to start the column for the following week so I could get it out of the way and focus on my book, but decided to wait until after the conversation with Blum. As if what he had to say would influence my next column. I recalled the comments he inserted into the first column I sent him two weeks earlier (Burning Desire)--he sent the original column back to me with comments like "this is too fantastical to believe" and "what does this mean?" I admit the column I sent was a bit under par--it was late and I was still recovering from the surreal environment of Burning Man. However, in my year and a half of writing this column, I never had a column emailed back to me (occasionally the editor would email me a question or confirm a minor change with me, but this was the first time a column was returned to me with major criticism inserted in capital letters). After my ego revived from the sting, I improved the column and sent it back with some clarifying comments of my own... "two souls connecting in the dust" literally dust of the playa, figuratively magic dust...I trust the intelligent readers of NYPress will get this. He may or may not have appreciated my notes.
The possibility of getting fired did cross my mind.
Meanwhile, the cover story that week was about a publicist's dating debacle with actor Eric Schaeffer...I read Kelly Kreth's article and almost choked at this paragraph: "His particular fascination with excretions spoke to me. Being a woman who is no stranger to poop stories, having published a few of my own on Poopreport.com, I imagined Eric and I someday falling love, showing each other our bowel movements—the most intimate of acts in my estimation. I got butterflies just thinking about it." I thought it was strange that such provocatively disgusting details made it into the cover story of a publication that was steadily moving into a conservative zone. Even more disturbing was that Kreth's article read too much like a sex column.
I called David Blum in the morning. With all the signs leading to this moment, it was not shocking to hear him say that he was discontinuing my column. But even if you expect to be dumped, the words still sting. He said he felt bad, that doing this was the worst part of the job, that he was sorry we never even met. (He wanted to meet me and he even invited me to an editorial meeting, but I was so busy in between my recent trips that we never had the chance.) I had just been rejected, but I wasn't going to let him go so easily. I asked why. "And please be honest. I want to know," I said.
"Well...it's a matter of taste," he said. "Your flowery language obfuscates the clarity--"
"But is it my writing? Is it my style?"
"Obviously, you can put two sentences together..." (well, thank you very much) He claimed he didn't know how else to explain it other than a matter of taste.
"Is it the subject matter? Is it too honest, too edgy?"
He referred again to the flowery language, saying that it "obfuscates the clarity so that the stories don't seem true." He brought up the Burning Desire column as an example. "They are all true," I said. "I don't even embellish." He said he believed me, but that he just didn't believe the stories when he read them.
Well, I couldn't argue with that. If he can't see the truth beyond the lyricism, he doesn't get my column.
I probed further. "Is part of the reason political? I mean, the paper has been moving in a more conservative direction since Manhattan Media bought it."
Allow me to paraphrase his response: It has nothing to do with the sex ads being cut, I don't have a problem with sex in the paper, this week's cover story was about sex...Kelly Kreth...did you see it? Anyway, I just got here a few weeks ago and I have to make some decisions and I guess I just want to do something different. I tried to do something different at the Voice (he alluded to the short-lived sex column by two sexless married women...)
Oh my God, this is the same guy who fired Rachel! I didn't remember his name when that news was unleashed and only now realized the connection.
He admitted the sexless sex column was a bad idea. "Don't think it's political," he said.
"Are you hiring a new sex columnist?"
"Eventually, but not right away. We don't have anyone in mind."
I kept him on the phone for at least 20 minutes. He was kind enough to endure my grilling. It was the least he could do. He also mentioned that he really liked the column I just sent him, and that he was going to publish it. He thought it was clear (unlike the flowery others, apparently), and a nice ending that summed it all up.
"You're right, you're not Carrie Bradshaw," he said.
I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a critical affirmation of where I stand. Maybe both.
We hashed it out a bit more. It was a genuine conversation, or so I thought. He respected me enough to explain that he didn't want to work with me to try to change my column so that it would suit his taste. That's not the role of a columnist. A columnist is autonomous, like the free-spirit who will never change who she is for a lover. "You're a columnist," he said. "I can't change you and I don't want to change you." A columnist cannot write to please an editor. She can only write from her heart.
The single practical change in this case was when Manhattan Media bought the New York Press. I was not alarmed by this news; actually, my first thought was that I would possibly get paid more than the paltry $100 per column, and if not that, at least get paid on time. (New York Press is notorious for dysfunctional payroll...once I deposited a check that bounced and it took them months to reimburse me for the $10 fee my bank charged).
I visited Jerry Portwood in his new sanitized office then met with the new publisher, Tom Allon, who had nothing but positive things to say about my column. Jerry had prepped me with the news that I was one of the few writers they were keeping. Not only were they keeping me, they didn't want to change a thing. Allon even wanted me to get more involved with the NY Press website; we discussed cultivating reader interaction through sex polls and a blog. Other than the elimination of the sex ads in the back of the paper (I admit I miss those girly Asian asses and She-Male crotch shots) and a few formatting changes, the New York Press was relatively intact after changing ownership. But the offices were too clean, too khaki. And the letters on the wall in the lobby spelling "New York Press" blended eerily with the names of the other publications: The West Side Spirit, New York Family, Our Town.
