Scoundrel

by guest author Janx 

The writer of this blog and I are very good friends who love more than anything to sip fine beverages and share the filthiest stories we have under our belts. Time after time I am defeated in our pissing game of smut tales- so I am honored that she asked me to write a guest entry for her loyal readers- as if I might actually get a rise out of what I have to share. What I decided- since this is technically a traveling blog as well- to tell a small tale on how I earned my stripes as a certified scoundrel.     

When I left California to enter a four month artist residency in Prague, I had promised Ace that I would remain loyal to him and our love would be enough to satisfy all my sexual desires.

This concept was quickly swept under the rug the first night as I awoke next to my new favorite local bartender who slept with his half-smoked rolled cigarette wedged between his lower lip and unusually large mustache.

I could already tell it was going to be a great four months.

Anti-Social Media

Hi there. Will you, uh... be my friend?

You see, I don't know how to do this unless you are hoping to fuck me one day. But. Sigh. It's in my best interests to nourish non-sexual relationships in addition to all these kinky, filthy fluids I'm exchanging on a regular basis, in irregular locations.

My shrink, who I respectfully refer to as Dr. Homeslice, hooked me up with some pharmaceutical magic -- magic thus far for the stability of my moods and for correcting what may have been becoming a drinking problem, but not of course without its costs. Among the side effects is not being able to "find the right word." Examples given of especially slippery ones have been "garage" or "refrigerator," but Fangs and I had a hearty belly laugh at one the other day:

Thanks for this morning, Baby.

No problem. I couldn't stand to see you in so much pain from that rock-hard erection, so it was my pleasure to, uh-- damn...

...what?

...What's the fucking word? Oh yeah: blow you.  

Dr. Homeslice doesn't bat an eye when I arrive looking like a purple and chewed piece of steak gristle anymore, bless 'im, so I haven't had to explain Fangs' fangs or defend my kinks or any of that time-wasting garbage. He did recommend that I occasionally make friends that I don't fervently bang, though, so here goes: see the sidebar to send me a tweet! Make my little day!

Blood Hungry

The wiry black hairs of his tarantula hands tickled my skin as his thick fingers crawled slowly across it. The sensation made me shiver and giggle. He grinned mischievously, revealing four perfectly pointed fangs that framed two rows of dull pearls. He drooled as a wet bit of lengua meat moistened his lips and his eyes rolled back into his skull. This possessed expression descended over him like a shroud and he sunk his fangs deep into my flesh. I writhed, moaned, arched, and grunted. He purred in a low growl as he decorated my neck, back, shoulders, and hips in blood blisters, encouraged by my guttural approval.
He stopped, and I fell limp.

Tired? 

No... it's just... it's relaxing.  

I could barely speak and so he continued the delicious torture, raking his sharpened teeth over the landscape of my body. His hand slowly creeped its way up my leg and its probing mandible cautiously fingered the torn hem of my shorts at the inside of my thigh.

May I?

I'm a sucker for a gentleman.

He entered me, and I thought I might die. If I had, I'm not sure if it would have deterred him.

________________

So, what? You're writing spider porn now? 

It's a metaphor.

Whatever. But I mean, is it a spider? Or a vampire? Or what?

Like I said, the tarantula thing was an image. But it's non-fiction. 

What are you talking about.

It happened. (pause) The guy has fangs.

You fucked someone who had their teeth sharpened? Jesus Christ, of course you did...

No, they were natural. He has real fangs. 

What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody has real fangs. 

I don't know what to tell you. This guy does.

Whatever. I bet you'll tell me he used magnums too.

Well, yeah.

Jesus Christ... 

For the record, fiction's not really my thing.

___________

Fangs could be a vampire, I suppose. From his long hair and massively broad stature to his sweetly romantic nature and comic Boston accent, there is something mythic about him. The way he smells drives me insane; it must be something in his blood. I could kiss him for hours, if only to keep my face in his and become intoxicated on his scent. It reminds me of what Dr. Christopher Ryan (co-author of Sex at Dawn) said about lovers' scent attraction and genetic compatibility. What a sexy thought... Evolution itself wants us to fuck.

I told my buddy about you.

Oh yeah? What'd he think?

Well, (blushes) he wasn't surprised to hear you're an artist... 

Ah, you have a history with creative types, huh?

I don't want you to feel reduced to a type, but yeah, it's who I tend to go for. The ying to my yang, you know... I hope that doesn't offend you.

Oh no, not at all. I've noticed a recent pattern myself, and you're just my type. 

Oh yeah? What's your type?

Tall goth metal heads with motorcycles and huge cocks. 

Wicked.  

Do you feel reduced?

Yeah... but I like it.  

