Jan 072012

I was inspired to write a piece about coming out to my Mom about being kinky. I was inspired by a moment of very deep gratitude when i saw a friend talking about how unaccepting her Mother had been about her sexuality.


So fucking Uncool.


I’m doubly proud that, when I called Mom to ask if she minded me writing the piece, and on top of that if she was OK with my using a photo of the two if us together, she said she was happy to have both of those things happen.


Not bad for a nice Baptist church lady, eh?


From the column…


 I took a deep breath, asked her if she really wanted to know, since it had to do with my sexuality. She said yes, she did want to know. So I braced myself and told her I’d been in Washington DC to teach a class at Black Rose… a kink and BDSM convention. 


“Bondage & Discipline, Dominance & Submission Sadism & Masochism. You know, the whips and chains people.” 

“Oh! Wow. And here I though you were a lesbian and were embarrassed to tell me.” 

I laughed silently. But I figured now wasn’t the time to lay on the outing myself as bisexual as well: if my high-school triad hadn’t given it away, she didn’t need this additional data point right then! 

She asked me some surprisingly challenging questions, and when she asked me how it was to give people spankings, I realized I had to come out to her again… as a submissive. 

“Now that is a surprise. I would have though you would be a dominatrix!” 

“Yeah, Ma, so does everyone else…” 


Read more…!

Feb 062011

I didn’t break down crying. There were no other witnesses. I felt no cosmic upheaval. It was the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the country and I was in the middle of his dining room, in the middle of errands. We had been taking, since the day before, about expectations. He had asked me what I hoped to experience during this time we had together, as busy as it was going to be.


At one point I’d had a whole lot of ideas about this.


At this point, I had very few.


I’d been doing so much work to release expectations around seeing him after what felt like an eternity between skin-to-skin meetings that, when he put that question before me plainly, I was more than a bit surprised to realize… I did not have much left that I sought.


Time with him. Being able to feel what it was like to be in one another’s presence. To see how the dynamic breathed when it was in another dimension beside the mental and spiritual. To have touch also present in the physical realm. To be of service…


“…and to offer you myself in service. Not, like, in some big deal thing or something, I…”


why is this so hard…


“I want to know what that feels like, to be collared and in service. And to know that is what you want, too.”


I had no idea what this was gonna look like. Or how it would go down, frankly. I own my own personal, formal collar. One that I found after many years of searching, one that is unique and perfect for me. I keep it with me on my travels and it is a talisman for me of my own journey towards service, submission and slavery. A fetish in the true original sense of the word. My ethos embraces the idea that I, as a slave, will offer that symbol of my submission to the person to whom I would offer myself, my life.


But this wasn’t that situation. Continue reading »

May 232010

I’m on the morning of the last of my performances of the revival of 69Stories. Interestingly, this revival is a format somewhat different than previous iterations. More interactive. More real-time. Riskier-feeling for me, but it seems to work well.

The riskiness I experience is this: when I tell the stories, a part of me is there. I don’t mean that in some kinda actingy way. I mean I rewind to how that felt, and pick up where that left off. I have the capacity to do total physical and emotional recall, and this is a lot cooler and a lot more fucked-up than it sounds.

Especially when you’re recalling something that you…want.  And won’t ever have again.

I don’t mean this in some kinda sad-sack, bust out weeping violins way, I mean it in a grounded, realistic fashion. No experience is cell-for-cell repeatable.

For better and for worse.

When I tell the story of the first time I understood that submission wasn’t about brute force, that you could get there just from the whispered words of the right person? I won’t ever have precisely that experience again. But I can stand there, night after night, and replay that braintape. Down to what my feet felt like. Down to the light sheen of sweat on the small of my back. Down to the inexplicable (well, not really but at the time, sure.) arousal and physical manifestation of the same that I experiences, making me slippery and dazed for a long, long time afterward.

You’d think this is kind of cool, and it is. Don’t get me wrong. But there is a price to be paid, and when you unpack that shit, it sometimes doesn’t want to go back into the place you packed it. It comes out, stretches, yawns, looks you in the eye grinning toothily and says

OK, you invoked me. Here we are. How do I look to you now? Have I changed in the years since we danced in chronological “realtime?” Have you distorted me? AM I really real? Slippery mercurial memory…catch me if you can, baby…

I’ve been doing some unpacking and I can’t pretend it does not have resonance outside of a couple of hours onstage, because it does.