Everything was cool for about a month. My column, as usual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had completed a "Lust Life" book proposal, and was prepared to write this column every week for at least another year, riding the waves of my inevitable book deal until a few months after publication, when I would appropriately, nobly resign.
That seemed to be the ideal progression, as long as the paper remained an edgy backdrop for my uncompromising style. But I, as well as you readers of the New York Press, saw that "edgy" started to lose its edge when the paper made the ungraceful transition from being "New York's Premier Alternative Weekly" to "New York's Independent Weekly Newspaper."
"Independent." What is independent? Someone or something independent is not influenced by outside authority, opinion, jurisdiction, or corporate sponsorship. I am independent.
As I was independently travelling to Washington D.C. for an independent film festival, I opened that week's "independent" issue of the New York Press (Sept. 12-18) to my independent column, and was horrified that a NYU Cancer Institute ad was placed right in the middle of "Lust Life." A conservative woman posed purse-lipped with the quote "I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life." Now, I have nothing against reaching out to the cancer-stricken population, but why was this ad stuck in the middle of a column about sex at Burning Man? Maybe it had something to do with the title "Burning Desire" (which was the editor's invention after my original title "Erotic Desert"). Mmmm. Burning Desire. That's hot. And that reminds me of my burning intestines. Oh God, maybe I have colon cancer. Now I can't finish reading Lust Life because I'm worried I might have colon cancer. I better call the number in this cancer ad before it's too late. Hey, I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life either--that's why I get colonics.
Wait--there's more! On the editorially devoid page opposite Lust Life / Colon Cancer, were ads for five NYC hospitals, The Conservative Synagogue of Fifth Avenue Family Programs and Tribeca Spa of Traquility (their typo, not mine). Still slackjawed, I turned a few pages and landed upon "Hudson Valley Happenings"--a 10 PAGE promotional guide to regional fall festivities such as organ recitals, Dutch Weekend, Family Day at Constitution Island, and Family Fun Events at Hudson Valley Center for Contemporary Art. It's not that I wouldn't go to Hudson Valley for a pleasant weekend of fucking in the foliage. What disgusted me about these changes was how incongruent they were in relation to my column and New York Press as a whole. New York Press wasn't founded on family values. It was founded on the enlightened cynicism of young liberal urbanites that wouldn't read The West Side Spirit if it was the last free paper in New York.
My lover, who was sitting next to me in the bus, said, "This is not the New York Press. This is something else." We discussed my position in this morass of conservative change. He suggested that the Village Voice might be a better place for my column. For a few moments, the current Voice seemed significantly more appealing than the family-fun filled pages in my hands. Then I remembered that not too long ago, sex writer Rachel Kramer Bussel had her "Lusty Lady" column unceremoniously booted from the other NY alternative paper that used to be cool. "Maybe it's better to stay where I am for now," I said. "The new publisher kept my column; that must mean something."
I saw it coming. After the film festival, I went to an artists community in Vermont to work on my book for two weeks. Alternative Newspaper Suffers a Long, Slow Death, I wrote as a mock headline in a piece about my romantic adventures in DC.
I saw it coming. While in Vermont, I googled myself and found some unflattering comments about me in response to a post on Gawker regarding an offensive rejection letter sent to an aspiring sex columnist for pitching a new column to the Village Voice.
I saw it coming. A couple of days before I finished my column for that week, I received an email from new NY Press editor-in-chief David Blum, saying, "Please call me." I didn't call right away.
I saw it coming. After I emailed my column to Blum and Portwood, I received another email from Blum, saying "Please call me tomorrow morning." I was going to start the column for the following week so I could get it out of the way and focus on my book, but decided to wait until after the conversation with Blum. As if what he had to say would influence my next column. I recalled the comments he inserted into the first column I sent him two weeks earlier (Burning Desire)--he sent the original column back to me with comments like "this is too fantastical to believe" and "what does this mean?" I admit the column I sent was a bit under par--it was late and I was still recovering from the surreal environment of Burning Man. However, in my year and a half of writing this column, I never had a column emailed back to me (occasionally the editor would email me a question or confirm a minor change with me, but this was the first time a column was returned to me with major criticism inserted in capital letters). After my ego revived from the sting, I improved the column and sent it back with some clarifying comments of my own... "two souls connecting in the dust" literally dust of the playa, figuratively magic dust...I trust the intelligent readers of NYPress will get this. He may or may not have appreciated my notes.
The possibility of getting fired did cross my mind.
Meanwhile, the cover story that week was about a publicist's dating debacle with actor Eric Schaeffer...I read Kelly Kreth's article and almost choked at this paragraph: "His particular fascination with excretions spoke to me. Being a woman who is no stranger to poop stories, having published a few of my own on Poopreport.com, I imagined Eric and I someday falling love, showing each other our bowel movements—the most intimate of acts in my estimation. I got butterflies just thinking about it." I thought it was strange that such provocatively disgusting details made it into the cover story of a publication that was steadily moving into a conservative zone. Even more disturbing was that Kreth's article read too much like a sex column.