If he is a vampire, he may just be the goofiest undead on this earth. I find myself incredibly endeared to him; his intimidating stature and harsh aesthetic are balanced by his undeniably human tenderness. I feel safe when I'm around him, protected, and sane.

Non-Verbal Communication for Alt-Sex

The presentation I led at Open SF Conference 2012, of Open, Poly, or Ethically Non-Monogamous in the Bay Area, had a mouthful of a name:

Honing Non-Judgmental Communication through Touch and Movement

It's the kind of name where one would have to chew on each and every word to really hear it as a whole. The kind of name where, when I said it, people would stare back blankly and nod: "Uh huh." I wasn't sure what turn out was going to be like.  I wasn't sure if I could reach the sexy and political people at this sexy and political conference with my content: movement exercises introducing the basics of contact improvisational dance in a non-sexual touch-therapy context. The alt-sex community tends to be defined by sex, and so naturally it crossed my mind that asking for non-sexual and highly tactile participation might result in mutiny. 

My mother asked me what some of the other workshops being presented were:

"Debunking the Myths of Anal Fisting, Negotiating Successful Threesomes, Pansexual Poly-Sluts in Leather, Writing Group Sex, and Fat Sluts, Hungry Virgins."

All of these real (and very cool!) workshops came to mind immediately.
While my mom is awesome, some things just don't need to be shared between us. What I actually said was:

"Uh, I think... there's a writing workshop... some guided meditation or something... a thing where we take pictures of each other and talk about how we are perceived... and like, I don't know, some other communication-y stuff." 

Yeah, I'm not so great with that thing they call "tact."

But what did a dance workshop have to do among all this?

This workshop is less a dance class and more an exercise in bravery and openness. Improvisation is essential practice in releasing oneself to say "yes" and to play. Intimacy, while it includes sex, is not confined or defined by sex. It is defined by communication, and communication is not restricted to spoken language. As you can see in the video, these two people are communicating perfectly in their own language, though one is a pre-verbal infant. Through loving touch they speak to each in a language of movement, one that can't be translated into post-Babel meaning. It is pure communication, a language that only exists in the moment it is shared and it is without technique, symbols, or the possibility of real documentation. 

Any relationship relies on communication skills, but the unconventional relationship structures enjoyed by the alt-sex, poly, and BDSM community require a particularly enormous amount of emotional bravery. While our specific lifestyle labels may often be defined by the sex we enjoy, the intimacy of our relationships and our identities are not. As much as sexual pro/recreation is natural and necessary, so too is the healing power of loving non-sexual touch, which is why we humans need and crave it. The goal is to gain awareness of how we interact physically with our loved ones, our community, and the world around us, to hone our connection to our non-sexual and non-violent physicality, and to learn to communicate with each other in new ways. 

In terms of communication skills, we sometimes get caught up in the didactic. I'd like to share with you a visceral way of learning in the realm of loving communication. The majority of this workshop will be movement exercises in groups, but at the end we will discuss what we experienced. The aim of the ending discussion is to begin to mentally "pack it up" so that we may hopefully take something of it away with us and into our lives.

Igor was skeptical that I would pull off my presentation. I hadn't told him anything of it, any of the above, didn't mention my plans. I may have led him to believe I would just "wing it." He looked increasingly nervous before the class, probably in part for me but also because he is *not* a mover. Still, he had committed to participate and there he was, dutifully and bravely in front, on my right hand side. But there was a moment during the exercises as I went around the room checking on the groups where I caught a glimpse of him having a moment. His partner was a much older woman with very long silver hair and they had been strangers up until just a moment ago. Yet, here they were in beautiful physical harmony. The look of pure ecstatic joy on both of their faces was so moving, I had to look away to stay focused.

After the workshop ended, Igor and others staggered out of the room with illuminated expressions and I knew I had, as Sparky would put it, "done a good."

Communion, of sorts

I can hear the impatient foot-tapping, the intermittent sigh, and the awkward 2-foot pacing shuffle outside the stall. There's only one in the women's room, but all the same I'm glad we didn't go for the men's. This woman's irritated discomfort is absolutely tickling me, so maybe it's schadenfreude or maybe it's the simple fact of the public location, but whatever it is, I'm into it. This enthusiasm lends a particular gusto to my work and Bacon has to be extra mindful to check his groans.

I love North Beach. I love the strip clubs, the neon signs, the grimy pizza joints, and the shit-hole dives that are cheap and yet rich with literary and cultural history. I love imagining that one of the beat poets might have been on his knees in this very stall 50 years ago. And I, now similarly on my knees, can't help imagining myself linked to them in more ways than one. At least I know as well as they did that in this neighborhood, sleaze is not a spectator sport.

