Monthly Archives: February 2015

Sew Busy

Over the past week, I’ve gone to a place where I sit and do stuff and get paid. I believe they call it work. Er, a job. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been working. For money. CASH MONEY! Don’t panic. It isn’t a “real” job and certainly isn’t a career. My friend Karen is in the UK visiting her mom for a month. Before she left, I asked her if, perhaps, the man she was working for at the Chelsea Market location of Artists & Fleas might want someone to fill in for her. She put me in touch with the guy and — voila! — I had work!

He trained me over a quick hour on a Thursday night, then left me on my own. That was a three-hour shift. I worked Friday 10am till 9pm and Monday for the same 11-hour-shift. Tuesday I went in at 10 and was scheduled to leave at 2 but the woman who was supposed to relieve me didn’t show up so I worked till 5. I went in on Wednesday for four hours. I thought I’d be working 11 hours Thursday, was told he didn’t need me, then received a text Thursday morning asking if I could work that night. I declined. I’d already made plans. And I’d already worked 36 hours in less than a week. That was plenty for someone who’s used to sitting on her ass watching Sons of Anarchy. I know, I know; I shouldn’t have turned down any work. But it was the principle of the thing. Though I’ll admit I felt super guilty. I hate to say no. And he did say he “wasn’t feeling well.” Sigh.

So what am I doing for this guy, you ask? I’m cutting up vintage sheets, which he buys on eBay, ironing the Star Wars and superheroes and Hanna Barbera characters onto Stitch-Witchery stuff, then appliquéing them onto t-shirts. I started out pretty shitty but it didn’t take long till I was sufficiently proficient. I am not, however, much of a salesperson. Over all those hours I only managed to sell six shirts. I didn’t contribute much to his bottom line even if I did considerably bulk up his inventory. And I organized the shit out of his tiny little booth. I counted and stacked every shirt, made note of what was made and what was “unmade” stock, sorted and folded and piled everything by size and color…I got totally OCD with that shit. It kept me busy while I was busy not selling anything.

I was told I’d be given a little “lesson in how to sell” on Wednesday but by the time I got there, the guy had come to the realization that it was, indeed, as slow as I’d said it had been so he didn’t bother sharing any of his salesmanship secrets with me. I am betting it helps that this is his genius idea. Everyone is far more enthusiastic about the shit the springs from their brain than the brains of others. Though, truth be told, I’m equally as lousy selling the shit that springs from y brain… $35 for a t-shirt appliquéd with a segment of a vintage sheet seems a little expensive to me, but then I never pay retail. Guffaw.

I realized something over this past week: I am a hard worker. I am a conscientious employee. Maybe not the best or most compliant or easiest to manage. I definitely work best with some measure of autonomy. And I like to “innovate,” which, in most cases, is frowned upon. I got a little too creative with some of my designs and bossman wants to keep things pretty uniform. Ah well. But I show up on time, I do my best. In fact I hold myself to pretty ridiculous standards. As in total perfection. My problem has always been that I don’t suffer fools gladly. And even bosses can be fools. It has never meant that I don’t respect you (you, meaning bossperson). It just means that I question everything. EVERYTHING. And believe in constant improvement. Maybe I should’ve been one of those people who comes into the workplace and turns the joint upside down to make it better. I dunno…

One of my favorite jobs was with Penthouse Forum. My boss there thought I hated it, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was just always…dissatisfied. Not with her or the job but with the status quo. I wanted things to improve. More readers. New ideas. Better. BETTER! My direct boss on DPW (Burning Man’s Department of Public Works, which has been employing me seasonally for the past nine years) gets me. It’s rare. I’m incredibly grateful for him as well as for Burning Man. It’s an organization that understands — actually encourages — innovation and change. I spend less money. Get the same shit done in a shorter amount of time. Hmm. Maybe I’m just a shitty capitalist. Or cog.

Anyway, if you were wondering where I went after my long-awaited return to the blogosphere — which I know you were! — that’s what’s been keeping me busy and rolling in the Benjamins. Er, Washingtons… Lalala…spring is right around the corner. Maybe more people will be buying t-shirts next week!