When I share about the events, people, sights and sounds that all add up to who I am today, and I have to look at it, objectively even, I feel an odd affection and detachment.  My life = entertainment and What The Fuck is THAT about?

I know it isn’t ONLY that. I know I am not only here to amuse and sing and dance.

At least I think I know that.

Sometimes I wonder, though. Is it REALLY better to have loved and lost than to never have loved? Because if you have never had that crazy-ass roller-coaster ride, you can’t know how it is, right? And then you won’t know how brutal the landing can be. And then you won’t have to see how the taproots into your id won’t ever ever be fully excisable.

Maybe that blissful ignorance at which I sneer, which I reject in favor of the beauty of The Experience, in fact carries its own intrinsic value?

Maybe. Maybe…but there is no story in that. And above all, I am here to tell.  To tell on and about myself.

To tell stories…to be the kinky griotte for those whose stories are rarely told.

SO yeah, it is better. And worse. And I’ll take it, thank you.

Apr 082010


For those who weren’t jammed the FUCK into the Happy Ending Lounge for In The Flesh NYC on March 18th, your time has come!

I performed one of my favorite stories there. You can read it here and you can watch it below.

Here is the first part…

…and here is the rest!

Enjoy! And thanks to Rachel Kramer Bussel for all of her hard work and awesomesauciness!

Apr 042010

Dear Jim…

It is HIGHLY unlikely you’ll ever read this,

I’m writing it anyway.

Who the fuck am I kidding.

Honestly? Frankly? The “You” to whom I’m writing only lives in my heart and mind. The “You” you are today is years and miles away from the man who upended my life, careened me into new and previously unknown realms, and left me shaking and alone, but ready to be who I needed to be. This exercise in writing “You” a letter isn’t about writing a letter to the actual James.

No, the “You” to whom I’m writing is a kaleidoscopic doppelganger of emotional glassbits that tumble through the scratched lens of my mind’s eye.

It is the “You” I first saw in Barney’s Beanery in December of 1993 in Los Angeles.

It is the “You” who opened up a channel to my future from which spoke a voice alerting me to the unfathomable changes that you’d unleash in my life.

It is the “You” whose gorgeous, simple, heated coarse brutality shocked and completed me so totally, it obliterated every thought of ever desiring anyone but you, ever and ever forever and ever, amen

It is the “You” I adored so completely that I spent hundreds of dollars a month, money I didn’t have, to keep your voice and laughter and despicable beautiful lusts in my head even though we were a continent and an ocean apart.

It is the “You” that, no matter how fleeting our subsequent borrowed times together were, they were enough to sustain me through the years…even through the other relationships…because “I knew in my heart of hearts!” that I was yours, and yours alone, and that some day you would hold this knowledge as surely as I did and you would permit me to love you and yourself to love me the way that Fate intended.

It is the “You” for whom I still struggled to make space, even though I knew it was futile. Some ambertrapped part of me knew…knew…that you would remember who we were.

Today that “You”…those iterations, all of them and more beside…all joined me at once. As I ate my fucking bleu cheeseburger and tried to hold my shit together.

See, today was a rough day. Closing out a convention that had been a bit of a roller-coaster for me. My weekend had been fraught, hormonal issues didn’t help any, and one of the bits of my life that I’d hoped had settled, thereby relieving me of a substantial amount of stress had come undone and I was kind of back to square one.

Today it really hit me in a whole new way, how strange and loopy my life is become. I realized that the next 2 weeks of my life were leading up to some Pretty Big Shit and I wasn’t at all sure how I was going to hold up.

And I was lonely…so lonely.

You know how this is.

The crowd, the people telling you how awesome you are, and still it is so hard…so hard to absorb. I remember how tough it was for you before you gained the degree of notoriety you have today to hang in there when your situation was so discouraging…struggling like so many artists do. I remember one night in Islington as we scraped together pence and pounds to get supper and fags you telling me how you were so grateful and happy that I was there with you, through that rough time. I remember a lot more…but that is for my memory and yours alone.