As I exit the stall and face the patiently fuming ladies-room martyr, I playfully wipe the corner of my mouth with fingers whose nails are perfectly painted black. I lock eyes with the woman, challenging her to say something, if she's got something to say to me, but she doesn't. Good. I recognized her as half of the couple that had been sitting next to us in the bar, and chuckle as Bacon and I return to our seats. Not two minutes later, the woman stormed out of the bar and her date followed her in confusion. Maybe she was a tourist to North Beach, harkening from somewhere fancier, like the Marina -- but here? What did she expect?

"So, where were we?"

Bacon can't wipe the grin off his big hairy face. I smile back, having taken great pleasure in satisfying him for the fourth time that night already.

"I believe the flowchart of our conversation has been: whiskey, polyamory, marriage, death, motorcycles, suicide, and then fucking in the bathroom." 

"Ah yes. Well, we better get another round then."

Lost and Found

The exhilaration of screaming my head off at 120 mph with only two wheels and a vibrating death machine underneath me sweeps it all clean. I am assured with a definite clarity that I am alive, if only because at any second I might no longer be. I scream until hoarse, not out of fear -- well, yes, fear -- but also because I'm so fucking happy to exist in these moments that it can't be contained. Igor chuckles evilly at my puny screams as we careen down the highway on his hot red CBR and, feeling generous, pops a wheelie.

_____________ 

"PREPARE TO DIE."

My proclamations are more ironic than anything as Igor and I lose to each other in chess. He grins at me from across the pathetic looking checkered battlefield and considers his equally futile counter-move, eventually choosing the rook.

"Thank you for coming with me today."

I finger one of my conquered pawns, a brave lost warrior, as I scan my options silently.

"You really mean a lot to me, you know."

I opt for the horse thing, which I move around his horse in a little waltz. Clearly, chess is my game. I sigh and bring up my eyes to meet his searching gaze.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet your mother."

We had paid her a visit, armed with a dozen pink roses for Mother's Day. He was uncharacteristically quiet, but I didn't wonder why. The weather was beautiful, clear, hot, I could smell the grass. After a long pause, Igor took from the bouquet a single rose, which he presented to me. I wiped at my tears and smiled. He is so brave, even in the face of grief.

"She would be so proud of the man you've become."

We held each other for a long time before we hopped on the bike and left the graveyard.

_______________

An impromptu hike led us to pad through the redwoods in search of cool water in which to bathe our overheating bodies. Neither of us were appropriately attired, he in his usual steampunk regalia and I in gothic biker leather, but the trees didn't seem to mind. They were too ancient to care and besides, their sentience knows nothing of fashion. It seemed like a good place to talk things through.

"I mean, he couldn't possibly be more compatible for you than me, so it's not that I'm threatened." 

Part of me accepts his compatibility assessment as truth without question, but the majority of me disbelieves the perceived lack of threat in his mind. I kicked a pine cone with a steel-toed boot.

We've known each other for so long, since before we were individuals, it's almost impossible for me to conceive of our relationship in it's entirety. We were kids when we first kissed, and now we have evolved into what Igor calls, "black-belt relationship territory." Sometimes we still act like kids, but I think the key is to be patient with each other, and to know when to say, "I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"Love you back." 

 _________________

"Whatever happens tonight, don't fuck me with this."

I said this with a stern look on my face as I held up my wooden cocktail muddler. Old Fashioned's are my specialty and for this drink, a muddler is key. It did have a nice rounded dildo-esque shape to the handle, so I assumed it would have crossed his mind. Judging from the smirk that grew across his face as he stared at the tool, I began to realize that I shouldn't have said anything at all. I reasoned in vain.

"I don't want... splinters."

Hours later I found myself bound in industrial saran wrap and lain prone over a large ottoman. My mouth was gagged and I was blindfolded. I was bound so thoroughly in the plastic I could only futilely writhe like a pathetic fuck-larvae as I was being beaten by several hands and fucked by one of our guests. My blindfold was removed as Igor kissed my face. He had something to show me.

"See? No splinters."

He replaced my blindfold and proceeded to fuck my cunt with my cocktail muddler, which he had protected with a condom.  I giggled as much as I could in said state, and was awash with love for the insolence that can also drive me crazy.

More Igor!
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The Multi-Orgasmic Man

The environment was impressively well-curated with tasteful prints, a small, respectable library of vintage hardcover volumes by Foucault and Vonnegut among others, curious accoutrements such as brass knuckles, motorcycle mufflers, animal skulls, attractive yet masculine jewelry, and an antique Turkish throw woven from goat hair. However, I wasn't paying attention to any of this as his low growls drove me wild.