I no longer have regular TV. Meaning I don’t have cable or network television. I can’t just flip on the box and watch whatever is on. Which means I’ve joined the legions of Netflix binge-watchers. I’ve gone through every available episode of Orange is the New Black, House of Cards and Mad Men. I’ve finished the complete Breaking Bad. Soooo good! I’m as caught up as I can be on Downton Abbey and Walking Dead and sat through the first two seasons (do they even call them that anymore?) of American Horror. My current obsession is Sons of Anarchy. I watch at least two or three episodes a day. Er, night.

SPOILER ALERT! If you have any intention of watching SOA, stop reading now!

Two nights ago I watched “Laying Pipe,” in which the Opie character is killed off. I wept. This could, of course, be attributed to my current state of mind. And heart. But apparently it struck other viewers as equally sad. The show’s producer, Kurt Sutter, was questioned about this plot twist and explained himself here. Even the actors were profoundly upset by the character’s death. If you haven’t watched the show and have no intention to, I’ll tell ya: they kill people off at a pretty quick clip. Like one person episode. Or every few minutes. It’s bloody fucking brutal.

It also has a Shakespearean beauty. Even while the characters are hurtling toward their presumably violent ends, their passion is riveting. The passion, for me, became even more riveting when Jimmy Smits joins the cast in Season 5. Waking up after a drunken one-night stand, Gemma pulls a gun on “Nero Padilla”  as he’s coming out of the bathroom. Their subsequent conversation — and sober reacquaintance — had me hanging on every word. He’s running an escort service and when Gemma questions his interest in her while surrounded by “young pussy” (or something to that effect), he says, “I prefer a patina on my precious metals.” Gulp. So good. As my friend Sandra wondered, where are all the guys like that on OKCupid?

I’ve complained before about 50-something men not only wanting 30-something women but getting them. I guess if a guy is fit and financially solvent, why shouldn’t he be fucking a trophy chick? Most women over 50 not only can’t hold the interest of 30-something men but wouldn’t want to. We want a patina on our precious metals as well. Of course, we can do without the 100 extra pounds and bald pate. Just as much as men can do without saggy breasts, I suppose. Who likes to be reminded of their mortality? Talk about a turn-off…

I see “older” couples and marvel at how much older the women look than the men. And am I being “ageist?” How is this possible? Is it that when people are coupled, the women age faster? Care less about their appearance? In the world of being single and “older,” the dynamic is decidedly different. The women — myself included — do everything they can to maintain their youth. At least within their means. I’d be in South America getting a facelift in a New York minute if I could afford it. Actually, an everything lift would be pretty great! We hit the gym and wear clothes that highlight our assets. No “mom” jeans. I don’t know anyone who has succumbed to their grey hair, coupled or single. 

We drag our asses out to as many social situations as we can stomach. We smile and nod, shake hands and listen intently to the nervous, let-me-impress-you ramblings of strangers like virginal schoolgirls. All in the hopes of a second date. Or being asked out on a first one. Sigh. If only Kurt Sutter could write me into his next show. I may fantasize about Opie but I’d gladly accept the patina of Jimmy Smits!

Beautiful Music?

I’ve been doing my best to keep busy and inadvertently made myself a little too busy. On Thursday I had not one but two OKCupid dates. In my effort to remain positive, I’ll say the first man provided me with an exercise in listening. Even though he is retired, he spoke quite a bit about his (former) job. He even uttered the words “When I was in college…” He wasn’t as interesting as he sold himself to be in his profile and there wasn’t any chemistry but I guess he wasn’t…horrible. (How’s that for trying to be positive?) Or a drinker. Which I (perhaps sadly) find to be an obstacle. He is new to the city and will soon discover that bars are our living rooms. Probably even more so since he lives with his daughter and her family. There’s only so far a date can go over one cup of tea. But he professed his desire to “try new things” so I’ll gladly offer him a few — at least of the less alcohol based variety — even though it has been my experience that men who are eager to “try new things” never actually do…

My second date was slightly more interesting than chai and retirement. He had given true spontaneity a shot the night before with an offer to meet for a drink (always a good sign) and if I hadn’t already been in my pajamas in front of “Sons of Anarchy” I might’ve taken him up on that. (Any invitation after 8pm is also good; it means a person has at least a minimal sense of adventure.) When I wasn’t available for the late night cocktail I suggested the following evening and he wondered if I’d be interested in the symphony. Definitely!

