I first met Madison Young when we performed together on the same bill at the Center for Sex and Culture in San Francisco. I was immediately struck by the wonderful mass of contradictions. Smart but humble. Cute but fierce. Physical but articulate. Frankly, everything you’d want in a porn star. I’ve been following her career ever since. I was so happy when she took her revolutionary ideas of sexuality and began directing, creating filmed sex that’s the next step in the evolution of erotic filmmaking. She has a new memoir out called Daddy. So I thought I’d sit down and pick her brain about sex, movies, writing, and yes, Daddy.
Madison Young: I first entered into the world of erotic filmmaking as a performer and model in 2002 and then started directing films in 2005. As an artist and activist, the highly political medium of documenting sexual desire on film in an authentic way that captured and portrayed the way that I experienced my own sexuality, was a huge incentive for me to explore and participate in the world of pornography.
I also needed a reliable steady income to support my life as an artist as well as supplement my non-profit arts organization, Femina Potens. Working with in erotic film allowed me the freedom to pursue my work as a performance artist, give back to the community through the curation of hundreds of queer, feminist, edgy visual and performance art events and express my sexual self in a performative and film making capacity. Simultaneously I was making a political statement and creating change with in the adult film world by focusing on the advocating of authentic expression of self with an emphasis on pleasure and connection.
It’s amazing how powerful the documentation of authentic self can be. It has the ability to create space for others to recognize unexamined parts of their own psyche, their own self, their own desire. It grants them permission to explore uncharted parts of themselves. It grants courage for others to embrace and celebrate who they are. I try to embrace those qualities through out all the work that I do.
I wasn’t especially worried about how the world or my family would judge me, but I realized there would be judgments. One of my mottos is “Reveal All Fear Nothing” I knew if my work and my life were going to be about living life out loud, in the open, and encouraging people to express and celebrate who they are – then I would need to first learn how to do that myself.
If I was going to celebrate and create space for the authentic expression of self I wasn’t going to do so behind closeted doors. I first really examined the work I was doing, why I was doing it, and the social importance of the work I was doing with in the industry. I had to gain a certain understanding of myself before I could communicate the intricacies of my complicated and frequently misrepresented and misunderstood work.
After well over a decade working with in the realm of sexuality and dozens of open conversations, my family is supportive and understanding of the work I do. They understand that I’m an artist and educator and that I work with in the realm of sexuality and pornography. They weren’t always super supportive. They had concerns around safety and I understand that. I started introducing my mother to co-workers and producers of the erotic events and sex toy shops that I was teaching at. Companies like Good Vibrations. Those visits gave my mother a better understanding of how both myself and my work were being presented and the part of the world of sexuality that I was working with in.
When my work started to gain notice with in the university and academic circuit it set my mother and father at ease. I think they thought , “If Yale supports the work that my daughter is doing and is presenting her work well it must not be that bad”.
Largely the greatest judgements I have received are from anonymous folks commenting online when I’m interviewed. These tend to be people who are largely unfamiliar with my work and have heavily judgmental opinions about sex and sex work. It’s understandable and comes with the territory.
Our society heavily shames our sexual desire and simultaneously attempts to capitalize on our sexual fears and anxieties, encouraging body negativity. My work directly works to obliterate the sexual shame that is so inherent in our society by documenting the expression of authentic sexual expression, intimacy, love of our selves and others.
DHS: What made you decide to become a professional memoirist? Were you worried about how your family, and the world might judge you?
MY: Writing was maybe one of the first places that my thoughts and feelings had a place to go and be fully authentic in their expression of self. I remember my first journal as a seven year old child. I would fill the journals up with my most intimate thoughts and feelings, feelings that I didn’t feel safe expressing anywhere else. I remember writing my first queer experiences of self down in my journal. Writing and creation of art and performance have always been a safe container for the exploration, processing, challenging and discovery of self, for me.
I had been working on different variations of “Daddy” for a few years. In the summer of 2012, I met with my publisher Tyson Cornell at Rare Bird. I had handed him the memoir I had been working on and then we had this really great conversation about the book. Through that conversation I discovered the much more challenging and compelling story that needed to be told — a story of a girl finding a place of belonging, needing to believe in something outside of herself, and then watching as everything she thought she knew and that she thought she believed in started to crumble before her eyes. That is when we discover our real strength, our power, our courage, our inner hero, our inner “Daddy.”
Of course that was the most difficult story to tell. The imperfect story. The story that was still very tender and raw and difficult to express. I was most definitely worried that the world would judge me. It was a very vulnerable work. Parts of my life that I hadn’t really discussed publicly before. Parts of my life that weren’t accompanied by well articulated sound bites. And at the same time, I knew that was where the real art existed, where the compelling story was. It’s terrifying to embrace your humanness. But at the same time liberating. I keep going back to my own words of “Reveal all Fear Nothing”.
DHS: You are also an activist, how does that play into your role as an artist?
MY: I feel like they are essentially the same – artist and activist. All artists are essentially activists. We catalyst societal and personal change through the creation of visual and performative work. Art pushes and inspires. Art changes ourselves and the world. It creates space to question everything that we think we know.
DHS: How did you learn to be a filmmaker? How did you learn to be a writer?
MY: I learned how to write by writing and how to make films by picking up a camera and making films. I haven’t been formally trained in any of the arts that I practice. I studied theater at performing art school and then went on to college as a theater major. I think my experience in theater has helped me to be a better filmmaker and writer.
One of the most significant lessons that I remember learning in theater class was when I asked the teacher, “How do you act?” and my teacher said “You just do it. You just are. You allow yourself to be”
I think that knowledge has given me courage to tackle any medium that has drawn me in as an artist. I articulate and dream and visualize the manifesting of my film or a chapter in my book and I try not to let my cerebral bits get in the way.
If I have a film narrative that has been calling to me I lie down and close my eyes and focus in on the character in my visualization. I allow my character to move and dance and fuck and evolve. I follow them on their adventure, learn who they are and try to retain a mindfulness of the cinematic shots in which I’m viewing the actions as they are appearing in my mind.
I do the same with my writing. For the memoir- I would envision the scene in which I would be writing about. I’d view it like a film and listen but this time I allow a voice over narration in my head to slip in and tell the story.
As a kid I spent a lot of time in my head slipping away into those stories. It was a way that I escaped dealing with bullies and being social with my classmates who all seemed to despise me for being different. Overall escaping into the worlds in my head allowed me a great power to visualize and manifest the worlds that I was dreaming up. It prepared me for being an artist.
DHS: I found when I was in the sex business that the lines tended to blur sometimes in a way that was not entirely comfortable. Does having sex professionally affect how you have sex personally?
MY: I don’t think that it does. It’s sometimes easier having sex professionally as there is this specific negotiated container for sex and passion and sexual exploration and to exist in. There is a charge and energy on set that is supportive of you exploring your edges.
In my personal life there are greater negotiations of space for sexual expression, sometimes our sex is closer, smaller, more intimate – largely because of energy levels of working all day and parenting all day and attempting to not wake up our sleeping toddler.
I prefer larger energy exchanges (although intimacy can be nice). We do get out of the house and create space for some of our larger than life kinky and sexual fantasies to fly high though. Mostly that happens at dungeon spaces or hotels or rental cars. I really want to try out the San Francisco Hook Up Truck. I’m hoping to try that this weekend with Daddy for his birthday.
DHS: Do people make assumptions about you because you make movies that have explicit sex in them?
MY: I’m sure they do but I don’t usually get to hear what those assumptions are. I’m very open with the people I meet about my work. I’m very grateful to live in the bay area where I feel there is greater acceptance of sex work than in many areas of the country. I feel like I’m also very accessible. When folks have questions or want to talk about the politics and inner workings of pornography and it’s social and culture impact/significance – I’m nearly always open and available to delve into that conversation. Those conversations to debunk negative and harmful stereo-types that are propagated through the media.
DHS: What kind of pornography turns you on? What kind of pornography turns you off?
MY: I love beautiful porn. Erotic films that capture the beauty of the body, the beauty of sexual desire. The erotic films and porn I enjoy often have an artistic edge to them. I love a lot of the old Vivid Alt films by Eon McKai, Dana Dearmond and Kimberly Kane. I tend to like films with heavy kink elements to them, queer sex, connected, hot sweaty, expressions of lust and desire.
Its a huge turn off if I’m watching a porn and I feel like the performers are not actually having an incredible time or are absent or disconnected – that’s just a huge turn off.
The porn that I shoot and direct is a big turn on for me. It’s like looking through a photo album of pleasure induced moments with on and off screen partners. All these years I’ve been documenting my own sexual evolution, and that really turns me on.
DHS: The word feminist has become so loaded in our culture? How do you define it in your life and in your work?
MY: Feminism with in the context of my life focuses on empowerment and choice. Choice of gender expression, choice to love, choice to express and articulate my sexual desires. Feminism informs my submission, my politics, my work, my writing, my film making, the way I make art, the way I parent. It involves a degree of consciousness of the intersections of systematic oppression, how to operate with in or outside of those systems, self awareness of how our individual actions contribute to larger existing power struggles.
Feminism with in my parenting looks like empowering my child with knowledge of self – asking my child what their preferred gender expression or preferred name is rather than assuming roles based on the sex they were assigned at birth. I empower my child with knowledge about their body – names for their body parts: vulva, anus, uterus. My child knows how to negotiate space for themselves, how to ask for consent to hug or kiss another person and knows that others must ask for their consent to gift affection toward them. Teaching agency over one’s body is a key factor in how feminism plays into my parenting.
I also emphasize through a mantra with my toddler ” Be gentle to yourself, Be gentle to others, Be Gentle to the world around you.” Very simple yet very radical.
Many of these same simple feminist concepts I carry with me into my own work. Both expressing consent and agency over my own body and facilitating space for others to communicate the type of affection they wish to exchange with one another, facilitating that negotiation and then documenting it. Facilitating space and celebration of gender expression. Advocating for my own self care on set, advocating for other’s self care. Being gentle with myself, with others and with the world around me.
We don’t talk about things in our house using words like good and bad. I’m trying to do away with this binary way of thinking. Life is much more complex than that. We talk about how anyone is capable of being gentle or not gentle. A police officer might have a job of being gentle but I’ve seen some cops being down right not gentle at protests for nothing more than occupying space in this world. The radical gentle. Radical love. Love. Loving gentle actions. So simple yet so radical.
DHS: Was it difficult taking the seemingly random events of life and crafting a random out of them into a book? Was it difficult revealing yourself on the page?
MY: Yes it was definitely a challenge. I had to simultaneously create enough space from my life to view myself as a character in a narrative and craft a very specific story from very specific scenes in my life while delving into really personal emotionally intimate and challenging moments. It was a challenge and I’m so happy that I had such a great team at Rare Bird that I was working with to really focus the story. There are so many very significant people and elements of my life that just didn’t make it into the book because it wasn’t absolutely essential in the telling of this story. I try to frame the story by letting the reader know they are only reading one slice of my life. This memoir could have been told a dozen different ways. Maybe some of those stories will come to fruition in future books. It was really hard editing and approving edits for the memoir though. Seeing people or parts of your life not make it to the final cut, that was hard. There’s just such an emotional investment there. But then I’d take a step back from it and see the art that we were sculpting, the essential elements of the story, carving out everything that isn’t that story. Regarding revealing myself, some chapters were definitely more difficult than others. I wanted to just revel in the chapters that were filled with love and lust. The chapters dealing with topics like sobriety, depression and infidelity – those were difficult chapters. But it felt really healthy and cathartic making my way through the tough stuff.
DHS: What advice do you have for beginning writers? Beginning adult filmmakers?