"Oh, I'm so... yeah... I'm reaching... orgasm..." 

My hand slick with spit was working hard as I writhed and purred from the reciprocation of his hands.

"Yes, cum..."

Following were a series of grunts that sounded something like:

"No, I'm not cumming, I'm orgasming..." 

A deep moan, a slight spasm, barely a second of rest, then he flipped me onto my back and kissed me deeply as he continued to pet my body. His hands and his lips were searching insatiably across me and he was somehow still hard.

"Are you... do you... practice tantra?" 

He couldn't possibly... The man reeked of cooked bacon.

"I've already orgasmed four times."

He was still ready for more. Love drunk, I stroked his beard as he grinned widely.

"You know, I think within the last fifteen minutes we've done six different positions..."

I smiled as I pushed him back and climbed on top.

"Variety is the spice of life." 

 ____________

I hadn't planned on staying over that night. It was only our third date and I had counted on leaving him wanting more, of being a "lady." Bacon was a gentleman indeed, treating me very sweetly and promenading me around the Mission district arm in arm.  As my friend put it when I recounted the tale to her:

"He gentleman'd his way right into your pants." 

Indeed.

I sat on his lap as we smooched, my tiny shorts revealing the entirety of my legs. He pet them softly and kissed me tenderly. After what seemed to be an eternity of sweetly innocent making out, I stood, wavering in my heels and I picked up my purse.

"I should get going."

The man stood tall at 6'4" but he looked me straight in the eyes as he slowly took the purse out of my hand and laid it on the ground. With the slow assurance of a man seven years my senior, he carefully picked me up and gently laid me on his large bed. I felt like a precious thing, a fragile bird: he had been so careful not to hurt me. Then he placed a hand around my neck with gentle but firm pressure. He ordered me softly:

"You're not going anywhere. Are you?"

Like it spicy? Then you'll love this post set in Istanbul: Snapshots.
Or check out what's new! 

Doesn't Take Much, Does It?

Developing further intimate attachments wasn't part of the plan. But in the six weeks by which I extended my Istanbul trip, I lost people in my life back home who were frustrated by my extended absence and irresponsible decision making and I gained a community in Istanbul. Like that Burning Man saying: the playa giveth, the playa taketh away...

Like I said, attachment wasn't what I was in for, and here he was talking about love. Every other sentence used that loaded word and I heard them being popped off like BB's from a newly acquired air gun. Finally, I felt I had to confront it, though I felt silly for doing so.

"When a man loves a woman like this--"

"Are you trying to tell me you love me?"

"No...

I guessed I was paranoid and indeed, very silly. 

"...well, fuck it, yes. Yes, I'm crazy about you. I love you. Which is dumb because I know it's fast, and all it can do is serve to hurt you, but I love you. And I want to tell you all the time."

Not so silly after all. This was the last thing I was expecting to result from our beginnings, which for all purposes should have remained a one night stand. Now it seemed that some investments had been made. I'm not sure that either of us had bargained for that, especially just after my rocky road with Sweetie and my imminent return to the States. That we both knew I was leaving soon put an interesting immediacy on everything we experienced together, but I found him to be surprisingly emotionally forthcoming for an American-raised man:

"I feel like I have to show you every thing at once... I mean I want to. But I'm scared, darlin'. And I'm hurtin'."

At first it was innocuous enough. Who seduced who we still quibble about. As he would describe things, I gave him a look that spoke loudly and clearly. He set his sights on me and I tested his persistence with off-handedness. We played a sweet game of cat and mouse and eventually we ended up at my place to chow down on some midnight mantı (Turkish ravioli in a spicy butter and yogurt sauce).

Next thing I knew, my arms were pinned to the bed. Though I hadn't begun the night "on the prowl", I was happy to play with him. He was handsome and charming enough -- he instinctively knew how to make me laugh. And though he had many physically admirable qualities, being tall, blonde, fit, and Danish, as he pressed into me I found myself distracted in admiration of his teeth. They had character. He was full of character -- he grew up in a traveling circus and continued the charade all the way through the Ivy League. His life had always been fascinating in summary, if lonely in practice, and as an adult he seemed to seek out his fascinations in... adult realms.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like semen on your chest."

I was relatively impressed by the perversion leaning towards violence with which he was forthcoming on our first time, and yet I was a bit put off: he was cocky and yet a little cautious in bed. "Can you take this?" he whispered. I rolled my eyes... if he only knew. Granted he didn't, in fact we barely new each other, it was perfectly reasonable that he was checking in and making sure I was OK. But I was hungry for abandon. I purred:

"It's OK, you don't have to hold me down."

