Sunday, July 26, 2015

Deep Thoughts... by Veronica Handey

Peter was blonde and my age and had an older brother who was a bruiser.  We rode our bikes through sun showers and stomped through pine needles at sunset and played with Transformer action figures in his room when it was too hot outside.  We never had the audacity to kiss, but it didn't matter as we were 10.

One time, I remember his mother called him in from outside.  He did not come back out.  She'd punished him with a belt. He had to lean himself over the living room couch with his brother next to him, and they both took the beatings.  That time it was especially brutal and also he was grounded for a week.  He could not come to the door, he could not go outside.

I needed to know exactly what happened and why...   The ritual of it was what I wanted to extract. How was this time different than the others?  How was it more harsh? How painful was it, exactly?  I played with the idea of asking to see his bruises but didn't dare.  The complete and utter cruelty! How could it happen?  I obsessed over it, thinking at the time it was because he was my friend and I was concerned.

I now know of course that I was titillated.

I don't know what he did to warrant such a beating and don't remember his last name.  I know she was a single mother and a nurse, with two unruly boys on the brink of serious teenage-hood.  It was one summer and I never saw him again because they moved away.  

Sunday, June 28, 2015

My first PRIDE.

I posted this back in 2012,  after I was on a float in the NYC Pride Parade.  I post it now every year, as it just about says everything I want to say about today, and is especially topical considering the recent SCOTUS ruling.  I hope you like it!

Well, Gay Pride has come and gone. Such a fun time. It seems like you can go to a different party every night, and that it goes on for far longer than is reasonable.

I don't mean to toot my own horn (although it's so easy!), but have been going (off and on) since the 90's. I was a teenager, and not "out". I wasn't sure if I was gay, even though I was experimenting with friends.  I was (and am) lucky enough to have a sister who was a crazy pagan lesbian vegetarian counter-culturalist forward-thinker who took me to Pride and all kinds of festivals where I saw Kim Airs wearing a strap-on and traffic cones on her breasts, amongst other things. It was exquisitely bizarre, and I am so grateful for those glimpses, being brought up in a very constricted environment.

But as I was waiting and waiting for the float I was on to start moving yesterday, I got frustrated. I mean, it took us four damned hours just to get started. Then I began thinking about the first time I went to the parade (when it was technically a "march", which is different). I remember my sister being hesitant about taking me because there was an actual level of danger. It's hard to imagine today, but back then the "march" was an act of protest. It was defiant. We are talking before "Will & Grace", before "Glee", clearly, before "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" went on goddamned fucking Broadway but was a small film your friends told you about that weirdly starred Agent Smith from "The Matrix". The shit was Real. You could get things thrown at you, there were bomb threats, and about 20% of the people there were protesting against it. For all of these reasons, I stopped being frustrated and realized how far everything has come. It's good that the parade is so large and so popular.

When I was a kid, I was spellbound by the freakish levels of abject randomness and how comfortable everyone was with whatever fantastical creature the march welcomed anyone to be. I fell in love with drag queens, and smiled at them with a starry-eyed stalker-like quality which I'm sure was a little scary- but which I still do because I find them absolutely bewitching. I met a man with door knockers in his nipples and scarification all over his chest (who was a banker in his vanilla life, not surprisingly to any of us, but which was to my 16 year old mind). It was probably the first time in my life I felt genuinely afraid and happy at the same time (a feeling a lot of bottoms can relate with). Especially when I saw Dykes on Bikes, who were at the very front. I remember being scared by the sound of the Harleys, and then burst into tears. I'm not sure why. It's silly, really. I mean, their name alone is pretty ridiculous. But I think it was the first time I had seen a powerful group of women en masse wielding machines with utter assuredness. It was an unapologetic expression of female power and toughness, and it overwhelmed me. Now that I think about it, the placement of the biker babes was probably strategic. Not only because motorcycles are unreliable when stopping and starting, but it's a show of force in an otherwise vulnerable seeming population. (Lest we forget drag queens started the Stonewall Riot- which is the reason Pride exists).

Sure, Pride has become very commercialized, it's lost a lot of it's protest "edge", it's too large and clunky, it disturbs traffic, and the sheer defiant excitement of being outrageous in the face of forceful opposition is gone. But while I was looking out into the crowd of people yesterday-- smiling and waving and cheering and dancing- I felt the spirit of freedom of expression and universal concepts of love and acceptance are still at the heart. However you want to be, you can be. With enthusiasm. I'm pretty sure that having the experience of going when I was 16 did something toward assuring me that whatever pansexual, kinky, bizarre feelings I was having were fine, and even a positive thing. And I'm cool with that.


Serving some Pride Clown realness, bitches!

Friday, April 10, 2015


It is strange to write about someone you didn't know.  Especially someone who you probably know people who he knew, or to admire someone who is dead or someone who is dead and relatively obscure.  It feels like someone else should be writing this, but I don't think anyone IS writing about it, and in the wake of all this 50 Shades FUCK ALL bullshit, Bob Flanagan should be remembered. Someone who took his body to extremes, cut his teeth on the edges of BDSM, elevated it to an art form, and did it twenty years ago.  This, when hardly anyone other than Ava Taurel (someone I've also written about) was coming out of the closet. Flanagan prostrated himself in public without a second thought about what it meant politically or whether it was provocative.  He was just doing what he did, like any great artist.