MY: For beginning adult filmmakers I’m facilitating the first ever 3 day- 30 hour Erotic Film School(www.EroticFilmSchool.com) in which students will have the opportunity to create a film in a collaborative, hands on experience working with industry professionals as we tackle everything from pre production: shot lists and model negotiations to post production: editing and submitting films for erotic film festivals. For anyone interested in erotic film making I highly recommend applying at www.EroticFilmSchool.com . Also I’m currently working on my next book, the DIY Porn Handbook:Documenting Our Own Sexual Revolution.
For film makers and writers I encourage really developing a practice. Don’t wait for some magical time or degree to pick up a pen or a camera. Borrow a camera, shoot on your iPhone, start viewing the world through a lens and see what you see. What do you gravitate toward? Where do you find beauty? Get to know yourself as an artist through your practice. Volunteer or intern for a working artist, filmmaker or writer. Study them and the way that they work. I’m always staffing volunteers and interns to assist me with my projects at http://IAmTeamMadison.wordpress.com . Be fearless in your pursuit of your passion, your truth.
Madison Young is a sex positive Tasmanian devil. This sexpert grew up in the suburban landscape of Southern Ohio before moving to San Francisco, California in 2000. Since then this mid-western gal has dedicated her days to facilitating safe space to dialogue on the topic of fringe identities and cultures as well as documenting healthy expression of sexuality. Young’s breadth of work in the realm of sexuality spans from documenting our sexual culture in her feminist erotic films to serving as the Artistic Director of the forward thinking non-profit arts organization, Femina Potens Art Gallery. She can be found on Twitter @madisonyoung.
David Henry Sterry is the author of 16 books, including Johns, Marks, Tricks and Chicken Hawks: Professionals and Clients Writing about Each Other and Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys: Professionals Writing on Life, Love, Money and Sex, which was featured on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. His new book is Chicken: Self-Portrait of a Young Man for Rent (10-Year Anniversary Edition). He can be found on Twitter @sterryhead.
I was 17, studying existentialism at Immaculate Heart College, when I got sucked into the sex business in Hollywood. I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I thought, “I have no money, I have no family, I have no resources, I think I’d like to have sex for money.” I was just in the right place at the right time. That’s how it is with lots of the sex workers I know.
Sporting my nut hugging elephant bells, I arrived in Laurel Canyon, an enchanted eucalyptus oasis in the middle of this Hollywood smogfarm metropolis. As I entered the log cabin house set behind a wildflower jasmine jungle, a solid block of patchouli incense musk nearly knocked me over. With driftwood tie-dye batik beanbags windchimes macrame´ hanging plants and Mexican day-of-the-dead skeleton art everywhere, it looked like Woodstock exploded in Rainbow’s house, as this boomed out:
“Driving that train, high on cocaine, Casey Jones, you better watch your speed”
Rainbow had long straight grey hair, feather earrings and a floor length tie-dye dress with a dopey hippie happy face on it. No make-up. No shoes.
“Namaste. Enter. Would you like some ginseng tea?” wafted out of Rainbow.
The customer’s always right. When in Rome, drink ginseng tea. While she fetched me tea I survey lots of pots of pot plants. Rainbow returned with my tea in a psychedelic homemade mug with a drawing of some dopey hippie happy face on it. The tea smelled too earthy and dank for drinking, but I brought the Mother Earth medicine scent up to my lips and siped.
It was good. And good for me.
“Do you dig the dead?”
Rainbow looked at me like she expected something. I was confused. Was this some weird necrophilia deal Mr. Hartley, my employment counselor/father confessor/fairy godmother/pimp, forgot to tell me about? I made a mental note: Find out what’s the going rate for having sex with dead people. But perhaps more importantly, do I feel comfortable shopping a dead person?
“I believe Jerry Garcia is the physical embodiment of the Godhead, don’t you?”
Jerry Garcia! The Grateful Dead. That’s who belonged to that dopey hippie happy face. Jerry Garcia! I saw me digging a grave and putting a gratefully dead Jerry Garcia in it.
“Oh yeah, Jerry Garcia is a total Godhead. Yeah, I definitely dig the Dead…”
I trotted out my best hippieboy smile. Actually, I couldn’t’ve cared less about the Dead. Or the dead. Rule #5: the customer is always right. I was there to get paid. I looked around for my envelope. No envelope. I didn’t like that. I was looking for a low-maintenance score, get in, get out, badda bing badda boom. Relax, cowboy, you’re gonna get paid, go with the flow, flowing, in the flow. Hey, someone wants to pay me to say Jerry Garcia is the physical embodiment of the Godhead, that’s Easy Money.
“Give me your hand,” Rainbow said.
I gave her the hand. She took it.
“You have big hands,” she said.
In my line of work that was a compliment.
“Thank you,” I said.
She looked at me funny, like it wasn’t a compliment at all, just a statement of fact. But she didn’t really seem to care, she looked into my palm like it held the key to the sweet mysteries of life.
GET THE MONEY UP FRONT
GET THE MONEY UP FRONT
GET THE MONEY UP FRONT
Only the newest greenhorn in Greenhornville doesn’t get the money up front. This is what separates the rank amateur from the hard working professional. You’re not here to have a good time, Charley, you’re here to get paid.
But Rainbow had produced nothing, and I could tell she’d be just the sort who’d get all bent if a guy mentioned something as crass as cash.
So I sat and stewed as Rainbow gazed into the crystal ball of my palm.
After she stared at my palm for what seemed like a month, Rainbow was starting to seem demented. I was convinced she was a Charlie Manson groupie with a garotte she was going to use to sacrifice me and the goat I was sure was in the backyard.
I was starting to have serious doubts about Rainbow. About this whole line of work. I had enough money. I could excuse myself like I’m going to the bathroom and walk out and just drive. But again the question: Where would I go? Who would I go to? I had nowhere. I had no one.
“You’re a very old soul…” Rainbow concluded.
You said a mouthful there, sister.
“…and you‘ve lived many lives…you were an explorer and sailed all over the world… and you were a sultan with many women. You were a mighty warrior in battle, and you were a slave on a plantation…”
Rainbow looked into me like she had periscopes that went through my eyes.
That was when I noticed her for the first time. In all the confusion I hadn’t really seen her. She had deep eyes, steel-colored with flecks of cobalt. A big Scandihoovian Bergman madly-suffering but eternally hopeful face. I half expected Death to walk out of her bedroom and challenge me to a game of chess for my soul.
“You’re here to learn a lesson, and I’m here to teach you…” Said Rainbow.
Okay, it’s a hot-for-hippy-teacher thing. I breathed easy.
“Do you know what tantric sex is?” Rainbow asked.
I could dish some semicoherent gobbledygook about ancient mystic Asian sex, but she wanted me to be the blissfully ignorant manmoonchild, so naturally I turned myself into whatever she wanted me to be. That was my job.
“No, I don’t…”
Rainbow handed me a smile, and led me through a translucent tie-dye cloth door into a bed with a room around it. It was the biggest bed I’d ever seen. Overhead, high in the tall pointed ceiling was a skylight, where incense curled up thick from fat Buddha bellies; candles tossed soft little drops of light everywhere; elephantheaded Indian gods with massive genitalia copulated with lionheaded goddesses; statue women stared with dozens of breasts; a halfman halfbull was inside a godhead with a doghead; Japanese paintings of Jade-looking beautybabies intercoursed in every position imaginable, one leg up over an ear, the other wrapped around a head; Old French postcards of cherubinesque honeys were Frenched and doggied; a guy went down (or would that be up?) on himself; and a shrine of rosebudvaginas and phalluspeni smiled. Pillows and cushions plump velvety; blankets, fur, and fat cloth made me feel like a cat, and I wanted to roll around getting my belly stroked while nubile handmaidens fed me catnip.
A sculpture of a vagina started talking to me: “Hi, David, welcome to the party, come on in.”
And in the center of it all a big picture of a dark man with long black curly hair and brown magnets for eyes that kept staring at me no matter where I went in the room, it was freaky. He was hard and soft at the same time. I’d never seen the guy, but he looked familiar, like he was the kind of guy who could set you straight if you were floundering around. And I was so very full of flounder at the moment. I made a mental note to find a wise, kind, benevolent guru teacher as soon as I left Rainbow’s. I’m still looking.
“That’s Baba Ram Wammmalammadingdong,” said Rainbow.
I was sure she didn’t really say that, but that’s what it sounded like to my 17 year-old man child idiot ears, all Dr. Seussy.
“He’s the master of sensual enlightenment.”
That’s what I wanna be when I grow up: master of sensual enlightenment.
“Sexual transcendance can only happen when you are connected to the life force that flows through all living things,” breathed Rainbow. “You have to open, I mean really open, all of your… shock absorbers.”
Years later I would realize it was my chakras and not my shock absorbers that needed opening, but at the time I couldn’t care less. I’d open my shock absorbers, my athletic supporters, my cookie jar, whatever she wanted. I just needed to get paid, and I needed to get paid IMMEDIATELY. I was seeking enlightenment through cold hard cash.
“Why don’t we start by meditating?”
Rainbow settled into a big comfy-womfy cushy cushion crosslegged, and motioned for me to do the same.
I balked. I’m naturally curious by nature, I was very interested in the whole third-eye transcendent sex thing, and picking up some exotic kinky eastern sex tips would’ve been grand, but I had to get my money UP FRONT.
I sighed quiet. I knew for a fact it will not help us achieve harmony with the life force that flows through all living things if I told Rainbow she needed to pay me IMMEDIATELY.
I was dreadfully dithered.
But just when things were looking their most dodgy, the gods smiled upon me, and Rainbow, God love her, new what I needed and could not ask for.
“Oh, shit, you need some bread, don’t you?” she said.
I could’ve cried. I saw this as a clearcut sign that I was being taken care of by something bigger than myself.
Rainbow got out of crosslegged, rummaged through an old macrame´ bag, and returned with four skanky twenties, a nasty ten, a funky five, four filthy ones and a bunch of loose change, then handed me the whole kitandkaboodle.
I was starting to dig this crazy chick. I could see her scrimping and saving to give herself a treat. Me. I was the treat for my trick. I vowed then and there to be a pot of gold for this Rainbow.
“Opening the gate that leads to the garden of earthly delights can only be achieved through a woman’s pleasure.”
Rainbow paused to make sure I got it.
“Opening the gate that leads to the garden of earthly delights can only be achieved through a woman’s pleasure.”
She looked at me intensely, so I understood how important this was.
So I thought about it hard. It was comforting to have someone telling me what to think about. I didn’t have to make any decisions, and that moment, decisions were just disasters waiting to happen.
Garden of earthly delights. A woman’s pleasure. A woman’s orgasm. Tumblers click in my head, a lock snapped open, and I saw the light. A woman’s pleasure was the key to sexual ecstasy. Now that I had my money, I was keenly interested in this whole thing.
“A man can have multiple orgasms… most people don’t know that, but it’s true. And I can show you how to do it.” Rainbow said with absolute conviction.
Multiple orgasms? Hell, I had one and it nearly kills me. But I was crazy curious to see if I could incorporate some clitoris into my penis.
“There’s a line where your orgasm is, it’s kinda like a waterfall. See, it’s like you’re in a beautiful warm river, and the current is pulling you along, and you’re headed towards the waterfall, you’re getting closer and closer… until you’re hanging right there on the edge of the waterfall, but you’re not letting yourself go over. You just get inside your own orgasm, and you can stay there as long as you want, as long as you don’t release. Do you know what release means?”
Yeah, I think I got the idea.
“No, what do you mean?” I asked.
