i masturbate as thoughts run all over my brain and press down on the vibrator more for the strange electrical sensation than for pleasure, it seems to help me concentrate, and i focus in on blowjobs and have a silent discussion with myself on the topic of dominance and think about some men who have shoved cock down my throat and then the ones who have been on the receiving end of mine and that seems far more submissive and it’s a double standard and i come to terms with it then come in another way to a totally different thought.
creativity begins to bursts like too much water in a balloon and after the video shoot and over shrimp dumplings Thrash tells us about his blowdart fetish and when he gets shot in the ass the blood drips down his thighs and calves like back seamed stockings and i think about latex squeaking in an ear and that evening wasabi hits the roof of her mouth and eyes water and i ask if her nostrils burn and later the four of us dance to eighties music and Scooter shakes her perfect ass on stage and LLoyd shakes his pink poodle head to the beat of a different drum and we say our good byes and i walk humid city streets which are quiet due to the lateness of the evening and backstage at another venue thick velvet curtains and we three watch each other pee and soon a hula hooper cuts ice cream cake which reminds me of angels and we sing to her husband and i am surrounded by eccentric talent and make portraits in my head and end scene back at the Box seated on the steps of the stage and watch a woman fly in the air by her hair white paint on her face and arms spinning with both stoicism and grace and i turn my head to smile at Darlinda then look up and kiss the sky.
he went to a rum house to drink scotch and we rock paper scissors best out of three and Mexican it is and chicken mole burrito and veggie fajitas and fingers licked and outside lightness comes from the darkness the moon hazes through opaque tights and it is beautiful and inside hands and knees read from a book Daddies who fuck babygirls on trains in dressing rooms and grind on familiar canvas and lick my calves lick my thighs lick inside lick higher higher lick sweet panties wet and drippy and the sides of the fabric move towards each other exposing glistening folds which little kitten can lick too and birthday desserts come unannounced and creamy frosting takes the cake.
Southern Indian food for thought and a broken train has me waiting with headphones on and a row of patient passengers whose heads briefly wave and pop over the tracks eyes towards the light at the end of the tunnel and i watch it act out rhythmically and join in every now and again and a boy in a cape and floppy boots catches my eye and he looks high and i can’t stop staring as he switches and shifts the black fabric around his upper body and as he walks by i wonder what he smells like and it’s pleasant like some sort of oil and the next day a dear friend brings his boyfriend over and it is the caped one from the night before beside the train tracks like a magic trick and they sit on the couch and drink green tea and he uses permanent markers to make temporary tattoos on the tops of his hands and Mona wears brass knuckles almost every time that i see her.
at the Box in a box at the top in a corner red velvet curtains drape over the sides and another birthday in a leather kilt and a tight white dress sits next and the show goes on beneath a dominatrix rubs whipped cream on her tits and pussy and a leather dog masked slave devours and glass upon glass of spiked watermelon juice takes my mind off of thinking and an aerial artist in fishnets hangs from a rope with her legs split and soon after a text on his knees kissing and crawling and my toes tickle his tonsils and steady myself on a tall arm crowded streets spill onto patches of memory and later eggs and potatoes put things into perspective and once awake i decide enough thinking and say good bye to a Marshmallow and stick a doughnut into my mouth instead and it sits perched on my tongue consistent and reliable and i bite in with conviction and it bites back and the feeling is mutual.