He tentatively released my wrists. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and then I slapped him hard across the face. He was stunned.

"If I have to piss you off to get you to fuck me like a man, l'll do it."

I caught a glimmer in his eyes as a hungry smile spread across his face.

"Well alright then darlin'. I guess I don't need any more permission than that, do I?"

His voice sounds just like Christian Slater circa True Romance. Our rhythm quickened and ferocity increased. Sedated with the pleasure of being taken voraciously by a Hollywood B-list daydream, I didn't hit him again.

____________

A couple weeks later, our story had evolved into that of star-crossed Istanbulus: a charming Cihangir guy fate had paired with a somewhat feral Tarlabaşhi girl. The irony of the situation didn't escape Slater: 

"Sometimes I think to myself: I want to show you off. But then I think: you're going to scare people. So then I consider: who can take it, and who do I hate?"

Some of his expat friends weren't so bad, I admit, but furthermore, Slater was not immune to my criticisms. He lived in Turkey for a year and didn't know the word for "apple" in Turkish, but I liked him anyway. Like I said, I didn't mean to get attached, but these things tend to happen, don't they?

However the stress from the time compression of our relationship began to express itself in tense ways. When the flame of my sex drive was more engulfing than his, he would make an offhanded "slut" joke or comment that, depending on my mood, would hurt my feelings. Once he asked me why I was wearing clothes and so in obedient response, I started to take them off -- to which he said:

"Doesn't take much does it?"

I guess it's easiest to hurt those who care. But why did I care so much? 
Igor has a theory which he calls my "super power", an effect against which mortal man is helpless. According to his observation, a person will fall madly in love with me and the "spell" will last two months. For that period of time, they will become enraptured and hopelessly enamored. After, they will wake up as if from a fever dream and back away with a self-protecting ferocity, as if to suggest I were akin to the deadly but alluring sirens sung about by bards such as Homer.

"By my estimation, Slater has about two more weeks. Then he's gone."

But of course this effect isn't one-sided. I guess Igor is sick of witnessing me get hurt. It seems like a bleak prediction, but Igor tends to be more accurately observant than I give him credit for. I'm willing to keep it in mind as I see how the long distance aspect of my relationship with Slater pans out, also keeping in mind that perhaps he is thinking wishfully. Whenever I mention Slater to Igor, his commentary is usually:

 "I want to punch that guy in the throat."

Despite the cattiness my male lovers exhibit towards each other, I'm fairly confident that if they met, they would get along splendidly. But regardless of that, the thing that gives me greatest hope for my distance-cleaved relationship with Slater is what he said to me when I couldn't find the words to return his professions of adoration:

"You don't have to tell me you love me for me to know that it's true. They're just words, after all."

 That is the kind of confidence that makes me in turn confident.

Who the hell is Igor? Meet him HERE (and get intimate HERE).
For more nihilistic relationship adventures in Turkey, read this post: Gypsy Love Curse. 
The latest from Seduce and Confuse can be found HERE, I promise. 

Hunting Bambi

“So, you come to these things often?”

What a line. Sparky clearly has a way with women. Bored and annoyed, I wrote my review of her off-handed seduction techniques in the form of bar snacks (çerez) thrown at her head.

“Ow. Ow! So... you’re a pianist?”

She ignored me and the flying pistachios admirably and kept on luring the wide-eyed little thing into her experienced bisexual lech. With that knowing smirk, she may as well have been asking, “Would you like to have your first lesbian experience, little girl?” To me at the time, it was disgusting. What could possibly be interesting to Sparky about this Girl Scout cookie? She was the kind of person who’s name I would forget before she even finished introducing herself, and the way she was dressed, it was as if she was trying to force me to underestimate her. She had her mousy blond hair back in a ponytail and was sporting a light pink sweatshirt paired with baby blue sneakers. She looked like a twenty-year-old infant. There were many things wrong with the scenario, but I got stuck on the sneakers.

“Sneakers? SNEAKERS?”
“Yeah, whatever, lots of people wear sneakers."
“Yeah, athletes and children. She didn’t look like an athlete, so that makes YOU a fuckin’ perv.”

I was being needlessly critical, I admit. Sparky sighed into a reminiscent smile.

“Didn’t you just fall into those big, doe-like eyes?”
“I wanted to hit her with a car.”

That’s how we came to name her, and others of her kind, Bambi.

________

Expat parties are an excellent hunting ground for Bambi’s -- those cute, fresh off the boat girls who just graduated college and came abroad to do the first interesting thing in their lives, which after getting their hearts broken once or twice by the charming locals, usually devolves into teaching English and hanging out exclusively with other expats. Lets get one thing straight: I am a traveler, not an expat.

