“No tongue – my lipstick,” Diane Ladd’s conniving Marietta Fortune admonishes at the beginning of “Wild at Heart,” flirting with Harry Dean Stanton’s Johnnie Farragut, while perfectly setting the tone for the tantalizing sexual games to follow. Lynch’s typically bizarre noir contains one of the steamiest foreplay scenes ever to grace the indie screen. Strangely, this kinky non-sex scene involves not Laura Dern’s Lula and Nicolas Cage’s Sailor Ripley (whose love scenes are saturated with such hyper-real color and artistic angles as to overshadow the screwing), but the childlike Lula and Willem Dafoe’s greasy, so-creepy-he’s-charismatic Bobby Peru (”Just like the country,” he drawls, introducing himself to Lula and Sailor outside the hotel they’re all staying at, sliding snakelike into “Wild at Heart” nearly an hour and twenty minutes fashionably late). Dressed in black, sporting a Clark Gable moustache, Bobby’s the ultimate contrast to Dern’s big blonde hairdo, red lipstick painted, 20-year-old piece of mentally damaged white trash. That the episode doesn’t culminate in predictable fornication only proves that the iconoclastic director truly understands how to harness the power of the erotic chase––that is, that it’s hotter than the catch.
For more on my take on the best non-sex scene ever to grace the indie screen visit Spout.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Still Swinging
Just when I thought my job prospects couldn’t get any weirder there came the ad on Craig’s List inquiring, “Do you write erotica?” But no, this wasn’t some Internet site looking for free content, just a pleasant, middle-aged white guy working in PR who wanted some chick to read sexy stories to him. Yeah, I could do that.
So after about an hour of chatting and reading most of the first chapter of “Under My Master’s Wings” aloud on a bench on a sunny day in Chelsea Waterfront Park, I headed uptown to the swing party with cash in my pocket – where I was met by the sight of Erick’s gorgeous new twink, a 21-year-old from Florence, Italy with shaved head and solid young bod. I told him all about how my sister had spent the last few summers in Florence then asked him if he was a stripper (he had just arrived in NYC from southern Florida, the hustler’s route). Turns out he worked in a restaurant and for an Italian shoe designer in her store. Of course I had to cut the conversation short when Erick’s other new pal swaggered in, a cocky black guy in tight black jeans and a tight black T-shirt that showed off his tight rippling torso. I walked up and introduced myself, asked where he was from. “An island far, far away,” was his singsong reply. “Which one?” I asked, guessing Trinidad. “Dominica,” he answered, looking at me in the same sleazy way I was trying to penetrate his clothes with my gaze. Dominica. Hmm. Where is Dominica? I wondered, glancing over at the “Big Bubble Butt Brazilian Orgy” playing on the TV. I’d never done Dominica.
We kept our eyes roaming towards one another as I mingled with Liquid, Jada and the other black girls (well, not Star as she has a fucking only policy) and the few white guys who’d stopped by (well, not the annoying schmoe who kissed my hand then kept trying to touch my knee and arm as I conversed with a gay porn connoisseur hostess like myself. After forcing him to sit on his hands if he wanted to have a word with me, the sniveling slave admitted he’d been to the S&M club Paddles. Naturally.)
Unfortunately, the night was filled with more talking than fucking. The Caribbean stud wouldn’t even take off his shirt, his coy routine starting to grate. He asked why I was still dressed – “because you’re shy?” I replied that I wasn’t shy at all. “Show me your kitty,” he said. My kitty? I flashed him my slave rings instead and his eyes grew as wide as if I’d shook out my dick. Finally he agreed to strip in an empty corner on the couples’ floor, letting me remove his cock from a black vinyl jock strap. He got beneath my mini-dress long enough to kiss my tits. “I want to fuck you. Do you have a condom?” “No,” I replied hard-on in hand. “Let me run upstairs and get one. Wait here. I’ll be right back,” he begged, stuffing his dick into his jeans. Well, that seemed rather silly. “No, I’ll come with you – I’ll blow you in front of everyone!” I enthused, trailing behind. Dominica man stopped in his tracks, a mortified expression upon his face. “No way.” “But we’re at a swing party!” I reminded exasperated. “Yeah, but that’s not why I’m here,” he huffed.