So it is painful and awful to have so much of these memories blurred and torqued into something less than effulgently fulfilling as I remember the other “You.”

The “You” who reminded me, with a shockingly callus emotional brutality, that my feelings for you weren’t important in light of your “real girlfriends” feelings.

It is the “You” who, after a decade, of my foolish naive hopes, explained that I was not nor would I be, yours.

The “You” who berated me for writing, with pride and passion, about our affair, and how transformational it was.

The “You” who, when his “people” discovered that we were easily linked by a couple of savvy Google searches, called me to insist that it was all inappropriate, and that it should be removed immediately.

It speaks to the still extant desire to please you that coiled, latent, around my heart that my first reaction to this shocking demand was…shame. Shame and sadness and the impulse to say “You’re right, and I am sorry…sorry I spoke. Sorry I wrote. Sorry I am who I am. Sorry that I took this stunning secret me that you unearthed and I polished it and refined it and set it out for all to see and share.

Sorry I am who I am.” Continue reading »

Mar 242010

photo courtesy of @Viviane212

So often one wonders how they wind up who they are. At least I do. I will be in a moment, living, thinking, doing whatever it is I’m doing and then part of my consciousness will pull back for a moment and say to the rest of my consciousness “Whoah. Really? Is this really happening? ‘Cause…well…you know. That’s pretty….wow. Just, yeah.”

I am just back from a multi-stage trip that took me to Chicago for SINSations In Leather and then to New York for …well, for so much more than I have even been able to process. For those who are unaware, life’s been hurtling along in many ways, some good, some a bit scary…but good.  I’m no longer an employee of Penthouse Inc by way of serving as Sr. Editor for Bondage and ALT. Thank Ganesha I’m out of debt, in a rent-controlled flat, and able to collect Unemployment Insurance. I hardly had time to soak up this life shift but I was off to Chicago and home to New York. Continue reading »

Dec 162009

I’m a bit of a “woo-tard” in that my “woo woo” stuff….spiritual and emotionally friable shit…tends to be the one area of my life I really hesitate to share. So, because of my weird compulsion that shoves me towards greater and greater revelation, I tend to spill my guts in various ways.

For better or worse, this audio blog thing makes it easy for me to spill my less coherent late night spasms into a vessel from which this miasmatic primordial heartsoup can be examined

. So, examine it while you can. It may well evaporate  like sun-chased fog when I have more sense in my head… Continue reading »

Dec 082009
Are you threatening me?!?!?

"Are you threatning me?!?!?"

In a chat on Twitter, Mark S and I were bantering about things that tops sometimes use as threats in order to incite fear into the hearts (and genitals) of those (un)lucky enough to find themselves at their (lack of) mercy. I thought about my own reaction to threats, and why they don’t usually work for me, in a scene…here is a brief musing on that… Continue reading »

Nov 252009

Before you talk shit about the resonance of this image, know that a poly group on FaceBook uses this as their image ;-)This one is the total fault of @sexisfuncoochie. That’s what you get for asking an innocent question.

OK. Um, Mo here, talking about being (mostly) mono in a poly world. And by “poly world” I mean the BDSM community as I experience it.

I’ve been around a while, and I am not a shrinking violet when it comes to hopping around the country chilling with my Leather and Kinky and Sex Positive and Freaky Peeps. And due to this, many assume I play all the time, everywhere.

This is not the case.

Continue reading »

Nov 112009

“This isn’t all about you. It isn’t some fantasy, none of that safeword bullshit. It is all about me, right now, and for your foreseeable future. So scream all you want. I don’t give a fuck. No one does.

This strange dark slippery sentiment crept into my head yesterday. Sitting at work combing through the millions of profiles trying to find the ones that would help me do my job, I had a full-fledged fantasy detonate in the forebrain.

And I did. Not. Like it.

This wasn’t some hot sexy thing. It was Bad. It wasn’t consensual. It wasn’t safe, it was quite insane and it was beyond risky. There was no care, no love, no desire, no safety.

This was worst-case scenario. Real fear. Real damage. Real rage. Emotional snuff. Physical destruction.

And it repulsed me even at the same time I wanted it so badly I became dizzy.

Continue reading »