What is an expatriate? And expatriate is a person who temporarily or permanently leaves their country and culture of upbringing to terrorize a foriegn one. As a function of their emigration, expats define themselves by their dissatisfaction. Most of them make a living teaching English and they seem to hang out mostly with each other, inventing incestuous little fuck circles in whatever country they infest. For further entertainment, they come up with other annoying amusements such as theater groups reeking of mediocrity and pub quiz trivia nights in all too expensive bars. They congratulate themselves on their internationality while never bothering to learn much of the local language or culture. Their adopted country is an organism off which they simply feed, all the while doing their best to recreate their homeland and inherently representing it, usually in an unflattering light with their bad cocktail of entitlement and cultural insensitivity. These embarrassing ambassadors come from all over the world, but when I find myself stuck at a loud and obnoxious pub quiz with drunk people spilling beer and arguing about George Lucas factoids while blank faced Turks look on with that same bored and slightly insulted lack of expression that I recognize from also having to serve people I despise, I can't help but sigh and think: "This is why the world hates Americans."

When in a sea of expats, hunting Bambi’s provides an excellent distraction from my fiery disdain. Besides, it’s good for me to maintain a certain level of sociability, even in “enemy” territory. Sparky has since illustrated to me that the pleasure in corrupting the innocent is like pissing on a freshly fallen and undisturbed bed of snow.

________

Several nights later, I stumbled into a bar to meet Sparky. I was two hours late and dragging in a girl by her tits.

“Whattya think of this Bambi I brought ya? I bet she’d fuck us both, the little slut.”

I slurred, not trying to flatter myself in the least.

“I dunno man. She’s not wearing sneakers. Sneakers kind of do it for me, Bambi-wise, remember?”

Wavering in my seat, I looked over my prey. I had already soul-slaughtered her and moved on to the victory parade wherein I offered her up to the scavengers as leftover kill. She was a hot mess with eyeliner was streaming down her face. I followed these black trails up puffy cheeks to two big wild eyes that expressed mixed emotions of humiliation and gratitude for the attention.

Most of the time, I work hard to be considerate of others, thoughtful, aware, and well spoken. But sometimes despite my efforts, I prove myself to be the most fucked-up asshole I know. On these occasions, I abandon my better, more articulate self and get in bed with a stranger to my standards who acts with wild selfishness. I don’t always get away with the crap I pull, but when I do, I wonder how. Amazingly, friends like Sparky have a high tolerance for my bullshit and chauvinism, even a certain revelry in it.

“You wan ‘er in sneakers? I’ll put ‘er in some fuckin’ sneakers. Let’s go, sugar tits. Daddy’s gonna get you some new shoes.”

For hot girl-on-girl action, check out the post Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish.
The latest from Seduce and Confuse, here.

Distance: Emotional Problems of Nomadism

"You are falling in love, sweetie-heart, this is the issue."
Maybe Moody Poland is right.
"I can see on your face. But why you want to make so much problem for yourself with this?"

I take a gulp of my beer and reflect. A few more gulps and the beer is gone.
"Görüşürüz." / "See you later."

One long sigh carries me on my walk to Sweetie's. I feel powerless against his invitation. When we make love, he brings me closer to god. When we fuck, he reaches so far inside of me that he actually fucks the organ of my heart. I writhe, moan, and scream, high on his drug, the most powerful visceral pleasure I have known.

But our conversations are frustrating. He says things like, "Of course I can't be your friend." Once I asked him why not, to which he quizzically responded, "Because I'm in love with you," with an implied "obviously" at the end. Statements like these are testaments to our future: either he'll hug me so close I can't breathe or push me so far I can't see him anymore. There is no careful in-between -- no part of our relationship is conducted without fervency.

_______________________________

I shouldn't be surprised that Sweetie has been pushing me away. He's been standing me up, leaving me waiting, doling out a chilly minimum of human acknowledgement. Predictable as this was, of course it hurts to see him suddenly act this way. It's as if someone has flipped a switch in his heart, but I don't wonder why.

The reality that I will leave has finally sunk in. When he convinced me to extend my stay, he had hoped I would get a residency visa. Maybe I was lazy, or maybe I just didn't want to, but regardless, I didn't even apply. A tourist visa only allows 90 out of 180 days in Turkey. My time is nearly up and now that my departure date is two weeks away, he's realized that keeping me close is futile: I'm leaving him, as he puts it. True, I'm not staying to meet his parents, decorate a house, or have his babies, not this time around. He probably thinks that I won't come back, or maybe that it won't matter by the time I do. And so the fire that once burned white-hot is now cold and sooty.