And suddenly my own hard-on wilted. I did not come to a kinky party to have boring hetero sex in some dark corner. As it was late and I was getting nowhere fast I told him that next time we’d negotiate a compromise. I’d suck him off in front of the crowd and then he could screw me in private. I may be a pushy perverted queen but I’m nothing if not reasonable.
So after about an hour of chatting and reading most of the first chapter of “Under My Master’s Wings” aloud on a bench on a sunny day in Chelsea Waterfront Park, I headed uptown to the swing party with cash in my pocket – where I was met by the sight of Erick’s gorgeous new twink, a 21-year-old from Florence, Italy with shaved head and solid young bod. I told him all about how my sister had spent the last few summers in Florence then asked him if he was a stripper (he had just arrived in NYC from southern Florida, the hustler’s route). Turns out he worked in a restaurant and for an Italian shoe designer in her store. Of course I had to cut the conversation short when Erick’s other new pal swaggered in, a cocky black guy in tight black jeans and a tight black T-shirt that showed off his tight rippling torso. I walked up and introduced myself, asked where he was from. “An island far, far away,” was his singsong reply. “Which one?” I asked, guessing Trinidad. “Dominica,” he answered, looking at me in the same sleazy way I was trying to penetrate his clothes with my gaze. Dominica. Hmm. Where is Dominica? I wondered, glancing over at the “Big Bubble Butt Brazilian Orgy” playing on the TV. I’d never done Dominica.
We kept our eyes roaming towards one another as I mingled with Liquid, Jada and the other black girls (well, not Star as she has a fucking only policy) and the few white guys who’d stopped by (well, not the annoying schmoe who kissed my hand then kept trying to touch my knee and arm as I conversed with a gay porn connoisseur hostess like myself. After forcing him to sit on his hands if he wanted to have a word with me, the sniveling slave admitted he’d been to the S&M club Paddles. Naturally.)
Unfortunately, the night was filled with more talking than fucking. The Caribbean stud wouldn’t even take off his shirt, his coy routine starting to grate. He asked why I was still dressed – “because you’re shy?” I replied that I wasn’t shy at all. “Show me your kitty,” he said. My kitty? I flashed him my slave rings instead and his eyes grew as wide as if I’d shook out my dick. Finally he agreed to strip in an empty corner on the couples’ floor, letting me remove his cock from a black vinyl jock strap. He got beneath my mini-dress long enough to kiss my tits. “I want to fuck you. Do you have a condom?” “No,” I replied hard-on in hand. “Let me run upstairs and get one. Wait here. I’ll be right back,” he begged, stuffing his dick into his jeans. Well, that seemed rather silly. “No, I’ll come with you – I’ll blow you in front of everyone!” I enthused, trailing behind. Dominica man stopped in his tracks, a mortified expression upon his face. “No way.” “But we’re at a swing party!” I reminded exasperated. “Yeah, but that’s not why I’m here,” he huffed.
And suddenly my own hard-on wilted. I did not come to a kinky party to have boring hetero sex in some dark corner. As it was late and I was getting nowhere fast I told him that next time we’d negotiate a compromise. I’d suck him off in front of the crowd and then he could screw me in private. I may be a pushy perverted queen but I’m nothing if not reasonable.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
My New Spout Column
Hot off the SpoutBlog press releases:
“Later today, we’ll be debuting a new column from Lauren Wissot, whose work you might have also read at The House Next Door and/or The Reeler. Lauren, who will be tackling (no pun intended) sexual themes in indie and classic cinema every Wednesday, will begin with a revisionist take on Alfred Hitchcock’s “Marnie.” We wanted to call her column “Art Films To Jerk Off To,” but in the end that might be too limiting––after all, who’s to say what qualifies as art?”
To check out Dial S&M for Marnie visit Spout.
“Later today, we’ll be debuting a new column from Lauren Wissot, whose work you might have also read at The House Next Door and/or The Reeler. Lauren, who will be tackling (no pun intended) sexual themes in indie and classic cinema every Wednesday, will begin with a revisionist take on Alfred Hitchcock’s “Marnie.” We wanted to call her column “Art Films To Jerk Off To,” but in the end that might be too limiting––after all, who’s to say what qualifies as art?”
