Every third person

There are certain moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Sometimes its when you find yourself in the back of the SF Underground in the lower Haight sitting on the lap of the girl you have a crush on and watching someone you’ve seen in porn get fisted.  And then of course, the speed at which your life is flashing only increases when the person stops getting fisted and starts getting fucked with some one’s foot.

Your life also flashes before your eyes as you wait in your room listening to Regina Spektor at 3am, awaiting a BDSM porn star you met on the internet to come over and beat the shit out of you.

Or when you end up having a threesome with your boss and the innocent looking girl at work, and you realize that the innocent looking girl –braces and all—has kind of a mean streak as she digs her nails into your ass cheeks.

 Does that ever happen to you?

My life has been flashing before my eyes a lot lately.  

And it seems that every third person I see on the street is someone I’ve seen in porn or someone I’ve “winked” at on OkCupid. 

Harry Houdini falls in love

This morning I’m sitting in the kitchen of an Oakland recording studio and the sunlight is streaming in victoriously. Kinky Jewish boy is in the shower, organic fair trade espresso is in the French press—and I am in a lot of pain.

Starting with my jaw.  The right side aches with surmounting pressure—it may be very bruised.

My chin and lips are raw from being scraped all night by his five o’clock shadow.

My right breast is riddled with a supernova of bruises and is speckled with red and purple from the broken blood vessels.

My neck is sore from the ropes, not to mention the strangling.

And on top of everything I’m still recovering from the gym yesterday.

Between the lactic acid coursing through my muscles and the bruising, I’m a mess.

This morning at first light I awoke not so much from the grayish brightness seeping in from the window but more from my buzzing psyche and cramped arm.

Around 3am, after a failed attempt to go for round five, Kinky Jewish Boy reached for the ropes draped across the mirror by his bed. He then tied my wrists, neck and ankles so I was immobile and tucked me into bed.

The feeling of being tied up while I slept gave me erotic non-sensical lucid dreams of jumping off cliffs.  By morning I was exhausted.

Being the responsible toppy guys that he is, Kinky Jewish boy had tied me loose enough so that I could untie myself if need be in the night.  When I awoke with my arms aching from not being able to straighten them for hours, I proceeded to perform a Harry Houdini style escape half asleep and naked in bed at 5am.

My desire to cuddle was more pressing than my desire to submit. 

When I finally freed myself from the ropes around my wrist and neck I curled my arms around Kinky Jewish Boy and relished in his warmth. I drifted back to sleep in the growing light of the room.

When the alarm finally assaulted us and we stretched and yawned our way out of bed, he checked his iPhone and reported that the lead singer of Sparkle Horse had committed suicide. He put on their album and made coffee naked, to honor the dead.

Meanwhile, I gathered my items I had strewn about his place:

1. My cheap stilver hoop earrings I had lost while making out in the kitchen.
2. My tiny purple vibrator on his bedside table. (my all important tool for working up to anal sex)
3. My ruffly black undies I had discarded next to the clawfoot tub.     

                                 ….The bathroom still smelled like cigartettes. We had shared one in the bath earlier that night. I had never taken a bath with a lover before, and I felt like a fourteen year old in France with Roman Polanski.

As he prepared for his day, I fixed his coffee just the way I know he likes it and brought it to him while he shaved in front  of the dingy bathroom mirror.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why I like to call him Daddy.   Not only does it make me feel like a Moll in a 1930’s gangster movie, but also because he’s got that roughly affectionate five o’clock shadow demeanor that makes me feel like a 6 year old princess and as intensely disturbing as it may be, he reminds me of my dad when I was about six.
Now, nobody freak out, my Daddy never touched me or anything like that, in fact just the opposite.  He just wasn’t around.  I’ve seen my biological father about 25 times in my life (roughly once a year).  When I was very young I was raised by my grandmother and mother—two very strong women.  I joke around that it’s my mother’s fault that I’m queer—she gave me a model of two women raising a child, which I think is why I’ve always pictured myself settling down with a woman.
What she doesn’t know however is that by choosing to not have my dad around, she contributed to this really intense Daddy fetish that I have now. Luckily, I now get to play out those deep seeded childhood desires with Kinky Jewish Boy who gives me all the loving Daddy energy I need paired with the discipline of his belt and hand that I never got as a child.  It’s funny how the things we are denied as young people fester and grow inside our psyches and then rear their heads in our sexual lives when we are adults…

But it’s rather early for sexual psycho-analysis, and in this moment I’m content to sip my coffee and watch him shave, as something in the air is different this morning.