“Your release is your ejaculation. So you can orgasm without ejaculating,” Rainbow said carefully.
And the weird thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. River, waterfalls, release, the whole shebang.
“I know it sounds totally… far out… but if you can wrap your cosmic mind around this, you’ll always have lots of groovy lovemaking in your life. You probably won’t get it tonight, but it’s something you can always practice. By yourself, with a partner, doesn’t matter. In the words of Baba Ram Wammalammadingdong, ‘Practice makes perfect.’”
I was starting to really like this Wammalammadingdong guy.
“Wow, that sounds… far out.” I’d never said far out before or since, but Rainbow ate it up like wavy gravy with a tie-dye spoon.
She took off her robe. She was the only industrial sex customer I ever had who took off her clothes while I still had mine on. And for an old broad (again with the proviso that anyone over the age of twenty-five years was Old) she had a riproaring body. Supple muscles firm lithe and graceful, breasts slung low, with big brown chocolate kiss nipples in the middle. Mental note to self: as far as books go, don’t judge them by their covers.
Rainbow seemed to be one of those rare people who was actually comfortable with her own naked body.
“You have a beautiful body…” I would’ve said it whether it was true or not, but in this case it was true, which did makes it easier.
She liked it. She wasn’t desperate like lots of my other clients, but she liked it.
“Do whatever makes you happy,” said Rainbow.
“Do you want me to take my clothes off?” Just trying to keep the customer satisfied.
Wow. Whatever made me happy. Reminded me of my mom. No one said that to me in real life, never mind when I was chickening.
Seemed like if you were gonna learn to orgasm without ejaculating, you should be naked. So I took off my clothes. Rainbow set opposite me crosslegged on that continent of a bed. I tried, but I just couldn’t get the crosslegged thing going. My pedophile grandfather’s coalminer soccerplaying legs were just too unyielding. I was tugging and pulling, cuz I was trying to suck it up and play through the pain, but damn, that shit hurt.
“Don’t do it if it hurts. Don’t do anything that hurts…” Rainbow flows. You gotta hand it to the hippies, when it comes to peace and love and all that business, they really know their shit.
Rainbow showed me how to deepbreathe, and we deepbreathe until we felt the life force flowing through us. I didn’t actually feel the life force flowing through me as such, but she did, and that was good enough for me. The crumpled bills in my pocket were filling me with the life force.
Rainbow and I Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmed for about a fortnight. Eventually I did feel a little lightheaded, like when I first smoked a cigarette. But hey, if she wanted to pay me to breathe and say om, that was rolling off a log for a chicken.
Finally when Rainbow was om’d out, she took my hand, placed it on her breast, looked me in the eyes, and with a hypnotic smile showed me how to roll that mammoth mammarian poolcue tip between my thumb and forefinger, and it got bigger and tighter, until it felt like it was ready to pop, while she made airsuck sounds of pleasure.
I could smell her now, Rainbowing as she made my hand the axis between her legs around which she gyrated, nestling my head into her neck and whispering, “Kiss me soft…”
I ate her neck like a fruitcake while she revved in growly moans, everything moved in rhythm like a well-oiled sex machine, the fur blanket softly soft as she guided me like an air traffic controller. Then Rainbow replaced my hand with my mouth and she huffed and she puffed like she was gonna blow the house down, jimjamming and earthquakeshaking.
I smiled inside. I was getting a crash course in the fine art of a woman’s orgasm, and I was getting paid for it. America–what a country!
“Now I’m right there,” she pants, “…if I let myself, I’d go right over the waterfall… but… I’m… not… I’m gonna stay… right here and let the… waves roll through me… there’s one… slow down… Stop!” Rainbow squeezed, fists clenching and unclenching like a baby breastfeeding, “…now slow… there’s another one… ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… God…”
Rainbow let rip with a top-of-the-lungs scream. A gigantic little death. When she collapsed at the tip of my tongue, I understood for the first time what they were talking about, as time warped, Einstein smiling somewhere, eternity in a second, infinity in a grain of sand.
I thought of busting my ass in the grease of Hollywood Fried Chicken. I thought of my father slaving away at the explosives plant. I thought about my grandfather shovelling coal down the mine. I sure as hell wouldn’t be getting black lung disease from this.
A rainbow slowly descended from Orgasm Mountain, while I stood next to her, nakedly rolling my big huge rock up my big huge hill.
After a brief intermission, Act II began. She pulled me into the river, took me right to the edge of the waterfalls, and then stopped. The most important thing, she said, was to turn off your mind, and move into your body. You can’t think and swim at the same time.
Once a man plunges over the waterfalls in his barrel, of course, it’s all over for him. For a while at least. So you have to be very careful and really pay attention. I practiced getting right on the edge and just sticking there. And it was good. When she did something particularly compelling, I felt the spray in my face and the pull of the fall, and by God, quivers did quiver me, then I quickly pulled myself back.
Rainbow was my Seeingeye sexdog.
“Wow, that was groovy…” I said, when it was clear we were done.
Groovy? I couldn’t believe that came out of my mouth, but as usual I’d ceased to exist in my need to please.
I didn’t know what to do next. Should I hang out? Were we friends? I thought for a minute. I still didn’t feel that creeping mudslide of depression I usually got after I worked as a chicken. I was just a little confused, that’s all. But looking around I could see myself moving right in here and being the sextoy for all of Rainbow’s old greatbodied freakyhippie chicks. Sounded like fun, I think, as I grabbed at another salvation flotation device.
“I have something for you…” Rainbow was sweet as you please, slipping into an old soft tie-dye robe. I followed at her heels like a naked chickenpuppy. She reached in a drawer and I was expecting a nice fat juicy tip. Twenty, maybe fifty. Instead Rainbow pulled the out a feather.
“It’s an earring,” said Rainbow.
I had to work hard not to show how totally disgusted I was as I took out the rhinestone in my ear and replaced it with the feather. I looked in the mirror. To my amazement, I actually liked the way it looked. Kind of tribal. Even though I silently scoffed when she presented it to me, that feather became a war souvenir, and I wore it on and off for many years.
And whenever I did, I thought of Rainbow.
She kissed me on both cheeks. She thanked me. I thanked her. She didn’t say we should get together again soon, or that we should stay in touch. I loved that. I did what I came to do, we both got what we wanted, and that, as they say, was that.
Rainbow was the only trick I ever had who gave me more than I gave her.
Motorcycling away from Rainbow, floating on my feather earring in the sweetness of the cool Laurel Canyon night, I was high on Rainbow’s free love.
That she paid for.
If having sex for money were always this good, I’d still be an industrial sex technician.
David Henry Sterry is the author of 16 books, a performer, muckraker, educator, activist, and book doctor. His new book Chicken Self:-Portrait of a Man for Rent, 10 Year Anniversary Edition has been translated into 10 languages. He’s also written Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys: Professionals Writing on Life, Love, Money and Sex, which appeared on the front cover of the Sunday New York Times Book Review. He is a finalist for the Henry Miller Award. He has appeared on, acted with, written for, been employed as, worked and/or presented at: Will Smith, a marriage counselor, Disney screenwriter, Stanford University, National Public Radio, Milton Berle, Huffington Post, a sodajerk, Michael Caine, the Taco Bell chihuahua, Penthouse, the London Times, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, a human guinea pig and Zippy the Chimp. He can be found at www.davidhenrysterry.com. https://davidhenrysterry.com/
Conceived & performed by the dancer herself!
Rumors of the death of male stripping in America are greatly exaggerated. I know, because recently on a dark dank Saturday night, I took the Queen of LA Stripper Intelligensia, 5’10” Private Dancer/Nordic goddess Nica Jensen, to the seedy sweet scrotum of Hollywood, Arena Nightclub, Santa Monica & Highland, where The Hollywood Men were reportedly going to be shakin and bakin their moneymakers, while frenzied females shriek & wave seas of money for dick-filled lap dances. Needless to say, me and Nica are highly skeptical. We’re early.
The club seats 500 people. So far there are only 7 lovely Latinas at one table, decked out in the height of East LA fashion. One wears a white wedding veil. One is in a wheelchair. They are already drinking heavily. Looks like we’re in for a long night. We’re greeted by Dan Remington, the emcee/part owner of The Hollywood Men. He’s a 16 pound bowling ball of a guy with slick hair and matching handshake, surrounded by a surprisingly nice smile. He is, and will remain, fully clothed, and is the only performer who will be able to say that. He tells us that December sucks, it’s the worst time of year, which is true in so very so many ways, in my opinion. You can see he’s a little worried that no screaming ladies are going to show up, and without them, it’s a very different show. But during the bachelorette season, Dan tells us, there are 500 women here 3 times a week, in fact they had to move here because they outgrew the last place. Guys come from all over the world to audition, if you’re interested just call, make an appointment, come down, one guy was just in last week from Europe, came all the way here to be a Hollywood Man. A kind of pilgrimage, I guess. Nica wants to know how many of the guys are gay. “NONE,” Dan Remington blurts a little too loud, then says softer, “None of the guys are gay. They’re not gay.” During the next 12 minutes he will tell us like nineteen more times how not gay all the guys are. Later Nica will say, “Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,” and I will laugh. Hard. Nica wants to know if any of the guys are married. We are told they are not. “They all have girlfriends,” Dan says, then leans in with a smile, “but almost all of them fool around.” Later Nica will tell me she has no trouble believing that, and I will laugh again, though not as hard this time. Nica wants to know where men sit if they want to watch. Dan tell us that no men ever come here to watch. In all these years, only one gay male couple came, and when they saw what the show was, they left. So none of the dancers or hosts or waiters are gay, and none of the audience is gay men. But what would happen, Nica wants to know, looking down at Dan, if a guy wanted to come and watch? “Well, we would sit him wherever he wanted to sit.” This satisfies Nica, which is a good thing, cuz you don’t wanna piss off Nica. Next we’re ushered into the dressing room to meet the brains and buns behind The Hollywood Men, the Sultan of Shwing, the King of the G-String, the dean of American male stripping, 1998 Playgirl Man of the Year, Scott Layne. If you called Central Casting and asked them to send over a male stripper, Scott Layne would show up. Even in sweats and a tank top, Scott exudes an utter American maleness, gunboats bulging, buff with mantan, hardbody with soft smile, chiselly cheeks with charmy eyes. I’ve known Scott since New York Chippendale’s, where we worked together, and he first became a star under the late great Nick de Noia, the Grand Daddy dandy of modern American male stripping. I’m happy to see him. And he me, apparently, as evidenced by the big bear hug he lays on me. Hug-wise I give as good as I get. Not in a gay way. I want to emphasize that. It’s a deeply heterosexual hug, the hug of men who’ve fought together in the trenches of the battle of the sexes, comrades in codpieces, me armed with roller skates, tux and microphone, Scott with the smallest G-string the law would allow. The show’s gonna start in half an hour, and I ask him if he’s nervous. “Why would you be nervous?” Scott and Nica answer at the same time. The mark of a true professional. Nica wants to know what the chances are of a woman buying a ticket, attending the show, and taking home a Hollywood Man. “Depends on how good looking she is,” Scott smiles. Sounds about right. Nica wants to know what Scott thinks turns a woman on. “For me, it’s all about sharp moves, quick moves, that are sensual and sexy without being graphic. I hate it when guys get graphic, that’s not what most women want to see. And I hate when dancers don’t pay attention to older women, to women who aren’t traditionally hot. Look, women are all about the chase. Men want to cut to the chase. Women love the tease in strip tease. Men are like, ‘Bend over and show it to me.’” Nica nods. Sounds about right. We’re ushered back out into the club, and glorioski, there are like a hundred women buzz-cocking around, power-drinking, primping, whispering, giggling, babbling in gaggles, a dozen white wedding veils waving like snow covered clouds drifting towards the land of Marriage. As