He was anomalous not only for being the quintessential "supermasochist", but doing it before the age of the internet.  Born with a disease called cystic fibrosis, his childhood was spent being prodded and probed, tied to his bed, and even sealed in a plastic bag.  Flanagan, like a lot of masochists, found a coping mechanism through touching his penis to offset the trauma. (Before we go pathologizing too much, let me say that Bob admitted that his kinks were probably triggered by these experiences, but not necessarily indicative that formative experiences are what makes all kinky people kinky.  It was simply his experience.)  Cystic fibrosis is a disease in which the body does not have a proper mechanism for dispelling mucous, so it collects in the person's lungs.  Most people die when they are in their early 20's or 30's, but Flanagan held on until he was 43.  One of the longest survivors of the disease, he attributed it partly to the endurance he acquired through practicing BDSM.

Someone was kind enough to send me a copy of the documentary, SICK, about his life and art, and I have since read a few of his books.  I highly recommend that documentary, and a short-lived magazine by the name of ReSearch Volume I, which features a lengthy set of interviews with him over a period of a few months. He also wrote The Pain Journal (in which he documents the last stages of his disease up until his last few days), and the Fuck Journal, which recounts every sexual encounter he had with his long time mistress, Sheree Rose.

It is not only admirable that he had the discipline to nail his scrotum to a board or hang himself upside down as a symbolic sort of inverted crucifixion, but that he knew exactly what he was doing and why.  Without being too precious about his "art", he could articulate the reasons and the drive.

From ReSearch:

On the inherent strength in submission:

Bob (referring to a kinky event):  "They put me in stocks and caned me and spanked me and it was pretty intense-- it went on for awhile.  Afterwards, there were guys sitting around naked drinking beer, and one of them said [bass voice], 'Well, he's got more balls than I do!' So there's a certain cockiness to this-- right, I do have more balls than you! There's a certain pride in the fact that you have the guts to live out your fantasies.  In this situation I didn't plan it, I just had to think fast and cooperate."

On SM and the idea that it is related to childhood abuse:

"I've heard that from people into SM, and I've also heard that from people who are completely turned off to SM because they were abused as children.  People process information and experiences differently; someone who's imprinted with nylons and bras when they're a kid may want to dress up in those after they grow up.  People have all sorts of strange imprinting-- I think the bondage aspect of my situation (being a prisoner to other forces) was sexualized so I could survive it.  In order not to be terrified by it, I sexualized it...  

Maybe role-playing as a slave is just a milder, healthier form of having multiple personalities to escape difficulty.  Saying this, I hear a million voices in my head of people who swear that nothing happened in their childhood; they just, in their adult life, heard about this and got involved, like Sheree-- she heard about this scene and it "clicked" in a certain part of her.  She can't rationalize or explain it by any kind of imprinting.  For me it's much deeper."

On religion and pain:

"In Catholicism, torture was considered something beautiful and spiritual:  something to rise above and change your life.  And as kids those influences stuck with us...  we never shirked from torture or pain because of the church.  So it's not a reaction against, it's a reaction to.  The Catholics teach the Stations of the Cross, where whipping and scourges ending up in crucifixion-- death by torture. Jesus always has this great smile on his face and this expression of release when it's all over."

There is also a small interview with Sheree Rose, whom they asked about Bob's art and its relevance to contemporary society:

"Linda Kaufman...  wrote a brilliant piece about Bob's work-- the idea being that violence is part of the human condition, and that everybody gets off on violence in one way or another.  SM has been disparaged and shunted aside as something horrible, but it is a very positive way of channeling those violent impulses... I don't know how SM could evolve toward being socially accepted, but there has to be a way to deal with this violence which is now out of control."

If you are someone who thinks about BDSM as much as I do, none of these statements are especially revelatory, however, they are when you think of them in the context of their time.  Flanagan is in a sense a product of his generation in that not all kink, but masochism in particular, is probably the result of a combination of a genetic misfiring of pain and pleasure receptors coupled with a fair amount of physical pain endured during childhood.  I know I said I didn't want to pathologize, but being a sexual sadist, one of my fears is that masochism as an integral part of one's sexuality (and not just something someone reluctantly agrees to) will become extinct.  No one beats their kids anymore!  I mean, what the FUCK?  Ha ha, just kidding.  Kind of.  No really, I don't condone beating kids.  Unless it becomes socially acceptable again.  No, no, just kidding.

In SICK, they include a few songs Bob wrote regarding the intersection of his predilections and his illness and also a bit about being a SAM (smart-assed masochist) which are hilarious, and also a poem he wrote, called, "Why?"  I've included all of them below because they are just so entertaining and, well, true.  Also, although he liked to write songs, they were not considered his fine art.  You have to go to The New Museum website to see that stuff.