To check out Dial S&M for Marnie visit Spout.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Sweetest Swing
I received an Evite for my friend Lisa and her hubby’s annual “Sex and BBQ in Suburbia” shindig. That night in honor of Jude’s fiftieth, the swing party became a birthday bash with Trader Joe's chocolate cake and chocolate Liquid serving as the naughty games hostess, presiding over spin the bottle and “dirty dice” (one die had commands such as “eat” and “blow” inscribed, the other body parts both specific, “breast,” and subject to interpretation like “below the waist”). An adorable, young, black bi couple proved the most adventurous with the huge boob female half devouring pussy and locking lips while everyone else shyly did a lot of kissing of knees and backs (though I did manage to “eat” Wilson’s “breast”). Liquid dribbled candle wax over her cunt, peeled it off and offered the mold as a present to Jude. Even so it was way more sweet sixteen than debauched swing.
That is until the master and his slave girl showed up. Jude had met them at a party awhile back so she knew that the master was a Russian in his forties, his slave a bit younger – and that she lived five blocks from Jude! Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to meet them as the master immediately got naked and forced his peek-a-boo lingerie clad slut to suck him off in the middle of the lounge. Soon several other men began to saunter over to grope her tits and ass. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was floating high above on another planet, her physical form safe in the hands of her master. I couldn’t help but become nostalgic for David.
Luckily a tall muscle boy wearing a baseball cap to the side, Eminem style, appeared to jolt me out of my reverie. I plopped myself down on the arm of the chair he was sitting in and introduced myself, asked what he did, where he was from. He was a construction worker from Brooklyn but the accent wasn’t. “I’m Polish,” he disclosed. It seemed Jude wasn’t the only one with a neighbor at the party. We started talking about Greenpoint, about my landlady’s penchant for elaborate ornamentation and kitschy Polish eagles (“Did drag queens design your building?” my friend Derek once asked me), and about the local nightclub Europa – which made me nostalgic for all the men I’d met there, flirted with, screwed, and wished I hadn’t. “Those buildings are so ugly!” he complained about my landlady’s taste, and “The crowd’s too young!” about Europa. “How old are you?” I wondered. “Twenty-nine.” He asked what I did so I told him I was a dominatrix. “Oh, boy,” he sighed, shaking his head with a look that said he thought I beat people up for a living. Minutes later he was up wandering the room. C’est la vie, I thought. I wasn’t about to go backwards, pretend to be a normal straight chick. I’d already learned my lesson long ago – that bad sex comes in even the most incredible packages.
That is until the master and his slave girl showed up. Jude had met them at a party awhile back so she knew that the master was a Russian in his forties, his slave a bit younger – and that she lived five blocks from Jude! Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to meet them as the master immediately got naked and forced his peek-a-boo lingerie clad slut to suck him off in the middle of the lounge. Soon several other men began to saunter over to grope her tits and ass. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was floating high above on another planet, her physical form safe in the hands of her master. I couldn’t help but become nostalgic for David.
Luckily a tall muscle boy wearing a baseball cap to the side, Eminem style, appeared to jolt me out of my reverie. I plopped myself down on the arm of the chair he was sitting in and introduced myself, asked what he did, where he was from. He was a construction worker from Brooklyn but the accent wasn’t. “I’m Polish,” he disclosed. It seemed Jude wasn’t the only one with a neighbor at the party. We started talking about Greenpoint, about my landlady’s penchant for elaborate ornamentation and kitschy Polish eagles (“Did drag queens design your building?” my friend Derek once asked me), and about the local nightclub Europa – which made me nostalgic for all the men I’d met there, flirted with, screwed, and wished I hadn’t. “Those buildings are so ugly!” he complained about my landlady’s taste, and “The crowd’s too young!” about Europa. “How old are you?” I wondered. “Twenty-nine.” He asked what I did so I told him I was a dominatrix. “Oh, boy,” he sighed, shaking his head with a look that said he thought I beat people up for a living. Minutes later he was up wandering the room. C’est la vie, I thought. I wasn’t about to go backwards, pretend to be a normal straight chick. I’d already learned my lesson long ago – that bad sex comes in even the most incredible packages.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Swingtown Today
Odd that I would pass a bus ad for “Swingtown,” a new, retro TV show that follows the trials and tribulations of those wacky 70s wife-swappers, on my way to my latest gig. Having been happily ensconced in an “adults only” world off and on for over a decade, I thought I’d pretty much sampled every non-sex job the sex industry had to offer, from receptionist (at a body rub biz and at a house of domination), to pro-dom, to stripper (albeit briefly as I lack the hustling gene). So when I saw the ad on Craig’s List for “swing party hostess” I thought, “That’s a job? And why hasn’t anyone ever told me I can get paid to watch folks screw?”