the ladies chill, mill, and spill female hormones, half-nude spandexed cuffed and collared hunk Hosts hustle drinks and smear muscle-bulging flirtatious bodacious charm all over the women. All of a sudden this seems like it could be fun. The women seem like they’re already having a blast. With each other. Every little grouplet has the same kind of hair, the same kind of outfit, like different tribes, all with their own unique plumage. I don’t see one single woman here by herself. They are pack animals. Female strip clubs are loaded with lone wolves. Nica starts drinking. This is a good sign. She leans over and tells me that in a female strip club, if you say the girls are into having sex with each other, this is considered a very good thing. I tell her I think it’s the specter of a homophobic Puritanical low-touch erotophobic machocentric culture. Nica agrees. She chortles: “And for God’s sake, how do they know they’re not gay, what do they do, give them all some kind of gay test?” I laugh at that, too, as I imagine having to take a gay test: fashion sense, artistic ability, fellatio skills. More women are streaming in, and by Jiminy, there must be close to 200 women here. Me and Nica are impressed. Our waiter is cut, ripped, lean yet pec-heavy, hard-haired and ab-happy. It looks like it would hurt your fist if you punched his stomach. He doesn’t seem gay. He doesn’t really seem straight either. He seems kind of asexual to me. Like he’s a Ken doll, and if you took down his black Spandex, a smooth bump would be there. He seems like an accountant. Nica asks him if he dreamed of being a topless waiter when he was a kid. He laughs and says that he did not, that’s it’s a great part time gig. Nica asks him what he does apart from this. Turns out he is an accountant. Seriously. When he’s gone I ask Nica if she thinks he’s sexy. She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Not my type,” says Nica. “If there was some nerd here with glasses and a slide rule in his pocket, that would be more my speed.” Then all of a sudden, BOOM! lights go down, sound goes up, and Scott’s voice booms through the room: It’s Showtime. There’s smoke, there’s a big video screen, there’s crazy swirling lights, and when the first Hollywood Man busts onto the stage, a scream comes up from the ladies, a primal lioness roar that rattles my teeth, rolls through my bones, and lights up my balls like Chinese New Year, as I’m hot-wired right into all that grrrrl power. Nica looks over at me. She’s into it. The women are into it. She leans over and whispers: “There’s a lot of really beautiful women here, aren’t there?” I nod in agreement. There are. 5 Men pop out onto stage and do a hiphoppy Fosse meets Backstreet Boys choreography, and the women are up on their feet, like at a Southern Baptist church when the spirit lifts the congregation. Nothing like this in a female strip club. Big video presentation, clips of movies and local news segments featuring the Hollywood Men show, in front of all that tight seemless choreography. The men do take their shirts and pants off in the opening number, but not until they take off their jackets and shirts, unbuttoning and removing little by little. When they get down to their skivvies, the estrogen laden roar bounces off the walls. Now we’re into the numbers. Each is almost a Jungian American archetype: Top Gun, An Officer and a Gentleman, the Cowboy, the Fireman, the Vampire. They all start off with lots of costume, surrounded many times by other dancers. Slowly they take it off while lip synching, until they take down their underpants to reveal their teeny G-strings. When they get to this point, they all make the same move: they turn around and bend over, their asses shining like a big happy heartmoon. The women seem to love that. They writhe, they undulate, they simulate intercourse, poundpoundpounding into the floor. They pour oil on themselves. The men touch themselves on their covered penis areas quite a bit. The women seem to love that, too. But honestly, after a while, the perfect smooth hairless chestpecs and the perfect smooth hairless 6 pacs, and the perfect smooth hairless asses all blend one into the other. Mind you the women are great. They are so much fun to watch. I love how they enjoy the show through each other. Understand this: in terms of sexual orientation, I am 70%, 20% lesbian, and 10% gay, so this show is not, as has been pointed out repeatedly, intended for me. But I did 2 years at Chippendale’s when it was the hottest show in New York City, so I know my way around men taking their clothes off. Plus, that’s why I brought the lovely and talented Nica, because she likes men and finds them sexual. Plus she’s taken her clothes off in front of them for money, and she’s not ashamed to say so. Plus she’s watched a lot of men watching women take their clothes off. So after every act, I turn to Nica and I ask, “Was that hot? Did that guy turn you on? What that sexy?” Every time she shakes her head and says, “No.” It’s not that she’s having a bad time. She’s actually enjoying the show. It’s just that none of these beekcakey bodies is beaming out any real sexuality. That’s what it seems like to me, and Nica confirms this. Then Scott Layne comes out, and she sees why he’s a star. He’s Danny Zuko from Grease, ducktail, tight leather pants and jacket. Behind him on the screen is John Travolta playing Danny Zuko from Grease. The effect is cooly postmodern in a Warholian way. The movie icon duplicated by the live male stripper icon. And Scott pulls it off, the same cocky shy nice intense calm vibe beaming out of both of them, stripper as movie star. Only Scott actually sings. He’s got a mike, and he’s singing. At first I don’t believe it, because his rockabilly Elvis thing very good. But then there’s a little slip, and it clearly is him singing. Nica turns to me and she nods and says, “Wow, he’s really good.” And you can see it really isn’t the meat, and it’s really is the motion. It’s the power and the skill that comes from having perfected a craft, being able to channel the Sex muse effortlessly with talent. Scott blows the roof off the joint, as the women go gaga. Afterwards I ask Nica if she thought he was sexy. She hesitates. Thinking. “He’s really good. I really enjoyed him, he’s a total pro, the guy is really talented.” Next up comes a guy in a bad female wig and skirt, with balloons shoved down his feminine sweater. It’s as if Jerry Lewis has decided to become a male stripper. Nica is intrigued. To a hip hop Spike Jones-ish soundtrack, this guy does an old school burlesque silent comedy number. And he’s fucking funny. With amazing control of his body. Slowly the wig, sweater and skirt come off, and he’s sporting a goofy Clark Kent meets Devo wig, with a Superman shirt. He shifts the balloons from his chest to his crotch, magically transforming them from huge breasts into gigantic balls. And the guy is an astonishing mindbending breakdancing fool. Isolating his body and moving the parts independently of each other in freakishly funny bendability, in the great tradition of vaudeville eccentric dancers like Donald O’Connor, with the good looks and athletic muscular grace of Gene Kelly, all filtered through new millenium streetwise edgy urban modernism. It is a breathtaking performance. I ask Nica if he was sexy. Her eyes have gone a bit dreamy in the middle of her creamy round face, and she nods her head: Yes. Nica’s got a crush on the guy. I ask her why. She tells me it’s because he diffused the manufactured, corporate asexual vibe with HUMOR. That ironically, a nice dose of humanity is still what entices more than a shapely butt and a bulging G-string.
Now one lucky gal who wins a lottery gets to sit on a chair in the middle of the stage. 5 guys disrobe down to their wee G-strings and towels. Then they gather in a tight circlejerk formation around her, facing her, and appear to remove their wee G-strings while opening their towels and exposing their johnsons and willies to her. The audience goes nuts and bananas. I thought if I was surrounded by 5 beautiful women and they all exposed their nakedness at me, I would like to see that. That is probably a sight that I could work into a fantasy that I could masturbate to. In fact now that I’ve thought about it, maybe I will. Okay, I’m back.
Now all that remains is the up-close-and-personal, interactive, hands-on segment of the show, where the Hollywood Men actually come out into the audience, and the women wave the money, or plant in their cleavage, or in their panties peaking out from under their tight jeans. And I’m telling you, when they climb down from that stage like so many Collosuses of Rome, it is an absolute free-4-all. Unlike in a female strip joint, there are no beefy security guys to stop the clients from mauling the dancers. And the fur is definitely flying. There are at least 6 dancers, naked but for small black underpants, working the room. And I mean working. You hear little random screams and squeals and shrieks as little knots of females gather around dancers like menstrual blood clotting. Every veil-clad bride-to-be in attendance gets at least one lap dance, and most of them get many. The dancer generally comes over to the woman with the dollar bill flag flying (either held by herself, or more usually, her friends) and the dancer takes the bill, then undulates around and into the woman. Many breasts and necks are nuzzled. Male faces are buried into crotch areas. Female hands stroke and fondle and feel up smooth hairless powerful male chests and bellies, and grab a package or two. Sometimes a dancer literally disappears into a forest of females, so you couldn’t even see him anymore. The 7 Latinas who were the first ones in the place are whooping and halloring and dancing. I have to admit it’s great to see a woman dancing in a wheelchair. Then she gets a lap dance, and the guy is really great with her, sexy and nice and respectful. She’s digging it. Then the bride-tobe gets her own lap dance, and she digs it even more. I gotta say, the room is really hyper-charged with sexenergy. Next to me, a truly stunning woman has stuffed a bill in her thong panties peeking out from under her tight jeans. As she slides down onto the booth/chair, the bill disappears. She tried unsuccessfully to fish it out. He tries grabbing it with his teeth. With as little success. She unbuckles her belt, unsnaps her jeans and parts the zipper like it’s a pare of beautiful vaginal lips, revealing her stunningly sexy lower belly. The dancer hesitated, then goes down. He nibbles around the bill, then slowly and seductively pulls it out of the string of her thong thing. I have to admit I was jealous. I wanted to be that dancer. This moment illustrates the best of the audience participation section, what at Chippendale’s used to be called the Kiss & Tip. I did see a couple of the guys pull women’s hair, yanking heads into crotches with what I thought was too much force. Some women seemed to like that. Other seemed put off when the dancer moved away. Regardless, MUCH MUCH money exchanged hands, and MANY MANY hands roved over ACRES & ACRES of naked flesh. I wanted to give Nica the opportunity to have a lap dance if she was into it. I was curious what her reaction would be to getting one, having given so many herself. I asked her if she wanted one. She nodded enthusiastically. This is just one of the things we love about Nica. Guess who she wants a lap dance from? Funny wildly talented smiling sweet guy. Naturally. I have to admit I felt a little odd asking this guy wearing nothing but tiny black underpants if he would give my friend a lap dance, but only because all that gay talk before the show made me afraid I would disrupt the delicate balance of the show. Me, I don’t give a shit, I just want Nica to have her lap dance. So I find the guy and tell him what I want, and he’s the very model of accommodation. Nica gives him the money. The guy’s got curly brown soft hair, as opposed to the hard sculpted look of so many of the other guys. He looks her in the eyes as he pulsates and undulates rhythmically before her. She sinks down into her chair as he moves in closer and closer to her until his smooth supple rippling skin is inches from her lips. Nica seems to be really enjoying her lap dance. She puts her hands on his chest. He is gentle with her, but still seems capable of rocking her world. He is professional, but slightly removed, an amazing mover with a supple lithe physicality and a serious soulfulness, although he doesn’t seem emotionally engaged like he did on stage. He spends a good 5 minutes with Nica before he kisses her on the cheek and takes off. Nica’s cheeks are flushing and her eyes are alive. I ask her if she enjoyed her lap dance. She says she did.
Then it’s on to the big slam bang finale, and Scott’s bringing the show home. Everybody gets their bows and applause, and then the lights are coming up. I go over to the 7 Latinas who were the first ones in the place. Turns out the lady in the wheelchair is the mother of the woman in the white bridal veil. They’re laughing and carrying on and having a grand old time. Turns out the veiled bride-to-be is getting married next Saturday. Her boyfriend knows she’s here. He told her to go out and have a good time. That’s why she’s marrying him. She points out the dancer Nica has a crush on and says, “Tell him, ‘Oh my God!” Just tell him that for me. ‘Oh my God!’” Her mother in the wheelchair points to a picture of Scott. “Tell him that I’d like to take him home.” Everyone hoots and hollars. You can tell they’ll be telling this story for a very long time.