Tee hee:

This is a wonderful demonstration of the playful yet derisive attitude he had toward his illness.  It's a bit difficult to watch because he is fully hooked up to the various machines keeping him alive, but very excellent:  




Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Freedom Through Discipline PSA: Your Fetish Is Making You A Dumb-ass.

Today I got an inquiry from a novice, which reminded me that even though someone has a fetish that makes them a dangerous fucking idiot, perhaps they are not fully aware they are being a dangerous fucking idiot.  Hence, this exchange:

From "D" (Name has been changed to protect the stupid):

Dear Mistress Veronica,

I wanted to know your availability for a scissor session where you ignore tap outs, and try to make me pass out in them. A lot of women have tried, and they have failed, and I find that kind of session enjoyable, I hope you do as well. I encourage you to please go after the arteries. :P


Isn't it funny he described the women as having "failed"?  Ha ha!  Idiot.  My response:

Hi D,

Your fetish is very dangerous, and frankly, I do not blame the women you sessioned with who "failed".  There is no way of knowing whether someone is passed out or in fact really in need of medical assistance, hence, no sane Domme will want that issue on their conscience (or their dungeon floor).  I suggest you try to satisfy yourself in the lifestyle community and find someone who really cares about you and is willing to go to that extreme.  

Since you are a beginner, it is possible that you are experiencing "sub drop" after your sessions, which is not a function of how well it went, but a cognitive dissonance from what you are imagining your "perfect" session to be and what is actually really consensually available from another person who is not a sociopath.


P.S. By "lifestyle community" I mean find an experienced Domme by way of The Eulenspiegel Society or another organization which promotes RACK (Risk-Aware Consensual Kink) or SSC (Safe, Sane, Consensual) play.

Anyway, I'm sure he's a nice enough person/dumb-ass.


Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Hidden Gems and Out There Gems [vintage edition]

"The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved 

with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus. 

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music."

-Shakespeare (Merchant of Venice)

I hate people who quote Shakespeare, but I always liked that one and it's my blog, so go fuck yourself.  I have talked to a lot of people who say they love music, and it's always a funny thing because a lot of the time they mean one or two genres. I think most genres have something that's good (except show tunes, there are no good show tunes so just shut up), and I don't mean to cover all of them here because I don't need to prove it-- especially to you-- but music is a very polarizing topic. I know that if someone likes certain things, I will probably get along with them pretty well, and I'm usually right. Also, liking everything or most things in a certain genre means you're boring and have no perspective.  No genre is wholly great, unless you are referring to before 1975.  All popular music was pretty good before then or at least listenable (So what happened?  Cocaine? An existential malaise born out of the futility of Vietnam?  The demoralization of a public realizing that it's government lies to them?  These are questions that are loftier than the scope of this blog but it is interesting to think about).

Some people make the mistake of thinking that because they like something, it must mean that it's "good".   I like a lot of things that are not considered "good", I just like them and I don't give a shit if that means that my taste is questionable, because you know what?  Anyone who only listens to THE BEST kind of music usually takes themselves too seriously and by default, sucks.  Meaning, there is plenty of so-called "bad" music that is enjoyable.  I am not going to list it on my OKCupid profile (ha!  as if) but who doesn't like a little Hall and Oates? (admit it!)  Or Rapper's Delight?  Sure, we've all heard it a million times, but it is catchy as HELL, and if you can sit straight during it then you should check your pulse.  And I KNOW that you middle-aged white men have a secret place for Journey.  Or Rush!  Not good bands.  Technically, maybe Rush is superior to Journey, but they are trash.  Oh, here's a good one-- Pearl Jam!  They suck, they have one song that they've milked into like ten albums.  All their songs are the same.  Listen again.


Anyway, there are way too many things I like to just write one blog about, hence this is the Vintage Edition of Hidden Gems...  Stay tuned for a hip hop edition, a movie soundtrack edition, a ladie's (fuck yeah) edition, and probably more as I think of them.

I know that most of you probably love The Stones and know a lot about them.  I actually got in a debate with a dude in my coffee shop (who's in "a band") who admitted he didn't like them.  He was like, "If I have to listen to Under My Thumb one more time, I'll go nuts,"  and I was like, if you are basing your opinion on the songs that got strong radio play, then you can't really make that statement. Exile on Main Street is one of the best crafted albums ever, but Metamorphosis is also really terrific. This is my favorite song from the album, not surprisingly, written by Stevie Wonder:

(Here is the Stevie version which I actually think is better. Stevie transitioning out of being Little Stevie.)


Speaking of Stevie, and it is easy to get me started, here is a wonderful, wonderful live performance on a German Bandstand-y type of show from the 70's called Musikladen (also called Beat Club?).  He is fully in control of the band, seamlessly guiding them in and through and around his songs.  My favorite part of the set is when he takes it down and just bursts into a song he wrote for Roberta Flack.  Fast forward to 14:19 (I've never been able to find a version of it anywhere but on Youtube). Of course I recommend that you watch the entire thing, as it is super groovy, holmes. 