Well, yes and no. The standard swingers party is for couples and single women only – no single men allowed, thus no need for hostesses. But because Erick – the fabulous black queen at the other end of the Craig’s List ad – admits single guys to his debauched shindigs he needs extra women to even things out. The hours are 7-11 on most weeknights, 10-2 on weekends, the pay twenty bucks an hour “plus tips,” which could mean nothing if you’re mostly voyeur like me, or rent if you’re an insatiable fuck freak like Star, a towering Amazon of a black woman with huge tits and ass, which she parades around free of charge as she methodically attacks each and every man that enters Erick’s candlelit and incense drenched, three-floor midtown loft. (In all fairness to the sexual Energizer bunny, I honestly don’t know which men Star is charging for her services as she’s like an indiscriminate tornado, sucking up every penis in her path, business dealings seeming a mere afterthought. Erick is forever asking her to slow down before she wears out all the customers.)
I know she’s not charging Wilson. Ahh, Wilson – one of the many former/current/aspiring porn stars that form Erick’s vast entourage. (Did I happen to mention Erick is my new best friend?) The first time I saw Wilson enter the top floor lounge my Pavlovian response to muscled Adonis’s kicked in and it took all my willpower not to drop to my knees, begging to body worship. Wilson is straight out of my “Gaiety guys I must fuck” category. A pierced and tattooed Puerto Rican bodybuilder and personal trainer with a killer smile who eventually confided to me that he’d done gay porn in his “younger days” (he’s 26!) for Tony and Michael over at Lucas Entertainment, Wilson’s only flaw is that he’s, well, nice. Sweet and shy. A good guy supporting his girlfriend and four kids, not a bad boy bone in his body. Ick. Though I did manage to wrangle a taste of his big fat dick – after Jada, a sweet black stripper from the Bronx with enormous T&A had had her way with him, that is. While he was eating her out, she and Bianca, a young, innocent Latina hostess from the Bronx, gushed over how sexy Paris Hilton is. Wilson held up his pinky and waved it. “Eew. You like her, too?” I asked. He removed his face from Jada’s vagina long enough to explain that he doesn’t like thin girls. As my hard-on wilted freestyle music filled the room, taking me back to those long gone 80s. “Oh, yeah, my mom used to play this when I was little,” Wilson added. I felt like a skinny, creepy old queen.
So I just contented myself with sitting temptingly near the Adonis, to playing with his nipple piercings, to inhaling the glorious testosterone – when he wasn’t being greedily gangbanged by Star and her aggressive body parts. Technically Wilson’s job is security “plus” (wink, wink) but Erick’s parties are so laidback that security doesn’t seem to be an issue. Not like the weird mix of cute couples, young, single and surprisingly decent-looking guys (everyone from white shoe lawyers to blue collar construction workers), the porn stars and ghetto strippers all lounging around in towels are suddenly going to get up and riot. To wit, the only tense moment occurred when the crap freebie “NYC condoms” kept slipping off Wilson’s dick the one time I was trying to blow him. (I threatened to call 311 to complain. “The mayor keeps cock-blocking me!”)
Of course, where there’s a cock there’s a way. Right off I’d suggested to Erick that he put an ad for “Str8 Guys on the DL” on Craig’s List so I could watch some live gay porn. The number of responses Erick received shocked him. Within a week I’d climbed the ladder from lowly “hostess” (dispensing towels and locks for the lockers when not cheering on the players, shuffling between the sparsely furnished, downstairs “couples room” and the upstairs lounge with giant couch, urban Brazilian porn on the TV, and a curtained-off boudoir area) to the chick who walks around flirtatiously whispering in every man’s ear, “So. Do you suck cock?”