IMG_4100I met him at Lincoln Center and engaged in some more “active listening” before the concert began. [Random observation: People talk a lot when they’re nervous. As a result, I have actually become a much better listener.] Our opinions on the musical selections of the evening matched up well. He was wearing a really cool shirt. And afterward he was game for a drink. My choice would’ve been Clark’s for a pint. His choice was Rosa Mexicano for a pomegranate margarita (brrrr) followed by a shot of tequila. He’s a tequila aficionado. Okay. I get that expertise can be attractive. It was an evening full of firsts: I’ve never been to the symphony on a date and I’d never been to the New York Philharmonic. Or Avery Fisher Hall. I can’t remember ever drinking a pomegranate margarita. Or having a shot of fancy tequila — sans (or should I say “sin”?) — a chaser. Especially as a nightcap. Or before a long subway ride home.

Conversation between the music and the margaritas was pleasant. He’s smart and funny. I suppose I wouldn’t mind seeing him again, though the thought of having sex with him isn’t particularly appealing. Perhaps I’ll never find sex appealing again. Sigh.

Sorry, folks. I’m having a bad day. I started this on my phone but the damn app doesn’t appear to be working right or I would’ve posted it on Friday. To continue my “keeping busy” train of thought, I was in a panic because I’d committed to finishing a little piece of writing plus proofreading three pieces by other people, all by yesterday, even though I’d made plans for most of yesterday. And Saturday night. Thankfully some of those plans didn’t come to fruition. Which was a bad thing, actually. Yeah, kinda vaguebooking and I’m not even on Facebook. Anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is that as bad as I feel right now I’m at least wrapping up this post anyway in an attempt to be productive and remain in motion. Of some sort.

As an addendum, I went to a party Saturday night. I volunteered to work because I’ve become a terrible party goer. I need to be doing something. Though while my costume came out pretty great and I didn’t sit home alone on Valentine’s Day, I can’t say I enjoyed the party. I hated the music. I didn’t really have anyone to talk to. Okay, now I’m really rambling. And sounding pathetic. I think it’s time to go to the gym. I’m gonna hit “publish” just because, in getting back to blogging, I noticed that I would save drafts and never return to them. So even if this shit isn’t Shakespeare, it’s gonna have to do. Ya know? It’s an exercise…

Bondage Birthday – Ancient Erotica In “Honor” of 50 Shades

In “celebration” of both the premiere of “50 Shades of Grey” and Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d offer a reprint of a piece of erotica I wrote over a decade ago. I hope it inspires a little passion in those of you who might be prone to such things. At the very least I hope it inspires comparison. I like to think that my smut is (was?) far superior to that of E.L. James. But then, she’s made millions. Can’t say the same myself. Ah, the world is full of injustices…(Forgive any typos, I posted this in a hurry!)

The invitation read “Come as you are. As you were. As we want you to be,” a slight variation on the lyrics of one of my favorite songs. The wood-cut on the cover pictured a woman, suggestively dressed and osed in shackels, and the piece of parchment was imprinted with the logo of the private dungeon I frequent on weekends. The time specified was 9:00 p.m.; the date, Friday May 27th, my birthday.

Since no particular costume was requested, I assumed that the interpretation of “As we want you to be” was completely up to me. I selected a full-body leather lattice-work affair that I’d had custom-made. Finally an occasion worthy of it! I slipped my limbs through the webbing, pulling the delicate, supple strings of lambskin until they crisscrossed my body evenly. My breasts were bound against my body by the outfit and I could already feel my pussy tightening in anticipation.

I pinned my hair up in an elaborate tangle of curls, rhinestone-studded bobby pins crisscrossing my hair, echoing the grid of leather on my body. I applied a thin stroke of eyeliner, pinched my cheeks until they pinkened and glossed my lips in sheer opalescence.