Going back to The Stones, another band who is credited as sounding like them but who never got ANY airplay are The Flamin Groovies.  They went through a few hardships and the band members couldn't really agree on a sound (or much else), which may have detracted from their success. Nonetheless, they are still touring and still sound fucking great.  The Stones even admit that their version of Jumpin Jack Flash is superior.  Won over yet?  No?  Listen (make sure you have it turned up to eleven).  You can find their live album Slow Death, on Spotify, which has their version of Jumpin Jack Flash.

Keeping in the same time period, everyone knows Ike and Tina, but THIS.  I wish there was a live version somewhere.


Oh, so you've heard everything by Otis Redding?  Really?  Okay...


Anyone who's sessioned with me knows I love to play Prince.  I found this and had to put it here because he changed the lyrics of the girl asking him whether he's gay from, "No, are you?!" to "No, is YO MOMMA?!?"

I put this on Twitter the other day, but I'm putting it here too, because it's fucking great.  And come on, it's Soul Train.


I think UFO eventually turned into some Tangerine Dream kind of prog rock band, but in the early 70's, they fucking shredded.  Even shirtless.  And yes I said shredded.


I find The Who to be especially polarizing.  Personally, I don't care for them, but before they reincarnated themselves as The Who(fucking cares) they were The High Numbers- a little mod band who sang a lot of covers of blues numbers in people's basements.  Also, they were awesome. Check it:


Whenever I talk to someone about this band they're like, oh no, you mean The Faces-- with Rod Stewart-- and I'm like, NO, the Small Faces.  They eventually turned into The Faces though.  The video is edited weird, but you get the idea.


Finally, Esquerita taught Little Richard to play piano and if you listen to it, a few other things. Allegedly they were lovers for a time and he was also drag queen.  Hands down, one of the most interesting rock personalities that ever existed.  This is a good one:




Thursday, March 12, 2015

This is an article I wrote in 2012...

One of my friends had a very short-lived music blog a few years ago, for which I wrote a few pieces. I totally forgot about it until now, when Gil Scott-Heron came on my Pandora. Here you go:

Paying Reparations on Your Soul: Gil Scott-Heron's Legacy Yesterday and Today

There is no societal narrative for when a talented artist becomes a drug addict and lives out much of his life in this fashion.  Hence, people do not know what to do with them.  We pity them, we see them as ravaged, defeated, somehow they lost in life.  In his new work, "I'm New Here", Heron gives a contextual identity to this person.  The poetry of his music has always dealt with a "ghetto pathos", which he embodies emotionally and politically.  Addiction and poverty being the main themes of this pathos, much of Heron's music in the 70's gave gravity to the pervasiveness of these problems, as he spoke about them from a position of experience.  In his new work, this gravity seems to have morphed into a mischievous yet haunted voice of fate and redemption.  Someone who has hit bottom and lets us vicariously peek down the rabbit hole.  It is perhaps not a stretch to say that he has languished in the lifestyle he detests the most, and depending on your perspective, may give more or less gravity to past songs in which he preaches against drugs and alcohol.  It's chilling, especially for anyone who has experienced substance abuse, psychological problems, or problems adjusting to societal expectation. 

A little background for perspective:  In the 60's, when Heron was a teenager, he was awarded a full scholarship to attend a progressive NYC prep school.  He lived with his mother in Hell's Kitchen- the belly of much crime and poverty.  He went on to Lincoln University, the alma mater of Langston Hughes, and was a casual musician until he met a group called The Last Poets (  They made such an impression, he asked them if he could form a group similar to their own.  At this time, he also met Brian Jackson, who became his musical partner on many subsequent albums.  Heron made a name for himself in 1969 with his brilliantly satirical, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (  The cadence of his speech and the fact that he talks over music has led some to give Heron the moniker, Godfather of Rap.  A moniker which, according especially to Heron, is incorrect (see Last Poets, above).  Regardless, the poignancy of the piece was resolute in a time when the Civil Rights Movement was taking a more militant approach.  Heron crystallizes beautifully the irrelevance of white culture in all of it's ridiculous frivolity.  It has become an anthem of sorts for the "radical movement" and is still very powerful, even though his references are somewhat dated and obscure.  He is perhaps the most celebrated and sampled artist of the hip hop world.  Recently found addicted to crack and destitute in the slums (those which are left) of Harlem, Heron has been reclaimed and given voice once more by music producer, Richard Russel.

Heron's work as a whole deftly expresses an existential concern for his own mind, which he reflects against the poverty he's seen around him. He has internalized the black struggle and regurgitates it for the listener in all of it's complication and pain.  These are the blues, reconfigured, reimagined, and poignantly resonant even though the majority of his work is over 40 years old. The Bottle (on both Winter In America- his most critically acclaimed album and It's Your World) has it's obvious meaning, but also describes the isolation of living in a place which you created for yourself which you can never escape.  There is a great desire to escape, but the feeling that escape is perhaps impossible.  In Home Is Where The Hatred Is, Heron assumes the listener is someone who has never experienced heroin addiction, and challenges them to learn how difficult it is to simply, "kick it".  He is viscerally self negating, in a way which humanizes him and reflects a psychological rut which is exemplary of ghetto life.  Compare these lyrics to a contemporary, Stevie Wonder, who is a sort of gilded angel, someone who cries, "Why do things have to be this way", from a position of sympathetic detachment. Heron is empathetic, in a way which Stevie cannot be. Heron embodies impoverished existence, Stevie is more diplomatic, knowing in true Motown fashion, where his bread is buttered.  Meaning, Stevie would never suggest that the problems of the African American community might be the result of white privilege or even a self-perpetuated defeatedness, which Heron suggests throughout his work.  