Such are the times when my gay male soul can shine through my biological female body without getting punched in the nose. Though for every “yeah, sometimes” there are several “no, thanks” the effort can pay off. Like the night I got a cute black guy with an enormous cock to blow Erick’s friend Anthony, a pretty Latin boy with dreamy eyes, as he was jerking him off. The black guy was a cock-sucking virgin, Anthony an eager young thing on the DL. Yum. Needless to say, I decided to hook enthusiastic Anthony up with my gay porn contact. “Why are you trying to get all my friends to do gay porn?” Erick cried. (Uh, maybe because you have friends like the cute, straight Latin stripper who works the gay clubs – and even knows former Gaiety boy Tyler who now manages Club 20!) “He sucks cock? But he’s my friend! I never knew! How can you tell?” Erick endlessly wondered about this one and that, professing shock at my bi and gay-for-pay radar even as he was using me as an undercover DL spy (“Ask him!”). Simple, darling. I can pick up the scent of hustlers and rough trade from a mile away.
Not that these swing parties are all about the cock. No, there’s erotic yoga as well. Jude, the fantastically fit, nearly fifty-year-old, pot-smoking “cougar” hostess, a forensic psychologist who’s married to her master and has been friends with famed BDSM filmmaker (and submissive) Blue for thirty years, has been known to perform a calisthenics regimen in front of the TV porn from time to time. (So what makes this yoga erotic? The setting – duh!) And Jude isn’t the only crossover from the S&M world to grace Erick’s parties (not that Jude doesn’t cross over from several scenes herself, having worked at the iconic punk rock Mudd Club – I was shocked when Thrill Kill Kult’s “Sex On Wheels” blared from the speakers courtesy of Jude, and more recently joined the political performance pranksters Billionaires for Bush). Johnny, a nipple torture enthusiast who plays at Paddles and has known the legendary Lenny of Hellfire Club for decades, is a regular. And Jude also has some flexibility competition from Erick’s friend Legend, a well over six-foot-tall black man with a to-die-for bod who I asked if he played sports in addition to personal training. “Yeah, I used to be in the circus,” he replied, detailing the years he spent with UniverSoul.
Then there’s Liquid, a black bisexual hostess who won’t do girls darker than she. “She’s a white girl inside,” Erick laughed, and indeed, Liquid sounds exactly like Elle from “Legally Blonde.” And there’s also the sharp, twenty-something, Latin female/ black male couple that arrive suited up in business attire – only to immediately strip, never to leave the boudoir area for the rest of the night! (Turns out they’ve been together for three years and public sex is how they decompress after a long hard day. I have a feeling this relationship will last, with lots not to tell the grandchildren about someday.) And of course I can’t forget to mention Erick’s cousin George, a tall teddy bear of an ex-con with gold teeth, who bounces around the room like a kid in desperate need of Ritalin. “It’s my wife. Hi, baby!” he exclaimed, answering his cell during one of his rare moments of sitting still on the couch. “I’m sitting next to a dominatrix!” he added, handing me the phone. “Beat his ass for me!” the voice on the other end yelled. When the entire room suddenly disappeared to the second floor while I was in the bathroom I immediately went downstairs, looking for the orgy. What I found instead left me aghast. Everyone was gathered around the speakers, shaking their towel covered booties to salsa music like at some high school basement party. I was the resident pervert for sure.
When Star started devouring a little Puerto Rican guy half her height Erick coaxed me over to watch the show while he gave a play-by-play. “Oh, her wig is gonna fall off!” he whispered as Star’s weave began to wave. “She’s gonna crush him!” he exclaimed as Star flipped the small man onto his back with a move straight out of WWE. The guy turned out to be quite cool, though. After Star had had her fix he tried to pick me up but I demurred, letting him in on my “secret.” Being a guy on the inside I fuck vicariously through man-on-man action. “That’s very interesting,” he nodded, accepting and intrigued.