Me and Nica head backstage to the dressing room. Many men are in various stages of sweaty robing and disrobing. Nica sneaks peaks. Scott bounds over. I tell him how much I enjoyed his show, and how Nick his mentor would have been proud. Scott seems genuinely touched. Nica thanks him for a great show. Tells him what a great entertainer he is. It’s nice to watch, one pro to another, acknowledgment always meaning more coming from a peer. “I’ve been doing it long enough, I better be good at it,” Scott smiles with wry self-deprecation. “How long have you been dancing?” Nica wants to know. “Over twenty years,” Scott says. “Not bad for being 42 years old, huh?” Nica cannot believe Scott is 42. I can. Nica wants to know if we can interview her favorite dancer. Scott hooks us up. Chris Watters is his name. 2 T’s. With his clothes on he seems smaller. He’s well dressed casually, groomed, moving with an easy animal grace. He seems shy and earnest. He’s traveled all over the world dancing for women. He got his start Jane Mansfield style, only instead of at Schwabs, Chris was minding his own business dancing in a nightclub in Boise, Idaho, when a guy spotted him and recruited him into the male exotic dancing business. He’s currently running his own music production company, CMW Productions (cmwproductions.net) while going to school studying business administration. His parents are into him being a dancer. They’ve seen the show and they dig it. Nica wants to know what he’s learned about women taking his clothes off for them. He smiles and thinks. He’s a thoughtful guy who chooses his words carefully. “I see women from a totally different point of view. I see women at their worst, when they’re drunk and rude.” Pause. Thinking. “I put up a lot of walls.” Pause. Thinking. “Some dancing… table dancing, makes you feel creeped out… it’s too much… people cross boundaries. I like it a lot better when I can just get out on stage and do my thing. Women dancers are a lot more protected. It’s weird feeling like an object…” Pause. Thinking. “it makes you feel creepy… people can be so… I come home with scratches, and bruises, and bite marks, and I have no idea where they came from… it’s scary… sometimes rich women make you feel like shit, they think they can say anything they want, and they say cruel things, sometimes, they’re drunk, they look down their nose at me… it can get really ugly.” Pause. Thinking. “Like I said, I see women at their worst.” Nica wants to know if Chris is married. He confesses that he is. Me and Nica shoot each other knowing glances. The wife’s a gogo dancer. Not a stripper, he says a little too quickly. Like we’d care. But that’s part of this world, those fine lines that distinguish what you will do and what you won’t. Take off your clothes. Leave on your G-string. Sell a kiss. Let a customer touch you in your most tender netherparts. Selling your sexuality is a tricky thing, and the shading between trick and performer, john and gigolo, hustler and dancer is crucial for mental stability. You set your boundaries, and that is how you define yourself. A lot of male strippers at I worked with at Chippendale’s sold sex, but they would never call themselves a whore. Whereas, when I’ve worked with women from the next class of sex worker down the foodchain, the street ho, many embrace their ho-ness, “Yeah that’s right, I’m a ho, so you wanna fuck with me, I have got to get PAID!” Nica wants to know if he’s planning on having kids. God love Nica, she’s keeping us on track. Chris smiles that crazy sweet sexy shy smile: “Yeah.” I ask what he’d say if his son turned to him and said: “Daddy, when I grow up I want to be a male stripper!” “No way!” he laughs very loud. He’s got a nice easy laugh, which he’s laughed a couple of times, but this laugh is loaded with jaded cynical world-weariness. Nica wants to know why not. “Dancers get lazy. It’s too easy, the money. There’s no work ethic in this world.” He starts to say something, then hesitates, as if his internal censor stopped him. I ask him to elaborate, but he shies away. It makes him more interesting, that there is something withheld. Nica wants to know what he thinks women want. “Confidence with a smile. Even if you can’t dance, if you really have a good time out there, women like that. “ Pause. Thinking. Smile. “I try to use the golden rule. I do to others what I would want done to me.” Hard to argue with that. Nica shakes his hand. I shake his hand. Solid handshake. Single pump. Firm without having anything to prove.
As we leave Nica says what a sweet fragile soul he seemed, and confesses how she wants to rap him up in her arms and give him a big long hug, because he seems like he’s been so wounded. She’s surprised. She never thought guys would feel so much like she does about taking their clothes off for money. She reflects how heterosexual male stripping is more akin to the neo-burlesque movement that is sweeping the country, as opposed to the more anatomical direction female stripping has evolved into, where girls make a series of poses which illustrate what they would look like having sex. “If you can’t show them what you’d look like fucking, forget it, you’re not gonna make any money,” says Nica, and I can’t argue with that.
Then me and Nica walk out into the Hollywood night, where it’s not raining men, it’s just plain raining. And I can say without hesitation that male stripping is very much alive and kicking, kissing and tipping, every Friday and Saturday night in the City of Fallen Angels.
Sexy Saucy Sassy Miss Mary Cyn on Domination, Pork Rolls & True Love @ Sex Worker Literati
2. In Jennifer. The picture in her mind made her melt into wet.
William and Jennifer had discussed it. Many times. But neither thought the other could really go through with it.
The sun felt good. Blood hot. Bones melting into wet. Smell of coconut oil baking on warm skin. Seasalty air floats on the breeze thick with exotica, flowers purple red and yellow and all that green the greenest green they’d ever seen, sky so robin egg, kissing aqua velvet blue of ocean. The lush. The overgrown tropical paradise intoxication. Growing wild. Running amuck.
It was William’s idea to come here for their honeymoon. Kauaii. The Garden Island. And now here they were. Jennifer and William. Laying totally naked. Honeymooning. On Kauaii.
One day exploring, William and Jennifer drove to the end of a dirt rode, hiked a path through jungle and coconut trees, bright painted birds serenading them on the ukulele, a fat frog praying next to a flat black rock. A clearing opened like legs to reveal a small cove nestled away from the shoreline in balmy calm. Jennifer and William breathed in soft air, breathed out a sweet kiss into each other.
Two hundred yards up tender white belly of beach two wild white horses grazed in grass, nuzzling, gazing lazily at them. William and Jennifer felt the magic the blessing the gods gathering and smiling on their moon made of honey.
They came every day, until it was their beach. And their was never anyone else on their beach. Except those wild white horses.
William was washed with waves. He looked at Jennifer and smiled all over. Like he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. I, William James Osborne, am going to get to have this beautiful woman for the rest of his life. Yes, people may be starving, wars may be gone to hell, and the whole world may be all fucked up, but at least this one thing had worked out. As far as William was concerned this was a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes: he was gonna get to have Jennifer for the rest of his life.
Jennifer quarter-dozed and half-floated, the way she loved to do, not a care anywhere, sea-gulls scatting and waves tiding like the earth’s metronome. In. Out. In. Out. Years later when she would have trouble sleeping, a psychiatrist would ask her to visualize a peaceful place that made her feel completely relaxed. She pictured this beach. Their beach. Naked. Horses neighing and playing. Honey moon hanging heavy in the fragrant air. Honeymoon. She loved that word. It was every romantic fantasy she ever had, all rolled into one. Honey. Moon. And here she was.
Jennifer loved how his eyes were so wild and kind. How his hand moved over her body perfectly and pulled her into the crux of him. How his hair was different every day. It shocked her that he could get up in the morning and not look at himself in the mirror. Just go out into the world. No comb. No shave. No one-last-check-to-see-if-I’m-decent. She could old see herself growing old with him.
William loved the way her laugh tasted. Big goofy laugh blasting out of this so serious woman. How flat her belly was, and the way the bones of her hips jutted up and the curve of her thigh that smell that made his stomach jump. The way her face looked when he made her cum. He cold see himself kissing her big pregnant belly.
Eyes shut, he put his hand on her. Smile. Before she even knew it. His big finger in her mouth. Jennifer sucking on big finger. Sigh. Wet and tasty close at hand.
Jennifer felt her socket plugged in, juice jolting bolting through her, savage urgent rumbling. Jennifer sprang into action and the wet heat flooded her gates, William’s thick thicker, saluting him.
Jennifer had never had an orgasm before William. Never. But now, on their honey moony beach, his mouth sucking her finger in his throat, her orgasm peeked cheekily through a crack in her wall and wave wicked and willing.
William sucked slow deep. My goodness, Jennifer thought to herself, this is awfully fellatio-like, the way he’s sucking on my finger. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to disturb the spinning around them, creeping up into her belly making her move to the rhythm of the beat.
William pulled her up on top. Grabbed around the small of her, wrapping his arm, nestling his hard brown with his thick between her legs. Then her thumped her into him. Once. Thump. Quite took her breath away. She teased him about how he liked to thump her into him like that. But she loved was the one who loved it. That’s the truth.
Jennifer was always in control before William. Her whole life she waited for someone else to take control. Someone who knew what to do. Someone she could trust her nasty to.
She growled grindhumping into his. William lived to hear her growl. When he first met her of course she’s beautiful, any idiot can see that William was thinking but he never in a million years imagined that she was so growly. And now she was. Growling a honeymoon growl.
William took Jennifer’s in his hands, squeezed, right where the edge of her met her, just the right amount of pressure on her everything, just the way she likes it. Sweating all sticky salty wet coconut oil she slid up and down on his hard brown chest her breasts slippery slithery sliding gliding, wired into her buzzer.
Jennifer wondered what it would be like. William wondered what it would be like.
And he pulled her up all easy as you please, one knee either side of his head, looking down into his eyes wild and kind, sticking the tip of tongue through thick lips. She was inches from his breath and she smelled like perfect love. Everything good in life.
Then Jennifer lowered herself ever so slightly so that his tip grazed her tip licking her slow the love-flavored ice cream cone.
Jennifer felt the ripples lap her shore. In, out. In, out.
She watched William had his thick, so familiar, yet always a revelation, in his hand slapslapslapping the flesh. A tiny droplet glistened in the sun, a deep sea diving sigh.
Jennifer slid along him and down so he rap her tongue and lips around. William sucking swollen hard, gently slow suck sweet suck just the way she likes it.
Jennifer grabbed his tongue, squeezed, wrapping herself around him, delight shuddering as the slapslapslap of his jacking hand and William felt his cum swim around his lap pool and he swam with it, then let it drift away.
“Can I?” Jennifer had never talked to anyone like that before William. She had been waiting her whole life to talk to somebody. Hearing Jennifer’s mouth made William.
She slipped down his flesh slide and grabbed him and she flexed back all, wide-open wanting. At the tip of her he stopped. Stopped there at the tip.
“No baby, put it in. I need you all the way inside me now.” Jennifer tried to, but he held her tight. Held her. Tight. And wouldn’t let her move. “Are you sure you do?” he asked. “Oh yes, sweetie, please,” never more sure of anything. You see, Jennifer had never begged for anything before William. Imagined she would beg. But never begging. Until William. Loving the aching craving for something that was right there that she couldn’t quite have. The more he made her beg, the more she wanted it.
“I don’t think you really want it,” William goaded. “Yes baby, please. I’m serious,” she said. “What do you need?” he asked, keeping the tip of his very thick William in the tip of her very wet Jennifer. “I need you, baby. Come on, please.” “No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said, pulling back a little. “No, baby,” Jennifer said with urgent in her voice, “I’m serious, stop playing.”
“Okay baby,” said William.