Heron is a poet, and as a poet, he is able to tap into a collective resonance even with the simplest of sentiments.  His new song:  "I'm New Here", echoes his original spoken word style.  It is redemptive and hopeful.  He is "new" in the sense perhaps that he is new to sobriety, new to society, feels back in the world again after so many years of jail and drug addiction.  It's like he's a patient waking from a coma.  He acknowledges, "no matter how far you've gone, you can always turn around."  It is happy, in the video he's smiling, he looks dead-on at the camera.  Challenging people to define him, for people to tell him he is lost or ravaged, or finished.  Scott-Heron believes that spirits control the life trajectory of humans, and are therefore a common character in his work.  In direct contrast to the hopefulness of "I'm New Here", "Your Soul and Mine" is a dream-like descent into the bowels of Hades.  The gravity of his imagery is much heavier than before, as he now has years of experience which have fortified his voice and his ideas. There is a raspiness and an aged dusty quality which is in stark contrast to the vigorous, nuanced croon of his old work.  It's different from his older work, but wonderful.  Just in a different way.

The best songs on the album are the ones which have minimal accompaniment.  "I'm New Here" is simple, employing a catchy acoustic guitar behind his words.  I also really like, "New York Is Killing Me", which is Heron singing above rhythmic clapping you might hear on a playground.  In a world-weary tone he groans, "Buncha doctor's come around, they don't know that New York is killing me.  I need to go home and take it slow down in Jackson, Tennessee."  That said, it is a bit disappointing that the sound surrounding his voice on the song, "Me and The Devil" and "Where Did The Night Go", are marked by an overly precious banality.  Almost every routine hip hop sound and distortion is employed, short of Autotune.  It is clear that the perpetrators of this background fluff are great admirers, but perhaps that is the problem.  It may be a function of fanboy-itis:  When you work with a fellow artist from a position of worship rather than colleague-ship, the results are bound to reflect this imbalance. 

Videos to "I'm New Here" and "Me and The Devil" are also hamfisted in their visual narration- they almost seem like a parody of what Heron is trying to say.  In "I'm New Here", I find myself alternately fascinated by his expressions and put-off by the overly calculated way in which Heron as a subject is treated.  It is supposed to be a document of Gil in the studio, but instead comes off like an Eric Clapton video from 1992.  "Me and The Devil" is quintessentially and hipsterifically soooo "NY" in a way which perhaps on the surface gives him more of a cheesy modern feel.  Regardless, it seems more like Queer Eye for The Straight Guy coming into his home and repainting his walls to match the sofa.  If you can ignore these piddling annoyances, and focus on his voice and the poetry, "I'm New Here" may redeem your soul.  - "New York Is Killing Me"

This is my favorite of all (juxtapose it against Livin For The City, which is interesting):  - "The Bottle" video  -  "Livin for the City" video Motown time capsule

The live version of We Almost Lost Detroit from a concert in 1990- 10 years before his jail stint (I like that he gets up at the end and just starts bopping up and down):

Friday, February 27, 2015

Yet Another Opportunity For You?!


As I'm sure you're all already aware, as you all follow me religiously on Twitter and other social networking platforms (ha ha), I am offering yet another opportunity for you twerps to come session with me :).  This time, it is not a science question (yaaay!), however, it requires that you donate to one of my favorite podcasts,   The Masocast.

Masocast has been interviewing kinky people for a few years now, and among the archives you can find such interesting people as Yours Truly, Mistress Wynter, Miss Regan Black, Eve Minax, Midori, Mistress Sade, and a bevy of other fascinating characters from the scene and beyond.  I love that they do this and I want them to keep doing it, so I am offering $30 off a session with me for every $20 you donate to Masocast.  Hence, if you donate $100, you could get to session with me for $150 bucks. What a steal!

So click on the link above and contribute!  I will appreciate it, and you will be helping to keep an important record of our community around for current and future kinksters to enjoy.

This offer won't last!  Ha ha.  No really.  Get it done by March 31st or I won't count it.


Sunday, February 22, 2015

Holy Shit, These Nuns Could Chop Suey Your Ass!

Notice one of them fends off a knife with a rosary.  So cool.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Elementary, My Dear Domina [REPOST from 11/7/13]

Tonight I watched the episode of Elementary which featured a dominatrix, and I have to say, it was not all that bad.  I was expecting the worst, really, I mean it is network television.  