lips upon folds upon legs upon spreads and the man wearing a black eyepatch serves us tequila over the bar and three sets of legs dangle from stools and we discuss tribbing in detail and tribadism derives from a greek word which means “a woman who practises unnatural vice with herself or with other women” and Marie Antoinette was known to be a tribade and tribbed her vulva against some tasty cakes of the court and our pirate brings another round and she tells us she can torture nipples and whip a cock simultaneously but has never been able to rub her belly and pat her head at the same time and i get a good visual from this and back to tribbing and the night before in an incandescently lit bar we talk of community and oysters and Spain and Lisbon and a David Lynch song plays in the background and a memory hits me and friends meet friends and the streets are so busy it seems as if a concert just let out and chicken and rice and the sun is bright and they don’t have shades on their windows which forces me awake early and i put on last night’s shoes and head out into the morning and eat cubed watermelon with my fingers and pass shadows shaped as whales and an ice cream truck garage filled with pastel candy vehicles which sit silently in the large dank space the only light comes from the open garage door and it seems unfair to have these sugar coated tanks of happiness living in such dreary headquarters and i think orphanage and across the way a woman in a long white wig with bangs and a school girl outfit and thigh highs with bows on each side and big plastic sunglasses briskly walks by like the Mad Hatter and i cannot decide whether she is going to or coming from and i think about sunflower patches in Tuscany and tulip petals and soon lukewarm coffee in my hand sit and space out on the man across from me whose breakfast reminds me of Europe and i’m jealous of his croissant and piss and cum and ballerina pink and the birds eat their seeds from the plate that hangs in the garden and i can stand at my window and stare at this for hours.
the first roll of the dice decides which implement will be used and the second how many strokes will be given and it lands on four and then nine and she looks down at the line up and counts left to right and eyes fall onto the fourth which the cane which she grabs with glee and tells him to turn around to face her and he does with arms wrapped around his head eyes closed and the Ben Gay on his nipples and not too distant memories of clamps and needles and thread and hitachi and rope all through and around his cock and balls which are now being caned and the ninth hits his chest and he howls and we laugh and he rolls the dice again…
Rachel and i eat Mexican in a restaurant in the middle of a grocery store and there are tables set up next to rows of toilet paper and cans of fruit cocktail and boxes of Fruity Pebbles and maxi pads and above the shelves pinatas hang from the ceiling in all shapes and colors and i think i see one with a unicorn on it and find it weird and the walls are green and the room is fluorescent from the overhead lighting and the guacamole watery and we talk our way through rice and beans and rubber shrimp and customers grab groceries as we eat our dinner and out onto a street which always reminds me of the south Loop in Chicago the train whizzes by above us as we hug and part ways and he keeps rolling a three which is a mean motherfucker shaped like a small bullwhip but with a wider end and it leaves marks and makes him jump and scream and we laugh again and he picks up both dice and i should have thought to breathe on them for good luck.
the forest smells sweet tonight like a mixture of wet flowers and leaves and earth and on the back of a Harley zipping through pockets of cold and then warm wind i smell his jacket and the combination of nature and leather fills my nostrils and i close my eyes and hold on tight my hands dipped inside each of his front pockets and stare at my reflection in back of his helmet and watch pink clouds and darkening hazel skies pass by and the speed gets me off this moment gives me wings. friday night ninjas popped out and balls were tied tight with twine at different points in the evening whipping and warm green tea and laughter the same pair of heels throughout and by the end of the evening my feet hurt. but not too badly. when i was a kid we never bought paper towels and shared the same dish cloth amongst the six of us at the dinner table and used toilet paper to grease the muffin pan and i now use napkins like they’re going out of style i hate when my hands are wet and abuse my privileges and free will and buy rolls of paper towels every other day and he eats the ash from my cigarette as Mona spanks with swift graceful hands and her technique is spot on and the thud repeats over and over again and i wonder what the sensation feels like more on her palms then on his ass and take in the view along with a drag and tip his chin upward forcing his mouth open dropping more ash inside and he swallows and bends his head down like a giraffe to lick the remnants off the red leather bench and she pauses as he does this and laughs and begins the repitition again this time smacking not on him but through him and before or after this Maria compares oysters to french kissing and as i gulp one down after the bike ride through the forest i remember this and taste tongue, cool and slimy and it’s a sexy delicious feeling down my throat and confessor is a great word and i make a mental note to use it more often.
my all time favorite badass.
I love dommes. They are my favorite models, my favorite subjects. They’re hot and confident and just overall badass. Here is an image of my favorite asskicker on the planet, my girl Miss Mona Rogers. I love Mona. I met her when I was doing video production for RaptureVision a few years back. I made femdom porn. I’ve watched women take shits in submissive’s mouths through that video camera. Not Mona. Wild fucking times.