To prevent my being arrested en route to my destination, I needed some sort of wrap to conceal my leather-bound voluptuousness. From the hal closet I pulled a floor-pength black satin cape, lined in purple, with a grand gold tassel hanging from the point of the hood and sparkling gold frog closures. I carefully fastened each hook, enveloping my webbed body in the cool satin. Then I wiggled my toes into a pair of black pumps with high, steel stiletto heels.

When I arrived at the unmarked club door, a frail, dark woman let me in. I informed her that I was with the birthday group. As she glanced down the list and her finger came to my name, she whispered, “Ah, you’re the guest of honro? I envy you.” She appraised me with an almost imperceptible once-over, crossed my name off the list and gestured to a hooded man standing to the side of the door who stepped up and took me by the arm.
He led me through a darkened hallway and out into the crowded room, still draped in my satin cape, and up onto a raised platform. A familiar voice introduced me to the crowd as “the birthday girl,” and I received a polite round of applause. When the clapping faded the voice continued, saying that I was to follow every order, every instruction. I was to be submissive, under the complete control of my peers. I nodded in agreement and the disembodied voice ordered me to remove my cape. My hands were shaking as I unfastened the passementerie clasps, one by one, from the bottom, below my crotch, to the top, tight at my neck.

I stood for a second, sensing the anticipation of the audience. Then I gently pushed the slippery fabric off my shoulders and the cape slid to the floor. There were gasps and excited whispers of approbal. The voice commended my choice of apparel and invited the audience to inspect my garment more closely. People moved toward me, running their fingers along the lines of leather that wrapped around my body, the poking at my exposed flesh and tugging at the straps, as if trying to pull my body out through the spaces between the strips. The sensation of the tight suit digging into my skin, all over my body, and the man probing fingers was delicious. Soon there were seemingly a million mouths gnawing at the leather lattice work, saliva dripping between skin and straps, until one by one the connections holding the garment together were frayed and torn. Eventually the straps hung, cold and wet on my frame and soon there was nothing left but a pile of leather shreds at my feet. My skin tingled with the wetness of the audience’s accumulated drool.

The voice asked that the crowd step back and a small blonde woman emerged from behind them. She told me to knee, and as I obeyed, she pulled a dark velvet scarf from deep down in her overflowing cleavage. She placed it across my eyes and tied it tightly in a knot at the back of my head. She told me to stand, took me by the hand and assisted me down from the platform. I was led back through the crowd, following blindly, until I was told to stop. Disoriented and without eyesight, my other senses became heightened. I could smell everyone’s perfume and perspiration, and hear every little gasp of air each person took. The tiny bristles of the velvet fabric over my eyes tickled my eyelids. The air was warm, then cool, then warm again, as bodies brushed closely by me.
The voice said “Lift” and I was raised up into the air by a dozen strong hands and laid down on a cool, flat surface. I could feel the air stif overhead, from a fan or air duct, I assumed, but my body heat was warming the surface and I could feel tiny beads of sweat start to form at the small of my back. Simultaneously there was the quick tearing sound of Velcro and then my wrists and ankles were pulled in four directions and bound, securing me to the surface. This was such a vulnerable position, naked and prone beneath the stirring air. My cunt throbbed.

From there my heightened senses went into overload as fingers massaged me—my temples, the soles of my feet, the tense, elongated muscles of my neck. Warm palms caressed my belly, grazed my breasts. Light fingertips danced up and down my bound limbs, across my clean-shaven pussy, over my masked eyelids and through my hair, loosening my hairpins. Stiff, insistent tongues prodded my flesh, my ears, my nipples, still and cool in the breeze, then warmed by a sucking mouth, then hot between strong, pinching fingers. I writhed and moaned, feeling the juice escape my cunt and slide down between my slick asscheeks to the table, pooling into a wet spot.