Although I am a die-hard Sherlockian I just keep missing it because frankly, I forget to watch it, but also because I find Lucy Liu to be a subpar Watson.  Not because she's a woman (clearly), but because they failed to make her interesting. Also, her acting is not exactly Shakespearean, let's face it.  Watson is a doctor, but he is also a gambling fiend, something of a womanizer, and probably has PTSD or whatever its Victorian equivalent is from being a surgeon in the war (read: occupation) of India.  He/She is actually quite a well-formed character, and to see he/she being played so one-dimensionally...  I digress.

Anyway-- I actually didn't mind the depiction of the dominatrix. I thought it was a good lead-in, and the fact that the police treated her nonchalantly even while she was wearing leather and latex was a nice touch. She was not treated with any level of suspicion, and in fact knew Holmes through a mutual academic interest (not through the seedy underworld), which was refreshing. This of course, is done to throw off the audience, because of course they would be ready to believe that a dominatrix was involved in a crime (I would assume).

I also thought it clever that neither the actual suspects or even the victim were involved in BDSM at all.

Also-- did anyone else notice they made a visit to Purple Passion? The scene where the clerk starts talking about how marginalized kinky people are while telling them they need a subpoena is priceless.

The other drama based on The Canon (hee hee),  the BBC's Sherlock, also features a dominatrix in one of their episodes early on as Irene Adler.   The series is much more satisfying than Elementary in a way because they draw directly from the original stories and weave them together to create a more complex contemporary tapestry.  At first, the thought of a dominatrix as Irene Adler (referred to as The Woman by Holmes-- one of two people to ever have outsmarted him) seems quite logical.  She is depicted as an adventuress in the original stories, is a well-known opera singer, (apparently not a respectable profession in Victorian times- think somewhere along the lines of Degas' ballet dancers) making her somewhat of a charlatan.   Hmmm...  sort of like being a dominatrix today, no?  I'll answer that for you-- Yes.  However-- and I do mean to spoil it for you if you haven't watched it-- they fail to imbue the dominatrix character with any of the original Irene's capacity for deceit.  On TOP of that, we are expected to believe that she is perhaps attracted to him (um, NO) and even weakened by his affections.  For instance, a code she expects to flummox Holmes with turns out to be a reference to her "longing" for him (gag me with a forklift) and also, he of course comes to her rescue near the end (It IS the 21st century right?  Just checking).  If you are familiar with the original stories, this would never, ever have happened.   Irene Adler was a consummate professional and would only ever be interested in making sure that Holmes could never catch up with her.  The entire point is that she was the "one who got away", and the reader is left to wonder whether it is because she escaped before Holmes could catch her or whether it is because she would never bang him.  Excuse me, take a turn around the room with him.   All in all, it is probably a combination of both, but Holmes' characteristic Victorian repression would never let him admit that to himself or anyone else.  Which is why we love him. 

Anyway, here is the naked scene, as promised.  I have to admit it was clever to make her most impressive outfit her sheer nakedness:  

And if you are interested (as you should be), here is the Sherlock Holmes (starring Jeremy Brett) episode in it's entirety with Gayle Hunnicutt as The Woman.  Fast forward to 16:55 to see what I mean ("She was beautiful, bewitching, daring...")

Saturday, February 7, 2015

This, this, a thousand times THIS!

Twenty eight female inmates escaped by tricking the guards into thinking they were going to seduce them...  Using dominatrix outfits!  They handcuffed the men and stole all their fucking guns.  Left them tied up for the police to find them.

Hot off the presses.


Wednesday, February 4, 2015

May the best dork win!

Whoever can solve the two problems below will receive 50% off their next (or first) session with me. As last time, I need you to show all work and also be the FIRST person to hand in your results. You may send me a picture of your efforts via email or Twitter.  Because I am just so fucking nice.  Also, I like to reward thoughtful effort.  So get on it geeks!

Click on it to enlarge... duh!


Sunday, February 1, 2015

Don't Freak Out!

A few of you know that I have been preparing for a doctoral program that it has been my wish to enter for a few years now.  I just found Thursday that I have been accepted, so am announcing my retirement for JULY.  Not tomorrow, not next week--- calm the fuck down---  JULY.

That means you have six months to get your ass in gear if you have not yet seen me, or if you saw me a few years ago and have been meaning to see me again, or if you've been too afraid, or even if you see me on the regular.   Get your ass in my dungeon.

I can guarantee you will regret it if you don't.  :)


Thursday, January 22, 2015

Untitled #1 (this will never happen to you) 3rd Installment [last]

For the first two installments of my porn fiction delightful yarn, go here:

1st Installment

2nd Installment


Relaxing into the pain can mean a variety of things.  It can mean that he's broken completely and needs a break (ha ha, no) or that he has achieved a sort of semi-trance state, making him completely docile.  I decide, after his ass is a red-streaked mess of lines and welts, that I will give him some pleasure.  Untying him from the bondage table, I make him sit up and look me in the eyes. He has been crying silently, and looks back at me seeing that I notice how weak he is, wondering whether I will take advantage or pity.  I wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Get on your knees,"

He gets on the ground, shoulders slumped.