Traveling as much as I do, and for the extended periods of time that I prefer, I occasionally see this kind of emotional response. When I'm about to leave a place, the people who have held me the closest are sometimes the ones who quickly erect barriers and become the most distanced. They're trying to protect their emotional well-being, or they don't know how to express their hurt frustration that I'm abandoning them, or maybe they don't consciously realize their motivations, which I understand. However, it hurts me too. It's one aspect of lengthy international travel that I don't enjoy, being a puck on an emotional shuffleboard. But I'm not made out of hard plastic, I'm an organism. I'm beginning to trail a little blood.

Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish

Istanbul: the stench of sizzling rotisserie intestine called kokoreç forces its way up my nostrils just as I lock eyes with a prostitute. She's draped herself on a wall by a dumpster, bored and smoking a cigarette to pass the time -- I'm grateful for the smoke's pollution as it does its best to mask the overwhelming scents coming from the buffet of hot flesh on offer in Tarlabaşi. Home.

Sparky and I power athletically down the street as she smokes her last and rants impassioned about the government's taxation of cigarettes:

"Those fucking bureaucratic assholes... how can those fuckers look themselves in the mirror? Their dicks are covered in prostitutes and their wives are covered in veils."

I rented her apartment for the first month I was in Istanbul, that's how we had met. Foucault, writings about sex and addiction, and Indie-Art House DVDs were on the selves, art with a disturbing rawness graced the walls, the kitchen was stocked, I immediately felt at home in her space. When she came back from her annual hibernation / artistic pilgrimage in Canada (not unlike my time in Turkey), we met in person and discovered we were kindred spirits. We've been close since. She hooked me up with a room next door with Hot Chip, making us both friends and neighbors.

"I had never taken a shit that smelled so good, and so I had to ask myself: why?! Why did it smell so good? Tropical, even."

The thing about Sparky is that she is fascinating. I think most people are interesting, but she is fascinating. She has a power about her and a way of story telling that is all-engrossing, her energy is intoxicating.

"It turns out that we had been using coconut butter as lube. That explained everything."

She captivates a room with her hijink-riddled stories of misbehavior -- best that they should hear it. Let them live vicariously.

"So on Christmas I took it up the ass with greasy, chunky, coconut cream. Which brings me to my point: no one, I mean no one, can tell me that I am not a giving lover."

The first time I heard the story of surprise coconut lube, we were somewhere on the Asian continent. She was very excited about its telling and she often rested her head on my shoulder. Still, despite her marked increase of affection and enthusiasm, I didn't realize she was rolling. The second time, we were at a cafe club that looked like Barbie's psyche and we were both rolling. It looked as though teenagers had barfed pink glitter on the walls. We laughed a lot.

Sparky identifies as being bisexual, an artist, Turkish, but also very North American, having spent of her adolescent and young adult life in Canada. She has Pan-esque short, asymmetrical, magenta hair, a plethora of piercings, and a shaved pussy. She tastes amazing. When she's intimately aroused, a single exhale from her lips is enough to send shivers emanating from my root up my spine. She wears green eyeliner and celebrates in her distinctively deep, gruff voice. When she speaks in Turkish, the sound is rough like shark's skin -- like The Swiss Family Robinson, I want to climb a tree with her language on my thighs.

"So this Sultan, Osman... I can't remember which, Osman Whatever II, had his vizier bring him women as his lokum, yani, his little treat, whatever, that part is normal, but he made him bring fat women, the fatter the better, then after fucking them he would have them killed as he watched. Fucked up, eh? He wanted his women to be like cattle, so fat they looked like cattle, then killed like cattle, he insisted on it." 

"That's some fucked up snuff shit right there." 

"Cattle fetish, man!" 

Loud rants like these in public places are an example of many reminders that Istanbul is not Cairo. Thank God, il humdulilah. In this city, Sparky and I can go to LGBT events and get wasted without fearing for our lives. We dance together, gyrating closely to industrial electro music, and it happens to not be the most dramatic thing in the room. We end up in drunken strip tease induced group sex, and it feels natural. We don't have to stress ourselves out about it. But that last part, the ease of interaction, maybe has less to do with the environment and more to do with the individuals.

In California, my dear friend Texas had made somewhat of a habit of seducing me when she was intoxicated (and that she frequently was). I remember her Russian Hill apartment on the night of her birthday, an evening she had fiercely declared as LADIES NIGHT: she was prone on her couch and I was eating her, fingering her as she tried to silence her moans for the sake of her guests asleep in the next room. But it was her birthday, I had to do what she wanted. Though I had baked her a cake, I owed the pleasure to her, she said. She demanded an orgasm by my tongue, and she felt that due to it being the anniversary of her birth, she deserved it -- a reward for living as long as 24 years on this earth. That night a group of ten of us or so had gotten all dolled up in tight, short, glistening tubes of dresses, our unattainable bitch costumes, and we traveled in a pack. Now these slut suits were pushed up and pulled awry, she was begging for me to make her cum. Unlike my girl friend in high school, she clearly wasn't playing in an act to colloquially claim to experience or to arouse cocks inserting themselves in fantasy. This was her fantasy. She begged, and begged, until she came in my mouth.

