This is me and my friend, Adam. We have known one another since first grade. And through a bizarre and hilarious series of coincidences, his kinky wife met a mutual photographer friend and one thing led to another and his passing thought, years ago, about the two of us doing a photo shoot wound up manifesting. When I told my Mom I was gonna be doing a rather salacious photo shoot with Adam (who she remembered as the little boy I had a crush on in Elementary School) she sighed and said “It is funny how fast kids grow up.” It sure is, isn’t it?
One of the awesome “Rules if the Internet” is Rule 34: If it exists, there is porn of it.
A friend on Facebook, upon seeing me mention Fetlife, mentioned that he thought I was, of course, referring to Boba Fett. I could not resist seeing if the legendary bounty hunter was the source of any kinky imagery.
And boy howdy…the FettIsh helmet was one thing, but the bound Princess porn…now that’s something else entirely.
One of the first things I learned about putting people’s junk in your face was: watch the teeth.
And that’s pretty much true for most people. Some people, however, love the teeth.
in this case, due to my extra perky canines and concerns about violating the integrity of the prophylactic, I avoided any vigorous biteyness.
But I still think it looks cool.
NSFW schtuff below the cut!
The lovely and talented Shilo McCabe, ably assisted by the badass Airial Clark, accosted me violently in an alley in San Francisco this summer, threatened me with …um…knifes and…stuff…and insisted that I pose for Shilo’s Sex Positive Photo Project.
NOTE: Most of the previous sentence isn’t true.
What IS true is that I DID pose for the project, and that Shiloh and Airial are friggin’ amazing, and the whole kit-n-caboodle is coming out soon!
But here’s a teaser for ya. Dig my specialeffects, yo.
Stay Tuned for info on the rest of this awesome shoot & the interview stuff!
So Shilo McCabe, she of the bad-ass hanky code flowers, the Sex Positive Photo Project and general awesomeness, came and hung out with me, brought along the radtastic Airial and by my sista Sylvia. Much awesome ensued. And we took some pictures, so here’s one…
Here’s hoping you have a Happy Hump Day!
I haven’t submitted an HNT in FOREVER…I’d have to do epic research to figure out when the last one was!
But I took a few pictures this afternoon. One was a special version, for a special person (waves to The Dominant Guy) but I took ths one too, suitable for public consumption.
Then I realized it was Thursday, and I was still in time, in the USA anyway, for HNT!
Happy Nekkidness, y’all! Enjoy those fleeting last rays of late-summer sun.
Despite having no lack of photos of myself in compromising positions, every time I do a fetish shoot, or one where I’m gonna have my big old butt in the wind, I become a bit apprehensive. Yeah yeah fat is flabulous etc. But like anyone, I can be a little self-conscious when it comes to letting it all hang out.
I have been rather fortunate in that I have had people in my life who have loved me and my body in all of its incarnations and shifts. It used to be I was fine with someone who had the attitude that they “didn’t mind what my body was like, they loved the person I am.”
Which is nice.
You know what’s better?
Someone for whom my body, AS IT IS, is the hottest, sexiest shape they could possibly imagine.
The Pizza Guy was one of those people, and I am pleased to say he rather spoiled me in that regard. You can hear about him and his bellylovin’ ways here.
The Un-Boyfriend and The Hungarian were also aficionados of the gals with more cushion for the pushin’, and The Dominant Guy has zero complaints about my thick thighs.
I highly recommend finding someone who loves your body and treats it with lustful reverence. It rocks.
I also highly recommend finding someone to take a picture of you looking smoking hot being fat. I’ve got a few here and there on this blog. It helps to have friends and cohorts who are magnificent photographers! Even if you don’t have pro photog buddies, you can find someone to help you out with that because, I’ll tell ya, nothing has helped me to see my own body as s delicious playground that having it mirrored back to me through the lens of someone with gusto and appreciation.
I know, I ‘m stalling. Photo beyond the cut and there are some titties in, so minimize that shit if you’re at work :-p
I can’t say enough about how much I admire Michele Serchuk’s work. A creator of iconic photography, she has shitloads of photos that every kinkster & pervert has seen so often they become almost ubiquitous as benchmarks for kink, fetish and BDSM. So when she offered me the opportunity to work with her, I squeaked like a wee mousie.
The stars aligned and my friend Gray (You know that Ropecast dude) was going to be in New York simultaneous with my visit there, and Michele had time ot get together with us. A twitter cry here and there, and we I’d found someone to help me with makeup (Thank you Angel!) and a piano with a view (Thank you, Sarah!) and the shoot was on. Today, as I travel from Albuquerque to San Francisco by train, I was smushed with delight to see that Michele had culled some shots from the session and holy crap…well, see for yourself. NOTE: These Photos Are for Grown-Ups!!
I think this photo, by the lovely and talented Stacie Joy, was snapped right as I stuttered out that request and observation.
I found myself in the rather unique situation of being in bed with two dominant men and a photographer.
As much as people don’t believe this of me, my actual history of freakish sexual hijinx doesn’t wander far afield when it comes to group sex. I’ve had quite a few instances of multiple females piling on one male, and several instances of multiple female wriggly sex piles, managing to get 2 men all to myself just hasn’t happened.
Until, of course, it does. It happens in the less-than-sexually-organic framework of a photo shoot, so of course the whole thing is seriously ambiguous.
Are they just there because I asked them to do a photo shoot? How far is this REALLY gonna go anyway? That I wound up masturbating while being held down was already highly erotically charged, and I really had to get past a whole lotta internal bullshit to stop. Fucking. THINKING long enough to enjoy it.
And then of course, months, later, I sit here wondering what might have happened…second-guessing. Assuming that such a situation won’t ever present itself again.
And to that, I hear the susurration of my real inside voice trilling “Ssssh….what is in store for you is beyond your imagining today. Enjoy the memory…”
So, I will.
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.