And he put a thick inch into her. “How’s that, sweetie? Is that enough?” he asked as she tried to suck more into her, take all of him. But he held her strong. Held her. Tight. Like she liked it. Like he liked it.
“No, baby, come on, I want all of it. Really baby, I’m not kidding any more. Please.” She meant it. He wanted to give. But he loved hearing her. For him. Almost as much as she loved to say it.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” asked William. “Yes baby, come on” she was almost screaming now, out of her mind from the needing and the teasing, so close, but held right there, so she couldn’t have any more, no matter how hard she pushed down.
“This all for you, baby,” he grabbed her hips and she arched herself wide open, so William could all the way inside Jennifer, that’s where she wanted him, where she had never wanted anyone, in the center, the core, the heart of her matter, into her as she went onto him he so thick, tight and deep they were.
Jennifer felt like she was gonna black from all that bullseye and William in the middle of paradise at the center of them.
Suddenly, magically, there he was. Blocking their sun. Big deep round face. Long hair, wavy black, pushed back from his forehead, hanging down past his shoulders. Big deep brown eyes with smiles. Lean. Muscles smooth a glistening of sun and ocean. Naked. Standing over them.
Jennifer and William looked at each other. And then they looked back at him. He was still there. Smiling a deep sweet smile. Infectious. They caught it. Before they even knew it, they were smiling back at him.
He dropped to his knees right by her head. And he took himself largely in hand and put himself next to Jennifer’s lips. Just put it there. Right there. Next to her lips. It’s yours if you want it.
And then before she even knew what was happening, she took the tip of him, sucking softly little kisses, her hip muscles undulating on William, sucking him as she sucked a little more in her mouth.
Jennifer had never felt so full of life in her life.
The man was now fully thickened, blazing glazing ecstasy throwing head back and arms open sun bathing face and heart, an, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” went out into the universe.
Jennifer took him now into mouth adjusting herself on William for maximum thickness
Her cum right now right there in extreme close-up, rocking on William, sucking on the man, throat opening on him tremor trembling her. But she just danced with her orgasm then sent it away.
William grabbed Jennifer’s, pressed down, extra pressure on her in just the right spot, pulling up flowing down, and now she had to fight off her cum, “No, no, not yet,” she sighed as the man laughed.
Jennifer pulled the man out of her mouth, and kissed William while she held the thick of it in her hand. He tasted her lips and they tasted of him. It surprised him. He was suddenly aware it was hard and big six inches from their lips.
Then Jennifer did something completely unexpected. Something she never thought she could do. Something no one expected. Something she would never have done if she had stopped to think about it. Something she could have never done before William. Something he could never believe she did whenever they talked about it for the rest of their lives, until they were old.
But she didn’t think about it. She was past thought, into her animal.
Jennifer took the man in hand and put the tip of him on William’s lips where they were kissing her lips. She licked, little nibbles, kissing lips and man at the same time.
Then William did something that he never thought he would do. He opened his lips and sucked on the tip of that man, all hot and hard and big and on her beautiful husband’s lips.
She rocked and shook at the sight of all this, and her cum finally won, overpowering her in a huge, “Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-d!” followed by a series of short hard, “Oh Jesus”’s as she bucked and shot shaking screaming beaming flying from the Garden Island to the heart of the world. .
When Jennifer parachuted back down she disengaged, and the man stood up and the man seemed to know exactly what she wanted. He lay down in the white bed of sand.
Without ever taking her eyes off William’s eyes Jennifer got on top of the brown eyed man and suddenly, he was just the tip inside her. Still. He was still. Perfectly hard. Perfectly patient and peaceful. It’s yours if you want it.
William looked at Jennifer. At first he wasn’t sure what to think. Then he was. He knew what his beautiful wife wanted. And she knew what he wanted. They had discussed it many times. And she looked into William and with her eyes she said oh yes.
William walked behind her and ran his hand across Jennifer’s beautiful back, salty sweaty slick with sun and desire. And he spread her apart a little and he watched that largeness, so hard and so still as she sucked him in and out. And he put himself on the tip of behind her all wet and hot and Jennifer growled again pushing back into him, the craving raising Cain in her, wailing to be full.
Jennifer looked back into William and said with her eyes, “Baby, I need you, too.” William took himself hard lathered-up with coconut oil poured it down her sliding melty. While he teased her the tip of her drenched she pulled up and down on the man inside her and groaned each time she did, another cum appearing and moving forward at a steady pace.
William pressed his thick against her tip of her, and it was so good there.
As William thought – There is no way all this is gonna fit in my beautiful wife – Jennifer looked back and through bared teeth hissed, “Baby, I want you to bad.”
“Yes baby,” said William. And he held himself right at the tip of her wet, spreading her just a little feeling the man throbbing in Jennifer’s sweet and she pushed back so slow the coconut oil so slippery, and just the head of his thick slid into her.
The suddenness of it almost too much, a flutter of pain a sweet little ache jolting in her shivering through the big heat beating inside her.
Jennifer deep breathed let everything smooth out and squeezed down and clenched her tingling there the skin so thin between her husband’s thickness and the throb of the knob of the man. So tight the pressure swollen full. She had never in her sweet short life felt so full of so much. With all the skin so thin, so almost touching.
Jennifer pushed back now on her oh so sweet thick of husband and then he was all the way in. Almost too full. Almost. She breathed squeezed both of them now the pressure right on her, and she shook and she felt it coming round the mountain riding six white horses.
William could feel hard pulsating in Jennifer, and buried himself in her.
“O God,” growled out of Jennifer as she had both of them back now, her rhythm section dancing the rhumba.
“O God,” growled out of William as he groaned and grabbed her in synch feeling all that through thin skin climbing with her, all the wet accumulating in the thundercloud, ready to bust his bolt of lightning.
Jennifer clenched her self as they all went full into her, squeezing and needing, all the way inside.
Then William was gushing buckets of rainbows, colors everywhere, and the man spasmed hot and shot tropical. And all that rain made Jennifer flower, as she was swept away again, and they all leapt off together, beyond her and him, swandiving Icarus soaring, ballistic, boom booming, sirens singing, and the walls cum a-tumblin’ down.
The man looked drugged with the love of Jennifer and William, and he threw his head back and arms open sun bathed in his face and heart, a large, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” went out into the universe.
The ocean roared in applause and the trees swayed and waved danced and sang for them with the birds and frogs and the sun smiled shiny bright.
Jennifer rolled off the brown eyed man and collapsed. William absorbed her in the circle of him and they melted butter into each other, into the warm white sand slipping into a tropical sleep of deep paradise.
When they woke up it was near dark, sun pink winking goodbye. He was gone. They were alone again.
Except for the wild white horses cavorting in the thick.
Jennifer and William saw them and smiled into each other’s eyes, lighted by the honey dripping off the moon.
With Mary. With God. With the Devil. With blood fever. Lately Mary came to him every night. Bathed in golden light. Sweet Mary, dripping love, dropping down with the wings of an angel as he lay on his small hard bed, Jesus on the cross behind him bleeding for his sinning. And he would pray to God. That she would go away. That she would come to stay. Flowing crow black hair. Raving raven eyes. Skin white clouds. Breasts secreting the milky blood of Christ.
As she floated down, a sister of mercy, sweet Mary, all over him. And he would pray to God to deliver him from evil, to help him resist temptation. But his God would be gone, and he could not resist. And she would whisper, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” as she spread herself with her fingers and hovered over James, rigid as the rock of ages, the blossom of Mary so opening and he would be enveloped by the sheer drunken sin of it all.
And she would put her breast in his mouth, and he would drink the milky blood of Christ as she slid down, down, down his vein of sin a pounding pillar, the shaft of his Satan. And he would whisper, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” And he would think to himself, O Jesus, save me, O Jesus, kill me. And she was like a cherub, the holy music of her filling him as he was filling her. Mary blanketed him like in holy snow.
And his hot love of God would shoot into her valley of death, the Devil lurking, smirking in the corner. And James would scream, “O Lord, why have you forsaken me?”And then woke up, soaking from the wetness of his nightmaredream sweaty and sticky salty unholy water boiling on his belly. And God was watching him, James could feel the shame aimed at his heart, and he would pray for forgiveness. And afterwards, to calm himself, he would say, It’s only a dream.
And now, here she was. Mary. In her flesh. In his booth. Inches away. So close James could smell her flower blooming, perfuming through him, strangleholding his soul. James had to punch himself hard in the thigh. You are nothing, you are a servant, you are a vessel of the Lord our God. A vessel of God. You are nothing but your sacred duty, James told himself. You are hear to minister. Hear confession and recommend penance.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” drifted from the darkness like a chariot of lightness, singing sweet and low, swinging him around her little finger. “What is your sin?” That is always the question, isn’t it? James thought. You are my sin. He’d never been anything but certain his whole life. He was the Whiz Kid Priest. That’s what all the papers said. Memorized the Bible by the age of ten. Already groomed to be a bishop, a cardinal maybe even. Audience with the Pope on his eighteenth birthday. Quoting verse and scripture, a greatest hits of the Good Book with the square jawed easy charm of Jack Kennedy back in the Camelot days, a poster boy for everything good about the church, a throwback to a happier time when priests weren’t predatory pedophiles and it didn’t matter if you had sex with Marilyn Monroe in the White House, as long as you didn’t do it on the Front Lawn. A face for everything good in the church
He loved the ritual of it, the pageantry of it, the hidden symbols and the rock hard unthinking certainty, the blind obedience of it all, from before he could even remember, making everyone around him so happy, his father, on his deathbed, pleading with him, James, the only son, the last hope, to be a priest, his mother so proud, beaming, telling everyone about her boy the Whiz Kid Priest. The pride of the neighborhood.
And it had been so easy. Until Mary. In his booth. Now. Smelling like sin itself. “Father, I have impure thoughts,” confessed Mary with a breathtaking piety. Impure thoughts. Just the words raced his pulse, her skin ivory, hair ink black, a black Mass, parting to let him in. James had to punch himself hard in the thigh. He wanted to run, hide. And he prayed to God, his God, to give him the strength to resist, to pass this test, this plague of locust, He was inflicting on pious Father James, the Whiz Kid Priest. And no one was there.
“What are your impure thoughts?” James asked, straining to keep the quiver out of his voice, not really wanting to know the answer, desperately wanting to know the answer. “Well, Father… I’m too embarrassed to talk about it…” Mary said shyly. “I’m your priest, Mary, I’m hear to listen and forgive, as a vessel of Christ out Lord and savior. We all have impure thoughts.” James said. If you only knew, he thought.
“Do you ever have impure thoughts Father?” asked Mary, and it shivered him cold and lit a fire in his hell, sending a white-hot shot of juice jumping through him jumping under the hardening under his robe. O God please make it stop now. I have given You my life, please do this one thing for me. “Well, yes I do, of course I do. I’m not just a priest, I’m a…” But the word “man” stuck hard in his throat like a wafer with no wine chaser. “…that is to say, I confess my thoughts and sins and I pray to God to forgive me, and He does.” James said in his best Father James voice.
He had never confessed his sins of Mary. As if by not confessing them they weren’t really real. Maybe that’s why God is punishing me, that’s why God is testing me, for my mendacity, for believing I can hide anything from his omnipotence. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. “Father, I have wicked, sinful thoughts, and… I touch myself Father, I can’t help it… I… give myself pleasure… I can’t stop, Father, and I don’t know what to do…” James was trying to control everything, slow it all down, cool it all off. No more visions. No more breasts of Mary. No more holy bloody milk. No more Cardinal red lips. Save me for I am lost. Find me, miserable wretch that I am. Lord I am blind. Please, let me see. Help me cast out Satan. Make me roar, “Jezebelle, be gone!”