And I guess that’s the best part of the swing “gig” for me, the freedom to be my male self (swingers parties are just gay bathhouses for straight-identified people after all!) I can wear undies and a T-shirt, no makeup, not like when I have to pretend to be a girl at Pandora’s, posing as a corseted, high-heeled dom. When Erick shouts, “This is my favorite song!” he looks conspiratorially at me as the hip-hop lyrics sing, “Wave your dicks in the air!” It’s me he sends over to freak out the straight black guy who does odd jobs for him, who he can’t seem to get rid of. (“You fool around with guys?” I bluntly asked the paint-covered dude. “Nah, I’m forty. I’ve got kids at home,” he answered uncomfortably. “I won’t tell them,” I countered sweetly. “Nah, I’m good,” he added, starting to panic.) I guess the only drawback is the low pay so I still troll Craig’s List. Matter of fact, I just emailed a guy – a bi hustler in search of a girl to do joint sessions with his clients. According to Lorenzo’s website he’s an Italian-American, 6’3”, 210 lb. bodybuilder.
To be continued.
Well, yes and no. The standard swingers party is for couples and single women only – no single men allowed, thus no need for hostesses. But because Erick – the fabulous black queen at the other end of the Craig’s List ad – admits single guys to his debauched shindigs he needs extra women to even things out. The hours are 7-11 on most weeknights, 10-2 on weekends, the pay twenty bucks an hour “plus tips,” which could mean nothing if you’re mostly voyeur like me, or rent if you’re an insatiable fuck freak like Star, a towering Amazon of a black woman with huge tits and ass, which she parades around free of charge as she methodically attacks each and every man that enters Erick’s candlelit and incense drenched, three-floor midtown loft. (In all fairness to the sexual Energizer bunny, I honestly don’t know which men Star is charging for her services as she’s like an indiscriminate tornado, sucking up every penis in her path, business dealings seeming a mere afterthought. Erick is forever asking her to slow down before she wears out all the customers.)
I know she’s not charging Wilson. Ahh, Wilson – one of the many former/current/aspiring porn stars that form Erick’s vast entourage. (Did I happen to mention Erick is my new best friend?) The first time I saw Wilson enter the top floor lounge my Pavlovian response to muscled Adonis’s kicked in and it took all my willpower not to drop to my knees, begging to body worship. Wilson is straight out of my “Gaiety guys I must fuck” category. A pierced and tattooed Puerto Rican bodybuilder and personal trainer with a killer smile who eventually confided to me that he’d done gay porn in his “younger days” (he’s 26!) for Tony and Michael over at Lucas Entertainment, Wilson’s only flaw is that he’s, well, nice. Sweet and shy. A good guy supporting his girlfriend and four kids, not a bad boy bone in his body. Ick. Though I did manage to wrangle a taste of his big fat dick – after Jada, a sweet black stripper from the Bronx with enormous T&A had had her way with him, that is. While he was eating her out, she and Bianca, a young, innocent Latina hostess from the Bronx, gushed over how sexy Paris Hilton is. Wilson held up his pinky and waved it. “Eew. You like her, too?” I asked. He removed his face from Jada’s vagina long enough to explain that he doesn’t like thin girls. As my hard-on wilted freestyle music filled the room, taking me back to those long gone 80s. “Oh, yeah, my mom used to play this when I was little,” Wilson added. I felt like a skinny, creepy old queen.
So I just contented myself with sitting temptingly near the Adonis, to playing with his nipple piercings, to inhaling the glorious testosterone – when he wasn’t being greedily gangbanged by Star and her aggressive body parts. Technically Wilson’s job is security “plus” (wink, wink) but Erick’s parties are so laidback that security doesn’t seem to be an issue. Not like the weird mix of cute couples, young, single and surprisingly decent-looking guys (everyone from white shoe lawyers to blue collar construction workers), the porn stars and ghetto strippers all lounging around in towels are suddenly going to get up and riot. To wit, the only tense moment occurred when the crap freebie “NYC condoms” kept slipping off Wilson’s dick the one time I was trying to blow him. (I threatened to call 311 to complain. “The mayor keeps cock-blocking me!”)
Of course, where there’s a cock there’s a way. Right off I’d suggested to Erick that he put an ad for “Str8 Guys on the DL” on Craig’s List so I could watch some live gay porn. The number of responses Erick received shocked him. Within a week I’d climbed the ladder from lowly “hostess” (dispensing towels and locks for the lockers when not cheering on the players, shuffling between the sparsely furnished, downstairs “couples room” and the upstairs lounge with giant couch, urban Brazilian porn on the TV, and a curtained-off boudoir area) to the chick who walks around flirtatiously whispering in every man’s ear, “So. Do you suck cock?”