I put his hands around my waist and he leans into me, weeping openly now.  I give him a moment to let it out, and run my fingers in his hair.  It's almost cute.  Tender even.  Feeling this has gone on long enough, I grab him by the back of his head and slap him straight in the face.

"You finished yet, Nancy-boy?  Done simpering like a little faggot?"

"I...  Yes mum, yes, I'm sor--"

I slap him again, "Shut the.  Fuck.  Up.  You act like a faggot, I'm going to treat you like a faggot."

Pushing him away, I walk over to my cross dressing closet and find the itchiest pair of frilly panties I possibly can.  I throw them at him, "Put these on, Princess."  I then go for the dildo that reflects my "inner manhood" (nine inches long, six inches wide) and secure it to my black leather harness (with pink leather trim).  He is on his knees fidgeting from raw skin against scratchy lace. I ignore him and go sit on my red mahogany throne.

"Crawl over here, slut."  He does.

I lay back confidently in my chair, legs wide, stroking my body-appropriate appendage.  I notice him perking up.  He loves this part.  He's such a dick-smoker.

I rip his nipple clamps off to punish his eagerness.  He lets out a howl and slumps again.  I make him look at me while he breathes through it and caress his face.  I bring my cock close to his mouth.

"Kiss it lightly.  You slobber on it and I will make you wish I was caning you again."

He does so.

Slowly I push my cock deeper into his mouth, slowly thrusting in and out, getting him used to the girth.  His lips are perfectly pink and round.  I grab him by the back of the head and push him down on it further, thrusting into him with more force.  He makes a slight choking sound, so I let go.  He keeps his mouth on the tip, then sucks the shaft all the way down to the root, willingly making the choking sound.  Making it for me, so that I can relish the pain he is putting himself through in order to please my cock.  I pull his head back and his eyes betray his helplessness and his hunger.  I take his head with both hands and push him all the way down on my cock violently, his body resists slightly but he gives in, his head bobbing in rhythm with the thrusting of my hips.  I feel his face crashing against my harness over and over, then give him a rest.

"You slobbered on my cock, you nasty bitch."

His eyes and lips are red now.  He is flushed.  Confused.

I stand over him, my cock dripping.

"Well, it looks like you've lubed me up quite well.  Perhaps I won't use anything but spit this time to plow you."

He looks at the size and I can tell he is doing the pain/pleasure math in his head.

"Do you think you should get away with slobbering on my cock?  That there should be no consequences?"


"Get me the spreader bar."

He crawls over to the corner and brings it to me on his knees.  Securing his ankles to it, I make him lie on his back on the table.  I cross his arms and secure them to his ankles.  I pull his panties out of my way, revealing his perfect asshole.  It's charmingly puckered and pink.  Shaven.  I rub my cock in the crack of his ass, teasing him.

"The more you resist, the more painful it will be."

I rest the tip of it on his asshole for a moment.  Then thrust ever so slightly.  He looks at me- committed and willing.  I spit on my hand and rub it on my cock.  Then I spit on him while I thrust the whole tip into his tight hole.   He takes in a sharp breath and his back arches as I thrust in and out ever so gently.  He knows what's coming.  I hold his knees wider and get my cock half way in, spit on him some more.  His legs relax and I'm all the way inside.  He grimaces and calls out-- as he feels the sharp invasiveness.  The violation of it.  Thrusting in slowly at first, then pulling out, I make him feel the full power of my member.  "Take it, you fucking truck stop whore, you fucking hussy."  I go harder and faster, banging my hips against his ass, thrusting with full strength as he moans and struggles against his bondage.  Over and over again I bang him mercilessly until he finally gives in.  His body a mangled mess of tears and leather and hurt.  His ass ruined.  My pleasure satiated.

I unshackle him, tell him to get himself some water, wash up, and bring me dinner.  He can have a small plate and eat it at my feet.  He dons the apron for me, we eat, and I let him take a nap in the cage.  Meanwhile, I am going out prowling for more...