I called David Blum in the morning. With all the signs leading to this moment, it was not shocking to hear him say that he was discontinuing my column. But even if you expect to be dumped, the words still sting. He said he felt bad, that doing this was the worst part of the job, that he was sorry we never even met. (He wanted to meet me and he even invited me to an editorial meeting, but I was so busy in between my recent trips that we never had the chance.) I had just been rejected, but I wasn't going to let him go so easily. I asked why. "And please be honest. I want to know," I said.
"Well...it's a matter of taste," he said. "Your flowery language obfuscates the clarity--"
"But is it my writing? Is it my style?"
"Obviously, you can put two sentences together..." (well, thank you very much) He claimed he didn't know how else to explain it other than a matter of taste.
"Is it the subject matter? Is it too honest, too edgy?"
He referred again to the flowery language, saying that it "obfuscates the clarity so that the stories don't seem true." He brought up the Burning Desire column as an example. "They are all true," I said. "I don't even embellish." He said he believed me, but that he just didn't believe the stories when he read them.
Well, I couldn't argue with that. If he can't see the truth beyond the lyricism, he doesn't get my column.
I probed further. "Is part of the reason political? I mean, the paper has been moving in a more conservative direction since Manhattan Media bought it."
Allow me to paraphrase his response: It has nothing to do with the sex ads being cut, I don't have a problem with sex in the paper, this week's cover story was about sex...Kelly Kreth...did you see it? Anyway, I just got here a few weeks ago and I have to make some decisions and I guess I just want to do something different. I tried to do something different at the Voice (he alluded to the short-lived sex column by two sexless married women...)
Oh my God, this is the same guy who fired Rachel! I didn't remember his name when that news was unleashed and only now realized the connection.
He admitted the sexless sex column was a bad idea. "Don't think it's political," he said.
"Are you hiring a new sex columnist?"
"Eventually, but not right away. We don't have anyone in mind."
I kept him on the phone for at least 20 minutes. He was kind enough to endure my grilling. It was the least he could do. He also mentioned that he really liked the column I just sent him, and that he was going to publish it. He thought it was clear (unlike the flowery others, apparently), and a nice ending that summed it all up.
"You're right, you're not Carrie Bradshaw," he said.
I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a critical affirmation of where I stand. Maybe both.
We hashed it out a bit more. It was a genuine conversation, or so I thought. He respected me enough to explain that he didn't want to work with me to try to change my column so that it would suit his taste. That's not the role of a columnist. A columnist is autonomous, like the free-spirit who will never change who she is for a lover. "You're a columnist," he said. "I can't change you and I don't want to change you." A columnist cannot write to please an editor. She can only write from her heart.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Parker and Poly
Soon I'll divulge how I got fired from the NY Press...until then, I'm performing in a few events this week.
Potable Productions
presents
THE POTABLE DOROTHY PARKER: A LITERARY COCKTAIL
featuring
Celia Bressack
Prudence Heyert
Andy Horan
and Stephanie Sellars as Mrs. Parker
Thursday October 4th, 2007
9:00 pm
Sadie's Lounge at Mo Pitkin's House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
(212) 777-5660
This reading is the first event of PARKERFEST, the annual celebration of the best (and worst) of Dorothy Parker
For more info on Parkerfest, see www.dorothyparker.com
***
SEVENTH ANNUAL POLY PRIDE DAY
Saturday, October 6th, 2007
Noon - 6pm
Great Hill, Central Park, New York City
Enter from Central Park West at 106th Street
You need not be polyamorous to enjoy these festivities...I'm speaking at 2pm and performing at 4:30. SS
We are thrilled to have the amazing Mr. Murray Hill as MC this year. Described by The Village Voice as "a superstar performer" and by New York magazine as "the emcee of choice", he is sure to make the entire day unforgettable. He has garnered unprecedented mainstream recognition and appeal - bringing everyone together and finding the common denominator with all types of people through laughter and his good-guy style.
Speakers & Entertainers
Speakers:
Robyn Trask, from Loving More Magazine
Nan Wise (Poly Expert and Poly psychotherapist)
REiD Mihalko and Marcia Baczynski (Sex Educators/Relationship coaches, founders of Cuddleparty)
Ken Haslam, from the Kinsey Institue
Stephanie Sellars (NY Press sex columnist)
Diana Adams, Esq., Polyamory lawyer
Anita Wagner (Polyamory/Sexual Freedom Activist)
Barbara Foster, Letha Hadady, and Mike Foster (authors of Three In Love)
Julio Cortes
Entertainers:
Hedda Lettuce, Drag Comedienne
The Black and White Cookies, acoustic duo
The Wet Spots
Sean Graham, Comedian
Stephanie Sellars
Robin Renee and Jasmine
Shawna Hamic
Penelope Swales (polyamorous singer/songwriter from Australia)
for more info...
Polyamorous NYC
www.poly-nyc.com
photo by Mark Reay
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