I felt the table shift with the weight of someone at my feet. Two smooth, small hands gripped my ankles. How many seconds had passed as all the other lips and palms and pinching fingers left me? When the only contact was my body on the table and the smooth hands on my ankles, I held my breath, almost cringing. Then a silken face was rubbing, burying itself in the bald folds of my cunt, a sharp, slippery tongue jabbing into me, poking past my hard clit, sliding in the slick juices that were dripping out of me. I was practically singing with uncontrollable sighs and moans and shrieks as the face nudged into my crotch, again and again; a nose, a stiff protrusion from the silken face, sliding up and up, rubbing over and past my clit, each of my screams increasing in volume until the poking tongue started working my clit, working, and tiny teeth pulling and twisting it, and then just furious, repetitions lapping until I was sobbing and shaking in my pool of sweat and juices on the slippery table.

As my sobs softened and my tensed muscles telaxed and the singular tongue trailed from my gaping cunt down my quivering thigh, the fingers and mouths started up again, tweaking my nipples, kissing and licking the tears that had spilled from the corners of my eyes and out from under my blindfold. Someone placed their lips squarely upon mine and kissed me, sucking my tongue into their mouth until I was out of breath. Then, some sort of arrangement must have been made because, again, the disembodied mouths and hands pulled away, leaving me holding my breath as before.

From across the room I heard someone start to sing, and the bodies, still close around me, radiating heat and passion, joined in: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Evelyn. Happy birthday to you.”

I felt a round, cold object placed upon my stomach. Someone lifted my head up and instructed me to blow. I did as I was told, gathering up as much air as my tightened chest would allow in and expelling it in the direction of the object on my belly. The crowd cheered and applauded and my head was rested back onto the table.
Pressure was applied to my stomach every few seconds and I gathered that they were cutting and distributing cake. After the same movements were repeated a dozen times, my head was lifted up again. “Open your mouth and extend your tongue,” the voice ordered. Again, I did as I was told. A wonderful consistency of chocolate deliciousness was set upon my tongue. I waited for permission to chew it, saliva dripping from one corner of my mouth. “You may eat it,” the voice said. It was a creamy chocolate mousse with a thin, hard chocolate crust. It felt like every one of my taste buds was participating in this sensual experience.

When the plate was removed I waited, my head still being porpped up, as I felt the table shift again and wondered what delight would be next. The air around my waist stirred; I felt the warmth of someone near and movement above me. Then, at my waist, I felt skin against my skin, anklebones jutting into my sides. Hairy legs knelt on the tabletop, brushing my rib cage.

Someone leaned on me—a man. A farily large, heavy man. I could smell him, the scent of his groin, the faint sour smell of sweat and urine, and I detected an increase in the temperature of the air above my chest. Large, weathered hands grabbed at my tits, kneading them, twisting the nipples. I could smell the man’s breath, smell the gin he’d been drinking and the extra lime he’d demanded.

The voice told me, again, to open my mouth and extend my tongue, and I obeyed. Then, again, although nothing had been placed on my tongue, the voice said, “You may eat it.” And in a quick whisper another voice added, “Or should we say blow!” The crowd tittered and in the next second my entire mouth was stuff with the fat cock of the large, heavy man breathing lime and gin. Without my hands, I couldn’t work him in and out of my mouth, so I could only purse my lips as he filled and emptied and then refilled my mouth with this immense, throbbing hard-on.

The anonymity of this encounter had me turned on almost to the point of dementia. I gasped and wheezed, trying to breathe and suck off this huge man, performing blind fellatio for the murmuring audience, wanting so badly for him to spurt his come on me and in me and all over me. I heard him start to grunt and knew his orgasm was not far off, so I bobbed my ehad faster, sucking, sucking, trying to concentrated, then I felt something smooth and cold and hard penetrate my sweating cunt. Someone was working some sort of dildo in and out of me, mathing the thrusts of the huge man hulking over me, shoving the object deep inside me as the man rammed his cock into my throat.

My eyes rolled back in my head behind my velvet mask, and as the scent of sweat and lime and gin overpowered me, I was frantically shoving my pussy at the pumping dildo, trying to cry out in orgasm, even as the hulking man was spewing huge gobs of come down my throat, across my cheek, onto my tits, down my neac and back into my mouth, then pulling my head into his twitching, muscky groin. He was groaning and expelling that gin and lime scent as I lay there under him, my inner muscles clenching and spasming.