Such are the times when my gay male soul can shine through my biological female body without getting punched in the nose. Though for every “yeah, sometimes” there are several “no, thanks” the effort can pay off. Like the night I got a cute black guy with an enormous cock to blow Erick’s friend Anthony, a pretty Latin boy with dreamy eyes, as he was jerking him off. The black guy was a cock-sucking virgin, Anthony an eager young thing on the DL. Yum. Needless to say, I decided to hook enthusiastic Anthony up with my gay porn contact. “Why are you trying to get all my friends to do gay porn?” Erick cried. (Uh, maybe because you have friends like the cute, straight Latin stripper who works the gay clubs – and even knows former Gaiety boy Tyler who now manages Club 20!) “He sucks cock? But he’s my friend! I never knew! How can you tell?” Erick endlessly wondered about this one and that, professing shock at my bi and gay-for-pay radar even as he was using me as an undercover DL spy (“Ask him!”). Simple, darling. I can pick up the scent of hustlers and rough trade from a mile away.
Not that these swing parties are all about the cock. No, there’s erotic yoga as well. Jude, the fantastically fit, nearly fifty-year-old, pot-smoking “cougar” hostess, a forensic psychologist who’s married to her master and has been friends with famed BDSM filmmaker (and submissive) Blue for thirty years, has been known to perform a calisthenics regimen in front of the TV porn from time to time. (So what makes this yoga erotic? The setting – duh!) And Jude isn’t the only crossover from the S&M world to grace Erick’s parties (not that Jude doesn’t cross over from several scenes herself, having worked at the iconic punk rock Mudd Club – I was shocked when Thrill Kill Kult’s “Sex On Wheels” blared from the speakers courtesy of Jude, and more recently joined the political performance pranksters Billionaires for Bush). Johnny, a nipple torture enthusiast who plays at Paddles and has known the legendary Lenny of Hellfire Club for decades, is a regular. And Jude also has some flexibility competition from Erick’s friend Legend, a well over six-foot-tall black man with a to-die-for bod who I asked if he played sports in addition to personal training. “Yeah, I used to be in the circus,” he replied, detailing the years he spent with UniverSoul.
Then there’s Liquid, a black bisexual hostess who won’t do girls darker than she. “She’s a white girl inside,” Erick laughed, and indeed, Liquid sounds exactly like Elle from “Legally Blonde.” And there’s also the sharp, twenty-something, Latin female/ black male couple that arrive suited up in business attire – only to immediately strip, never to leave the boudoir area for the rest of the night! (Turns out they’ve been together for three years and public sex is how they decompress after a long hard day. I have a feeling this relationship will last, with lots not to tell the grandchildren about someday.) And of course I can’t forget to mention Erick’s cousin George, a tall teddy bear of an ex-con with gold teeth, who bounces around the room like a kid in desperate need of Ritalin. “It’s my wife. Hi, baby!” he exclaimed, answering his cell during one of his rare moments of sitting still on the couch. “I’m sitting next to a dominatrix!” he added, handing me the phone. “Beat his ass for me!” the voice on the other end yelled. When the entire room suddenly disappeared to the second floor while I was in the bathroom I immediately went downstairs, looking for the orgy. What I found instead left me aghast. Everyone was gathered around the speakers, shaking their towel covered booties to salsa music like at some high school basement party. I was the resident pervert for sure.
When Star started devouring a little Puerto Rican guy half her height Erick coaxed me over to watch the show while he gave a play-by-play. “Oh, her wig is gonna fall off!” he whispered as Star’s weave began to wave. “She’s gonna crush him!” he exclaimed as Star flipped the small man onto his back with a move straight out of WWE. The guy turned out to be quite cool, though. After Star had had her fix he tried to pick me up but I demurred, letting him in on my “secret.” Being a guy on the inside I fuck vicariously through man-on-man action. “That’s very interesting,” he nodded, accepting and intrigued.