There's something so romantic about the bruises all over my body, the adrenaline hangover, and the broken wine glass with two blue latex gloves shoved inside it--collateral damage.

Sometimes.  I think to myself.

The life of a pervert is so sweet. 


And as I leave and go about my day, I can't stop thinking about the way our bodies looked in the bathtub together. And every time my shirt grazes against my breasts when I move and I feel a twinge of pain, I replay a chilling soundbite from the night before and my knees buckle. And I realize:

This kind of feels like love.

Oh shit. 

Hot Tubs, Pony Play, and Blood Sports, oh my!

I cannot decide if I am terribly forgetful or terribly nostalgic. However, one might say that in order to be terribly nostalgic, one must be terribly forgetful.

However, I find myself feeling less wistful these days and I long for my past less and less, and only experience nostalgia for the most immediate moment as it evaporates before me.

In other words…right now I’m very happy.

The other night during the mermaid photo shoot, the Photographer paused and suddenly said “Are you familiar with ‘pony play?” I immediately tensed; suddenly aware that I was half girl half fish and that perhaps I had naively walked into some sort of super kinky aqua-bestiality fantasy of his. 

“Uh. Yes.” I answered cautiously, wondering if the next prop he would bring out for me to pose with would be a bridle and a saddle. I shuddered to think.

Much to my relief, it turned out that the Photographer was set to shoot a fetish model later that week, and she would be doing some “pony slut” looks.  She apparently also has a kinky unicorn costume she wears on occasion, which I found exciting.

So tonight the Photographer asked me if I cared to act as his assistant for the night. Which sounded both fun and hot. How could I say no to being a fly on the wall during a fetish-modeling shoot? I couldn’t.  So I didn’t.

And there I was a few hours later, lacing a buxom Asian woman with magenta hair into a frilly hot pink corset.

She wasn’t the best model.  She got embarrassed easily and despite her wealth of exciting costumes and props, she seemed highly uncomfortable in her own skin.  While she was a lovely girl, I had to fight the urge on several occasions to push her out of the way, snatch her 6 inch patent leather pumps off her toes and show her how it’s done.

But instead I was civil and made friends.  Turns out we had a lot in common: When I mentioned some lesbians that I knew who recently did a photo shoot involving Spiderman underwear and smearing each other in vials of their own blood, we found out that SHE TOO knew of some lesbians who were into blood play…but it turns out they weren’t the same lesbians. Apparently in San Francisco there are a bunch of those.

 She was not your typical fetish model with her hippie tattoos, and unshaved body hair.  She had some how fit all of her props and costumes, wigs and all into 2 saddlebags for her bicycle. I could not get over how “East Bay” that was.  

After the shoot, The Photographer asked me if I would like to join him for a glass of wine and hot tubbing at his friend’s house.  It was early, and I felt that I couldn’t say no to hot tubbing a second time. 

We arrived at a house tucked away in one of those lush green sections of Oakland that are full of blossoms and wonder. 

The Photographer’s friend was surprisingly good looking with strong features.

I instantly wanted to fuck him.

Turns out he was an opera singer, about to star in a production of La Boheme. He offered me a glass of wine that he had bottled himself on his first date with some girl.

“Wow” I said. Suddenly feeling like a teenager, “I’ve never been on a first date where I bottled my own Pinot Noir.”

“Well,” said the Opera Singer, “Clearly you’ve been dating the wrong people.”

Much to my chagrin, The Opera Singer did not join us in the hot tub.  It was just the photographer and me in a magical little garden bathed in moonlight….awkwardly sitting a safe distance away from each other. Naked.

I find that despite their health benefits, hot tubs are usually more about being awkward and naked with people you don’t know that well than about true relaxation.

All the same, I planned to enjoy myself. I loved the way when I let myself float in the water, it suddenly looked like had perfectly perky porn star breasts.  I’m sure The Photographer felt the same way, since at some point he felt that it was appropriate to come closer.  Yikes! I instantly transformed from a mermaid to a hermit crab and curled my legs up against my chest, trying to remain casual and continue our conversation.

“Your friend, The Opera Singer,” I probed, “Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Several” replied The Photographer.

Hm. I thought. Well, there are worse answers.

I made it back to the BART station and onto a train just after midnight before I turned into a pumpkin.

Back in my San Francisco apartment, I ate dinner at 1 am, standing alone in my kitchen. As I shoved seaweed and quinoa into my mouth…I suddenly felt terribly single.

Fuck. I thought.

So much for not being nostalgic these days.