James thought about the way she looked at him when she passed in line after Sunday service. The way she always managed to corner him somewhere, when she knew no one was around, and stand a little too close, until she was almost brushing up against him, so close that he couldn’t even follow the thread of the meaningless conversation they were having. So close that he had no choice but to breathe in the ripe juice of Mary. “I want to do things, Father. O God, I want to do terrible things…” Deliver me from evil. Is this evil? It must be. It is. Sin. The sins of the flesh. Her flesh. The flesh of Mary. “Sometimes,” whispered the sweet breath of Mary, “I want it so bad, I don’t care if I burn in a flame hotter than any human fire for ever and ever.”
Maybe I shouldn’t be a priest. Maybe I’m too weak. Maybe I’m just doing it so everyone will like me. So I won’t let my dead dad down. So I’ll be the Whiz Kid Priest. “Sometime I think God would understand. God understands love, doesn’t he Father?” Does He? Do You? I don’t know, James thought. I thought I knew. God is love. Isn’t He? Aren’t You? I thought I knew. I was so sure I did. Everything seemed so clear and simple. A sin of the flesh is a sin of the flesh is a sin of the flesh. Father James is not a sinner. Father James is a vessel of God. Devout. A son of the son of God, pure in His celestial mansion on earth.
I want Mary. More than I want God. Could that be true? Or is this Lucifer worming his way my Holy Soul? Making me want Mary’s sweetness. To eat her flesh. To drink her milky blood. James had to punch himself hard in the thigh. Her smell was everywhere. His dream flashed in front of him, the wings of the wet archangel Mary, the parting of her red sea, so rigid and dizzy under his robe.
“I’m touching myself right now, Father,” confessed Mary, “I’m touching myself, and I’m very… it feels very… Father, tell me, what should I do? Am I going to hell? I can’t help myself… Help me, please help me Father.” God was everywhere. God was nowhere. James felt God pumping hot blood under his robe. No, it’s Satan, this infernal damp dark underworld where black meets red. James wanted to die and go to Heaven, never having been tested. Please God, I’m ready. Take me now. Before Mary takes me. But God did not take James.
And he was aware she had left her side of the booth, could faintly hear her walking to him. Mary was coming. Or was it a flesh demon sent to suck out his soul. Run James, run, that little piece of rational brain that was left screamed. But he couldn’t run. Didn’t want to run. Wouldn’t run. The door slowly opened as the worm turned. And then there she was Mary. Floating in on the wings of a prayer. Deliver me now from evil, deliver me through the desert like Moses to the promised land. But where was the promised land? It was here in his confessional booth. It was her, so pure sweet and Mary. Please, God show me. Tell me, for I am nothing. I am your vessel. Help me now or forever hold your peace. God did not come. God did not help. God did not tell James what to do. Betrayed thrice, thought Father James. By the Father, by the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
He was alone with her. With this speaking in tongues, this massive tower of Babel so huge and confused under the shroud of his black robe. And James was filled with her crimsoning bouquet. Her ivory so flesh, bright burn of the eyes so Mary, the pleading of her thighs, her breasts so full of God’s blood and milk. Take, eat, this is my body and is meant for you. “If you want me to go, tell me right now, Father, I’ll go and I’ll never come back.” Mary blazed into him with God’s light. Yes, go! Be gone, whore of Babylon, temptress, she-devil, be gone. James heard the words in his head. But they would not come out of his mouth.
And Mary did lean down to him, bathed in a golden halo of honeydew perfume. James heard a heavenly choir soaring and a devil’s organ grinding. And she did lean down to him, her breasts so full of God, closer, her lips florid, touching him, the first time a woman’s lips had ever touched him. I’m the Holy Virgin, James thought. And she is Mary. I’m the Unholy Virgin, James thought. And she is sweet Mary. Her breath is so deep so red so wet. And her tongue is so full of life and fruit so forbidden touching his lips so light and his holiness jumped under his robe and he was so full and taut and fierce. O God, I’m burning up. I’m already burning in hell, James thought, and I will burn in a flame hotter than any human fire for all eternity. For ever and ever world without end, Amen. And I don’t care.
And Mary slipped her tongue, the hot tight serpent tongue of Eve, deeper into him. And a hurricane crucified his brain. And a twister spun through the third eye of the snake under his robe. O God, it’s so hard, James thought. And Mary took his face in her hands and her tongue slowly slid into his mouth and he moaned from his soul. And his hands reached out as if they weren’t his hands at all and grabbed her hips and she gasped under his grasp, sucked on his lips and those hips of Mary were liquid in his hands, undulating, swelling, swiveling into him. And James could smell her now. So fertile and earthly and heaven sent. And it made him want to give her everything he had. The keys to the kingdom of heaven.
And Mary pulled her breasts out of her blouse and she fed them to him and he dove in, baptizing himself in the milk of the flesh of Mary, so bursting in his hungry mouth, the rhythm raw and rocksteady. And there was no God and there was no Devil. There was only Mary. And Mary threw her head back in ecstatic rapture her tongue peeked out of her mouth, her eyes half shut in Biblical delight, the delicious quivering in her belly twitching all the way inside her, beating the drums fanning the fire. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” she whispered. And she took him in her hand scalding her flesh so hard and she disappeared into the black cauldron under his robe. And she kissed the tip of his stiff cross and he jumped and panted – “O God O God O God” – springing from his lips as she ran her tongue and cupped him in her hand gently massaging his world and swallowing him whole, slowly inch by inch into her Mary mouth and she moaned soulful and vibrated and he quaked, intoxicated by the dark depths of Mary.
Mary emerged, her lips swollen and turkey cock red, cheeks blazing cherries, eyes black fire, and she moved in and kissed him, let him sip his own saltiness sex on her lips. And then he was sitting on the floor and she was hovering over him, floating in the confessional like an angel of life, a devil of death. And she spread herself with her fingers. And she grabbed his gaze and would not let go. And James had never wanted anything so much as he wanted her. Mary. And she lowered herself, opening slowly, all over him. And she sucked on the very tip of the soul of him with her Mary, relishing the anticipation, feeling the frenzy until he could no longer stand it, and thrust uncontrollable and unconscious into this Mary. As if this was his sacred mission in life. As if this was his true calling. To be inside Mary.
And Mary pushed herself down onto Father James and slid her velvet tremor down, jamming, swallowing him whole, body and soul all the way with everything she had, squeezing him to the root, to the core, to the bone, to the moan, her foundation shaking, rocking his steeple, shattering her madness, rattling his stained glass windows, banging on the pearly gates, knock knock knocking on heaven’s door. And Mary grasped him, so tight and swelling and wet and delirious with him. And James found himself levitating, lovecrazy, heartcrazy, poemcrazy. This was bigger than him. More powerful. This wanting. This Mary.
Eye to eye, two windows into two souls. And there was a new incense filling the booth. The sweet scent of James and Mary. And she nailed him to her cross, took his crown of thorns, as she pounded down him, beads of holy water pooling into drops and raining down his face and chest and back, soaking his robe. And she rocked, insane, out of body, out of mind, in her body, his heart exploding as they climbed the stairway to heaven. And the animal in her eyes sprang at him, leapt into him, and he was possessed by the passion of her possession.
And he grabbed her hips hard now and pressed up against her as she slid sliding wet gripping grabbing and slamming, filling the confessional with their fury frenzy yes, “O God!” she cried in whisper, and “O sweet Jesus!” he whispered with a cry, and “O Mary!” he cried, and “O Father!” and “O Christ!” transported, transcendental, the ethereal house of the Father and the blessed Mary, the throne of God’s bliss, angels and devils dancing on the head of a pin prick, on the tip of their sin, skin drenched as Mary soaked him with her wet divinity, the holy of holies, until he could hold back no more, and his manna was shooting into her, from the balls of his feet through the thicket of his heart and into the river of his brain, and let their be light and together they entered the tender garden of the kingdom of paradise.
And then she wept. And he wept. Drenching each other in joy and sin. Crying in great gulps of love and shame. And James held her tight in his arms. And Mary held him tight in her arms. And they held onto each other in that confessional like they were the last people on Earth. The last people in heaven. The last people in hell. Then James thanked God. His God. For giving him Mary.
Hysterical story by East Village legend Rev Jen, the sexiest elf on the planet & author of Live Nude Elf, tells how she learned to squirt.
You know how you can feel someone staring at you? That’s what Gwen was feeling. It was the first day of soccer practice, and there’s someone staring at me, Gwen thought. Then she turned around and caught him. And he didn’t look away. Neither did she. Deep blue. I’ve never seen eyes that deep and blue, Gwen thought. She dove into them and swam around. He was almost smiling. Not quite. And the way he looked at her. Like he wanted something from her. Something important. And when Gwen closed her eyes to go to sleep that night she saw that look. Hungry. Blue.
He was the New Coach. He was about her brother’s age. 22-ish. He was a serious soccer guy. Legs thick. Brown. Even when he was standing still, the muscles in his thighs looked alive and pumping. Gwen found herself staring at them. His legs. Gwen found herself. He wore paper thin t-shirts from Brazil, Ireland, Germany, Mozambique, and Mazatlan. Where he’d been. Playing soccer. Kissing beautiful exotic women. At least that’s what Gwen found herself imagining as she stared at his lips. Pink. Always just about to smile. Gwen had only had one boyfriend, and when he kissed her, he jammed his mouth onto hers hard, and it hurt. So she broke up with him. But she found herself staring at New Coach’s lips and imagining putting her lips on them sweet and soft. Hungry. He had curly brown hair and a crooked nose from when he broken it. A scar over one of his blue eyes. Where did that scar come from? Gwen wondered.
Gwen stared at her naked body in the mirror in her girly room surrounded by all her girly things, and she couldn’t quite figure it out. Six months ago she was skinny. Her dad called her beanpole. It was like someone had pushed a button and her beanpole had sprouted into a woman’s body. She couldn’t quite believe her breasts looked. Two woman’s breasts. Brown buttons and a round, crazy, curvy, handful. Gwen kept looking at those breasts, trying to figure them out. Whose breasts are those? They looked beautiful to her, like a painting in a museum. But they didn’t seem like hers. Someone would be by to claim them any minute. That strange new fullness between her legs. What was that all about, Gwen found herself wondering. Everything felt so full. And so empty. Gwen just couldn’t put it all together. It puzzled her, and it scared her, and it made her very curious. She felt like she had a new Christmas present, but someone had forgotten to put the batteries in. She kept staring at it all, head slightly tilted, confused, wandering aimlessly in her eyes.
He looked at her like he knew exactly what to do. The first time, before she even knew he was the New Coach. A couple of times every practice. That almost smile. Those hungry blue eyes. He knew.
And now he was coming over. He would be there any minute. Gwen still couldn’t believe she’d gotten up the nerve to ask him. She hadn’t told any of her friends. Which was very odd, because Gwen told her friends everything. She didn’t even tell Tara. And that made Gwen very nervous. She had decided to wear her new jeans and her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt to show him how much she didn’t care that he was coming over when her parents were gone for the weekend. Oh, yes, gone for the weekend. Gone, gone, gone.