And I guess that’s the best part of the swing “gig” for me, the freedom to be my male self (swingers parties are just gay bathhouses for straight-identified people after all!) I can wear undies and a T-shirt, no makeup, not like when I have to pretend to be a girl at Pandora’s, posing as a corseted, high-heeled dom. When Erick shouts, “This is my favorite song!” he looks conspiratorially at me as the hip-hop lyrics sing, “Wave your dicks in the air!” It’s me he sends over to freak out the straight black guy who does odd jobs for him, who he can’t seem to get rid of. (“You fool around with guys?” I bluntly asked the paint-covered dude. “Nah, I’m forty. I’ve got kids at home,” he answered uncomfortably. “I won’t tell them,” I countered sweetly. “Nah, I’m good,” he added, starting to panic.) I guess the only drawback is the low pay so I still troll Craig’s List. Matter of fact, I just emailed a guy – a bi hustler in search of a girl to do joint sessions with his clients. According to Lorenzo’s website he’s an Italian-American, 6’3”, 210 lb. bodybuilder.
To be continued.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sex Industry Stonewall
Rebecca’s Hidden Chamber, an S&M dungeon in midtown Manhattan, got busted for prostitution the other week. Now I know next to nothing about this house of domination that bills itself as “the polite dungeon” (whatever that means), but I do know about BDSM, having been both a personal slave and a pro-dom, as well as prostitution, having been involved with a high-end male escort for six years.
And I say, “Enough!”
When are sex workers finally going to come out of the closet and take to the streets? Instead of denying that one agreed to engage in sex for $220 (if Rebecca’s mistresses did indeed consent to that paltry sum then they got busted and low-balled to boot!) or tearfully pleading guilty, why not try some dominant defiance? “Yes, officer, I did agree to fuck you, but I didn’t consent to my hard-earned tax dollars – yup, many of us do vanilla gigs, too – going to the prosecution of “vice crimes” when education budgets get slashed, when infrastructure repairs get tabled, when men and women lacking body armor are dying in Iraq.”
Where is the outrage?
Instead of focusing on “sex slaves” (apples to the oranges of run-of-the-mill hookers) and the myth of prostitution as a non-victimless crime, let’s focus on the bogus “morality” nonsense that keeps the vice unit in business – a unit as antiquated as prohibition. The government has no right telling me what to do with my womb, or so the pro-choice voice would say. Then why in 2008 is there not an equally strong sexual rights lobby, one demanding that government stop making decisions for the rest of my body as well?
At the beginning of the last century, in “Tropic of Capricorn,” Henry Miller wrote,” “I meant by that a very simple thing – The Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western had been electrified, the Seaboard Air Line had been electrified, but the soul of man was still in the covered wagon stage.” We should be embarrassed that those words still ring ominously true today, ashamed of our puritanical laws, and not by the acts they futilely attempt to prevent us from engaging in.
For more sex workers advocacy head over to Bound, Not Gagged.
And I say, “Enough!”
When are sex workers finally going to come out of the closet and take to the streets? Instead of denying that one agreed to engage in sex for $220 (if Rebecca’s mistresses did indeed consent to that paltry sum then they got busted and low-balled to boot!) or tearfully pleading guilty, why not try some dominant defiance? “Yes, officer, I did agree to fuck you, but I didn’t consent to my hard-earned tax dollars – yup, many of us do vanilla gigs, too – going to the prosecution of “vice crimes” when education budgets get slashed, when infrastructure repairs get tabled, when men and women lacking body armor are dying in Iraq.”
Where is the outrage?
Instead of focusing on “sex slaves” (apples to the oranges of run-of-the-mill hookers) and the myth of prostitution as a non-victimless crime, let’s focus on the bogus “morality” nonsense that keeps the vice unit in business – a unit as antiquated as prohibition. The government has no right telling me what to do with my womb, or so the pro-choice voice would say. Then why in 2008 is there not an equally strong sexual rights lobby, one demanding that government stop making decisions for the rest of my body as well?
At the beginning of the last century, in “Tropic of Capricorn,” Henry Miller wrote,” “I meant by that a very simple thing – The Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western had been electrified, the Seaboard Air Line had been electrified, but the soul of man was still in the covered wagon stage.” We should be embarrassed that those words still ring ominously true today, ashamed of our puritanical laws, and not by the acts they futilely attempt to prevent us from engaging in.
For more sex workers advocacy head over to Bound, Not Gagged.
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