At some point the hulking man climbed off me and down from the table and I rested, panting, the entire surface a slip’n’slide of sweat. My heart was pounding so hard, as if amplified, and I believed I could hear the heartbeat of everyone in the room as they came intheir hands, their lover’s mouths, onto the floor, wherever they could find to release their juices and seed in a massive group orgasm. The air was close and heavy with the smell of come and sweat, and I swooned there in my table-size puddle. I could barely catch my breath.
And then it started again, the fingers poking and the palms sliding and skidding across my sweaty body, but there was something else, something different, a new texture. It was like mud—warm, gritless mud. And when the many tongues began moving over me, over the mixture of mud and sweat, I knew that the cool substance must’ve been the chocolate mousse. They spread it and rubbed it and licked and lapped it, a massage of many tongues, chocolate-coated tongues creeping in and out of my mouth, and I sucked the creamy mousse off them, my mouth gaping like a land-locked fish as I waited for the next mouth to meet mine.

The many sensations of touch and smell and sex were overpowering. I felt high and lightheaded. When the faceless touching and tonguing finally tapered off, someone freed my wrists and ankles from the restraints, with those quick tearing sounds of Velcro again. I was helped down from the table. My arms and feet felt as though they were floating beyond my control, and yet at the same time they felt immensely heavy. The voice said it was time for me to take off the blindfold and join the rest of the party guests, so I untied the strip of velvet and blinked, taking in the view of my surroundings.

My many friends stood around me, their faces smeared with chocolate mousse and they were smiling and holding sweaty glasses of champagne. “To Evelyn, on her birthday!” they cried in unison, and someone slipped a full bottle of champagne into my hand. I toasted myself along with the crowd, tipping the bottle back and taking a long chug of champagne.

We were in the basement of the dungeon, which is equipped not only with the usual SM stockades and shackles, but with a huge, round jacuzzi. People began shedding their chains and leather and garters and slipping into the hot bubbling water, and I joined them, happy to be rid of the sticky layers of saliva and chocolate mousse.
We drank and carried on late into the night, the many guests making good use of the available facilities. Couples shackled one another to the walls and submissives bent over leather hassocks awaiting the smart slap of passing dominants. A particularly attractive brunette woman was dangling blindfolded in a harness hung from the ceiling, her bared bottom being expertly pinkened at the hand of a brutish man in nothing but a series of heavy cock rings.

At one point, the festive bottles of champagne were replaced by icy cold beers served from jumbo coolers. Beer and bodies passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth, all property becoming community property. The room was a striking tableau of total carnal indulgence.

It was a truly joyous celebration of life—and lifestyle—and certainly my most memorable birthday ever.

Nose, Meet Grindstone

Well hello, strangers!

IMG_4099Yes it’s been a looooong while since my last post. I found myself feeling so disheartened by all the haters that I couldn’t bring myself to write anymore. But last night I went on (yes, yet another) OKCupid date and the very sweet gentleman succeeded in sorta guilting me into writing again. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, an OKCupid date that I am NOT going to complain about! No, it wasn’t love. But it was enjoyable. He challenged me — on just about everything –in an encouraging, playful way. He made me look at everything I “believe” to be “true” in a new way. Ordinarily I am irritated as hell by people who think they have the answers to all my problems. Everyone seems to be able to clearly see how you can make your life better, even when theirs is hardly a shining example of perfection. And I usually want to punch people in the face when they start with me. Something about this man’s “come from” made me slightly less stabby… Now that I think about it, maybe I can solve his problems: He should consider a career in life coaching. Which, I know, is mostly a joke. I mean, those who can, do…those who can’t, teach…and those who can’t teach become life coaches. Haha. Anyway. I do believe it’s a very specific talent to help people see their lives from a different angle. This guy possesses that talent. He, too, is a writer, a “scribbler,” as he describes himself. I’ve always loved that word and have used it to describe myself as well.

While my life’s problems have not, in fact, been solved, I do feel like it’s about damn time I put my nose back to the grindstone. ANY grindstone. So here I am. I have a lot of pent up stuff to write about. Guess I’d better start composing…and maybe warm up the glue gun…