Gwen had waited and waited for the right moment to ask him, and finally after practice on Thursday, he had run some extra sprints, and she had run with him, straining to keep up with those thick brown legs, her muscles burning, shirt soaking, panting, burning, blood boiling in her head, wet, legs on fire, his almost translusent thin t-shirt from Italy sticking to the ripples of his skin. When they were finally done she collapsed and he stood over her, looking down at her, almost smiling, breathing deep and blue, and she could not get her breath back. Couldn’t catch it. Her breath. And those strange new breasts were heaving. My God, thought Gwen, I have breasts, and they’re heaving. “How ya doin’, Gwen?” he asked, and the way he said it was like he knew. Did he know? How could he know? How could he not know? And her whole inviting him over speech that she had rehearsed so meticulously had just flown out of her head like mallards flying south for the winter, and she lost the power of speach. “Uh… well,” she sputtered like a backfiring engine, “I’m… you know… uh… good… and I was wondering…” Gwen was picking up steam now, getting her land legs under her, “Yeah, I was wondering if you’d like to come over Saturday and watch this soccer video I got for my birthday. It’s really cool. It’s the hundred greatest goals of ’98.” And he had looked at her for the longest time. Just looked at her. My God he’s looking at me, Gwen thought. He’s gonna tell my parents. Or no, even worse, he’s just gonna laugh at me, I mean why the hell would the New Coach wanna come over to my dorky house. Oh Jesus, what a moron I am, Gwen found herself thinking. And then he said, “Sure, how about fivish?” And then she said, “Yes”. And her mind was screaming, “Yes, yes, yes, my God, yeeeeeeeeeeees!”
Now he was coming. She slipped on her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt without a bra over her brand new breasts with the nipples that she had no idea what to do with. And just the thought that he was on his way and she was wearing her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt with no bra made them come to attention. And for some reason, she now reached not for her new jeans, but for the plaid skirt. Not her jeans. The plaid skirt. And she put it on. And she looked at herself in it. Looked at her legs. Tanned. Freshly shaved. And she slipped on her thin white underpants. And then, as if it were perfectly choreographed, just as the white cotton nestled into place, the doorbell rang.
The New Coach was here.
Gwen opened the front door, and sure enough, there he was. The New Coach. Almost smiling. At her. Hungry. Blue. Just like she remembered him. In a paper-thin faded t-shirt from Monte Carlo with red shorts over his large brown legs. And then she was inviting him in, and getting him orange juice, and they were talking, and they were sitting on the couch. Gwen was sure they were talking, because she could hear the words, and she recognized her voice. Talking. And then he asked, “So, where are your parents?” and Gwen heard herself saying, “Oh, they’re away for the weekend,” with an air of casual off-handedness that didn’t fool anyone. The information sat there for a long time, and Gwen thought New Coach was finally going to give her that smile he had been almost smiling since the first time she caught him looking at her. “Really…” he said, and he stared at her. And he didn’t smile. Almost smiled. But didn’t. But my God those eyes are blue, Gwen found herself thinking. Gwen found herself. Thinking about how blue and hungry those eyes were.
“So, where do you wanna watch the video?” Gwen asked. “Anywhere,” said the New Coach. “How about up in my room?” slipped out of her mouth, and once it was out there was no taking it back. Gwen was doing everything she could not to hyperventilate and grab him and say, “Don’t you know what’s going on here? Don’t you know I invited you over here? Why are you just sitting there?!” But she didn’t. “Sure,” he almost smiled, “let’s go up to your room and watch the video.” And something inside Gwen clenched. She didn’t know what it was, but it stole her breath, and it brought the blood to her big new nipples under her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt, and they felt like a pair of electric buzzers ringing the doorbell in her furnace.
He is sitting next to me on her girly bed in her girly room, on this Saturday afternoon, with her parents gone, gone, gone. Here we are, Gwen thought. In my room. On my bed. The video is on. Goal after goal crashing into the net. Hugging. Screaming. Kissing. Crowd going crazy. And his thick brown leg was so close to hers she could feel the heat coming off it. And then Gwen suddenly became aware of his hands. My God, she thought, they’re huge. His hands are huge. He has huge hands. His huge hands are so close to me, Gwen found was thinking. And the longer Gwen sat there not watching goal after goal being rammed home, with him not touching her with those huge hands of his, the more confused Gwen became. Why is he just sitting there? Staring. Like he was staring the first time she caught him staring. Before she even knew he was the New Coach.
And the longer Gwen sat there, the more she realized that she was the one who wanted something from him. She was the one who wanted something. Really important. It wasn’t him, it was me, she thought. I’m the one that’s hungry. Maybe he’s hungry, too. Is he hungry? He’s not watching the goals anymore.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!” came erupting every thirty seconds on the soundtrack. He’s almost smiling, Gwen thought. He’s not going to do anything. He can’t. It would be creepy if he did. It’s my move, Gwen, thought. Oh my God, it’s my move.
“Uh, I’ve… well, the thing is, I’ve been having some, uh… problems with my lower back, and I was wondering…” The sentence just seemed to perish there. It just seemed so cheesy and stupid. “What were you wondering?” he almost smiled. And now she was sure he knew. He had to know. He knew. But if he knew, why was he making her go through all this. Asking him. Oh, God, I am just so bad at this, Gwen thought. And the longer he sat there not doing anything with those huge hands and those thick brown legs and those pink lips and those blue eyes, the tighter she got. Wanting. Goal after goal. The crowd going wild. “Well, uh… I was wondering if you could… stretch me?” she asked.
“Sure,” he almost smiled.
She was on her back. On her puffy rug in her girly room. And he was standing over her. He’s standing over me, Gwen thought. He bent down and his legs were so close. Huge hands were touching her legs, freshly shaved, and he was staring into her so blue, his voice soft and hypnotic and hungry.
“Breathe,” he said. And she breathed. “Deep,” he said. And she breathed deep. “Let it go, Gwen. Let it go.” She didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. What was she supposed to let go? How am I supposed to let it go, Gwen thought, when I don’t even know what it is.
On her back he pulled her right knee up into her chest, then turned her so her right knee went across her body, stretching her torso, pushing her right knee down on the rug by her left hip, his huge hand spreading strong across the outside of her thigh, the other above her right chest.
“Breathe…” he said, “Deep… let it go, Gwen. Let it go.” And she breathed. Deep. Gwen found herself letting it go. She found herself. I’m breathing, Gwen thought, and I’m letting it go. He stretched her, deep into the big muscles in her back all the way into the inside of her, whoosh, a deep spinal relief. Then he stretched her left leg the other way, and the tight unloosening with every breath. He grabbed under her calves with those huge hands, and he pushed her knees into her chest, so she rocked on her spine. Totally exposed. Gently he pushed while she breathed, his weight pushing into her, one huge hard on her lower back just above her white underpants. Hard. Pressing.
“Breathe Gwen,” he said. “Deep.” And she breathed deep and he pushed against her a little harder. Pushed. Against her. She could feel it really letting go. Gwen felt warm. A wet. She wanted to give him something important. She wanted to give it to him. And she wanted to take it.
I’m breathing. Deep. The breath eased out. He lifted her lower back up ever so slightly. She flexed, opening. Gwen looked and she saw it outlined against his thin red shorts. Hard. She breathed and the breath eased out of her. He moved his enormous thumb so that is was pressing firm gentle and hungry against her white cotton panties, fitting perfectly against her, the tip of his thumb on the tip of her and Gwen felt herself stick to her white underpants, hotly and wetly, she couldn’t help herself, didn’t want to help herself, she pressed into his thumb, and she sighed hard and she shivered and she shook, and her muscles contracted around his thumb, like she was trying to suck on it.
She smelled him. Smelled sex. It was filling up the room. The smell of wanting.
And now she spread her legs apart. Reached for his skin and felt it through his thin t-shirt. Moved him a little so now instead of his thumb pressing against her she felt something pressing against her, sliding along her wet with the rhythm of their breath.
“Breathe Gwen,” he said, only this time it was a whisper in her ear, as he leaned onto her, laid his chest on her chest, bodies melting into each other. Where does he end and where do I begin? Gwen found herself wondering. And she breathed. Deep.
His tongue landed on her lips. It surprised her. Took her breath. Sucked on her lip like a hungry calf his breath warm sweet. She pushed into him. Wrapping around him. Hard. Sliding up and down.
Gwen shivered a shudder she shook. Deep inside her belly somewhere. His huge hands slipped under her, pulling her into him, slowly and slowly. Then she felt his hungry. How hard and deep it was. She put her hands on his back, rippling with heated muscles, sweet to the touch. And she wanted something in her mouth, so Gwen reached out with her mouth and felt his neck on her lips, slightly moist and so hot. She sucked. His skin. In her mouth. He moaned a shudder he shook. She pushed against him. Pushed.
Gwen wanted to be full. Of him. Her new body wanted. She was hungry. For his hunger. That thing she saw in his blue eyes the first time she caught him staring at her. Before she even knew he was the New Coach. She couldn’t help herself. Didn’t want to help herself. She pushed into him with all her strength.
Suddenly her shirt was off and his shirt was off. And now it was skin on skin. She thought they might might burst into flames. Wet now. With sweat sweet warm. His breath on her strange new breasts, only they don’t seem quite so strange now, they’re hot wires, wired with heat, right into her wet, in her belly somewhere, deep as he sucked on her, licked her moan to the bone. That was me, Gwen found herself thinking. I was moaning. That was me. She pushed the outside of her wet against him again, sliding up his hardness, and then slowly back down. And he pushed against her, squeezing with his hands under her, pulling her slowly up and slowly back down, muscular, undulating with hunger. Gwen was swept away into that blue. She wanted to be filled with his blue.
“Are you sure?” he whispered. Gwen was never more sure of anything in her life. She pushed against him harder, trying to will him inside. She grabbed his, hard the soft hot rock flesh, pulling him in with a strength she didn’t know she had. Thinking yes. He slid off her underpants. She lifted herself up to help him and clenched and she could feel the wet coming on, and the feel of his hands on her skin sliding down her, over her calf off the end of her big toe. And then suddenly he didn’t have any clothes on. She didn’t know exactly how he did that, but suddenly he was so incredibly naked.
As she pushed up and sucked down, grabbing at him with her wet, she felt herself climbing waves washing over her, through her, a rope ladder that went from her wet through her belly, shooting through her heart, growling through her throat, springing from her mouth, out her eyes, his blue right at her tip, his hard, hot so big so he looked at Gwen, he’s looking at me, Gwen thought, all that blue hunger.
“Are you sure?” his pink lips asked. Gwen felt the wet welling and breathing, she let it go, the hard of him, his huge hands, her new breasts pressed to his chest, his mouth, his blue she knew the first time she caught him before she knew how much he wanted she wanted, breathing. Mouth to mouth Gwen pushed with all her might into him with all her might, Gwen pushed into him deep as the deep blue sea and the clear blue skies, swallowed him and grabbed him and pulled him into her and squeezed him as his hard so large and hot filling her she holds him there inside her wet she squeezes shivers shakes, lava flowing through her core to the root to the stem, a melt, giving it to him, taking it from him, letting it go. She made a sound she never heard before as she pressed him into her, a growlhowlgroanmoan to the pagan a tremble a rock steady, a rolls a thrust. He’s trying to hold back but he can’t, she doesn’t want him to, I don’t want you to hold back, Gwen thought, I want all of you, and she’s deep, deeper, deepest, riding, and he’s trembling trying to hold back but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, and she’s sucking him into her, squeezing and riding a love goddess letting it go bathing in his blue swimming in his blue. He tries to pull back but she grabs him and wraps her legs around his hard his thick brown legs grabbing his skin with him deep deep inside into his blue inside her hungry from the very first time when she first caught him staring before she even knew he was the New Coach wanting something very important from her, the huge of his hands the pink of his lips, the soft of his blue as he explodes shouting screaming into her letting it go, shiver shake shudder into each other into into into each other’s breath. She understood her new body, her wet hunger.
Gwen smiled into his blue.
Finally he smiled.
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