Thursday, January 8, 2015

[REPOST] Drink Up And Be Somebody: An Ode To The King Of Cool

Dane Cook!  Ha, ha.  Not.  I've been a little (okay a lot) obsessed with Dean Martin lately.  Not because I admire his singing, but his in between song banter is hilarious.  It's a sort subtle, metaphorical rapid fire non sequitur Borsch Belt style of delivery, which well, just doesn't exist anymore.  Not only is it cleverly laden with metaphor and nuance, but HE TALKS ABOUT BLOWJOBS ("If you cut a woman in half, with my luck, I'd get the half that eats.  I'll drink to that."), cheating on his wife, homosexuality (to Ken Lane, "We've been together 15 years, have I ever asked you to hold it??  Strike that."), being a drunk (obviously), pedophilia ("Nothing could be finer than to shack up with a minor"), drug use (looking at his cigarette, "There ain't no printing on this one at all!  Anyone wanna go anyplace?"), references to his cock ("Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to my wonderful pianist")  Basically everything that Lenny Bruce was talking about around the same time, only Bruce used a more brackish (some would say bratty), INYOURFACE approach.  So, how did Martin get away with it and Bruce got arrested?  It was clearly all in the delivery.  And the context.  It is well known that at least toward the middle of his career, Dean would pretend to be drunk when he was onstage.  It was a popular character of a politically incorrect time-- The Lovable Drunk-- (also employed by Martin's friend Foster Brooks).  But also, it was sort of genius because it gave him license to say really fucked up shit.  Also, since many of his jokes are plays on words, he had added defense,  "I'm confusing terminologies, you people are taking it all wrong!"  He also frequently blames his pianist for supplying lyrics with inappropriate sayings.  He employs all these devices to cover up how much of a filthy mind he had.  Devices he most likely learned from comedians he worked closely with- Jerry Lewis (wait, maybe not him), Joe E. Lewis, and Jimmy Durante.
 I'm sure no one reading this is surprised that a member of the Rat Pack was bawdy.  I also know that I'm not alone in my romanticization of the early 60's.  I find the whole Mad Men phenomenon to be quite annoying (Guys!  Stop wearing fedora's!  It's only cool on girls, seriously...) but I can understand wanting to sit in a smoke-filled room, drinking scotch out of crystal tumblers, watching showgirls dance behind a greasy-haired crooner who fills the spaces between songs with slurred one-liners while gulping his drinks on the house.  Fat, hairy, nefariously associated "gentlemen" in the best seats, talking loudly and grabbing their clownishly painted female companions.  I actually do think that would be swell.  But only if I could actually travel back in time.  Any attempt at a modern reproduction would be an impotent overly self-conscious study in abject hipsterism, which clearly is abhorrent.
 So what the fuck happened when Bruce came along?  You could say that he was a reflection of the times.  Of the social/political awakening that Baby Boomers love to remind every subsequent generation that they were a part of.  This was a great thing, I'm not saying that it's not.  He was fighting for his First Amendment rights, although I don't think he set out intentionally to do that, or even to piss people off.  Maybe he was.  Probably was.  Anyway if you are unable to listen to his material in the context of his time, which I am not, as I am not old enough to have seen him-- he sounds like any comedian around since the 70's or 80's who have been swearing their asses off to swells of laughter and applause.  His confrontational delivery style was intended to shock, whereas Martin's is friendly and accessible.  Martin was not trying to make a statement, he was just entertaining people.  The one thing I do like about Bruce though is not his "shock jock" persona, but that he-- perhaps for the first time in popular culture-- was exposing his pain on stage and making it funny.  Perhaps it was this that made him so offensive, aside from the fact that he fought to say Fuck, Shit, and Pussy.  This is one of my favorite things of his:  
Take another comedian of the time, Bob Newhart.  In my opinion, his shit is just not funny anymore.  It was revolutionary because he was the first American absurdist stand-up that gained any sort of notoriety.  But he was also employing similar devices that Martin did-- a disbelief at what he just said, linguistic misunderstandings, (I'm sure there are plenty of proper comedy nerd phrases for all the things I'm describing, but whatever) a cultural unawareness that mirrors Martin's drunkenness...  This begs the question of what makes something timelessly funny.   I don't think anyone has been able to pin that down, anyway.  Newhart was using similar devices as Martin and Bruce was utilizing similar topics.  So crystallizing what is timelessly funny on these bases seems impossible, making it even more intangible.  Unless the only things that are timelessly funny are those things that are bawdy in a metaphorical sense.  Are you confused? Me too.
 Why the hell am I even bothering to write about this shit?   Who cares?  It's all subjective.  Is it even worth discussing?  Why am I bothering to post this on my blog which is supposed to be about kinky stuff?  Aren't you pissed that there has been nary a phrase for you to jerk off to yet?  Ha, as if.  I guess because all of the things I listed in the first paragraph linger on or are blatantly taboo.  A subject which relates intimately with kink stuff.
Ha, no, that's bullshit.  I just wanted to write about Dean Martin and comedy.  It surprised me to read that he was rarely part of the Rat Pack's late night antics, but would often leave when Sinatra and the rest of the boys partied far into the early morning.  He also had custody of his children from his first marriage- something unheard of for the time, and a fact he was not terribly open about.   He is, of course, known for being a womanizer and a lover of drink, but some facts make you wonder whether the image he wanted to project got in the way of the real story.  But even if that's true, does it really matter?  I prefer to think of him as a calm, collected devil-may-care raconteur.  I don't need the inside track.  It's probably tragic in it's own way anyway, just like Bruce's.  
On to the good stuff.  This is one of my favorites, Dino Live At The Sands (it's an hour long, but even the first few minutes is hilarious).  I highly recommend listening to the whole thing when you get a chance:

This is also another classic, a portion of Live And Swinging, with the rest of the Rat Pack.  They brought Johnny Carson in at the last minute, as Joey Bishop could not be there:


Tuesday, January 6, 2015


That's right, I will be storming your pissant city for one day, and one day only.  Space is already limited so email me ASAP to secure a space.

If your nickname is "Sully" and you can prove it, I'll give you a discount.