She was always with some guy and she never considered herself to be bisexual. The only other sexual encounter with a woman that she had told me about was a steamy but abbreviated make-out session on a dance floor in Italy. Perhaps this gap in her self-perception and her inhibited desire, desire such as displayed on that moonlit couch and so many other grimy San Francisco street-side back drops, is what inspired her to push me away when she entered the corporate world of Silicon Valley, working at Google or YouTube or wherever. Perhaps, though we had been best friends for many years, perhaps I didn't fit in the portrait she held in her mind of her adulthood. Perhaps she suddenly needed to leave that phase of experimentation behind her, juvenile as it was, pissing in the face of her straight privilege and aspirations of "normalcy". I wasn't asking her to be with me, in fact I didn't want that, she is nothing close to polyamorous and we both love dick too much to give up. I was happy to please her physically and to be socially as we had always been, but now it is occurring to me for the first time that perhaps this was in itself the problem. Did she want more?

Whatever the problem, she created a seemingly insurmountable distance between us, characterized by an extremely frustrating absence of communication of any kind. Torturing as this silence seems, it's the best show of my love for her that I can offer by allowing the space for as long as she needs. If she feels like telling me about it one day, I'll gladly listen.

When I was in college, sexuality columnist Dan Savage from Seattle's publication The Stranger treated the student body to an interactive lecture. While it was mostly give-and-take, he stated at least one thing quite definitively that has since stuck with me: bisexuals don't exist. Men are either gay or straight -- if they say they are bi, they are simply doing their best to adjust to the truth -- and women's sexualities are so fluid that it's pointless to label their preferences at any given time as if they will be sustained for a lifetime. By the way, Dan Savage has since written columns revising his previously stated opinion on bisexuality, making a little more effort these days to tread lightly on the eggshell egos of the community and fight personal accusations of bi-phobia. Regardless of his current stance, at the time he brought to light for me the pressure to identify oneself with a sort of inferred judgement, even or especially within the LGBT community. Sometimes it seems to come down to the following questions:
"Do you qualify for straight privilege?"
Not quite.
"Do you qualify for homosexual acceptance?"
Not quite.
"Why are you so insistent on being so fucking difficult?"

I wonder if not quite being able to put a finger on the fluidity of female sexuality actually makes it easier for someone like me to accept, while this invisible pill is nearly impossible for someone like Texas to swallow.

Doesn't bother Sparky. And this isn't the first time I've been "with" a female in an Islamic country. Seems funny to me, somehow, but perhaps I shouldn't judge a country by its Qur'an.

For more antics with Sparky, check out the post Hunting Bambi. 
Curious about LGBT in Turkey? Read THIS. 
Find the latest from Seduce and Confuse HERE.

Gypsy Love Curse

Istanbul: A persistently lonely and desperate feline screech sneaks beyond the feeble barrier of my window pane. It disturbs my slumber and I groan, turn over. It's 6:30 PM and still I can't pull myself out of bed. I get so disappointed at moments like these, but on the bright side, I tell myself, when I move back to the other side of the world maybe I'll be a naturally early riser. Maybe I'll exercise more, I certainly could use the endorphin kick... thinking this, I hear myself grunt at the preposterous notion of running through these torn and crumbling streets.
Three months is a long time.

My whole house is on an insanely erratic yet surprisingly synchronized schedule. One day we'll wake at 9:30 PM, groaning our morning greetings, the next we'll be up at the the crack of dawn mopping the floors cheerfully. We call it "social jet lag". It's been a couple weeks since I've moved out of Sweetie's apartment and into a ground level flat in the slums, populated by outcasts, freaks, and all of Istanbul's cats moaning in heat, right where I belong.

I like this place. It's got all the decadent charm of the ghetto. I like my house mates. They are a Turkish electronic musician who aspires to be the next Hot Chip and his moody Polish girlfriend. We're all completely broke, just managing, subsisting mostly on the nutrition of beer and Cha Cha -- a fire water moonshine from Georgia, the country, that will disinfect your intestines as it burns a hole right through them. Our neighbors are two ladies who have become good friends of mine, a Turkish visual artist who goes by Sparky and a sharp-witted Jewish pansexual writer from San Francisco. Our neighborhood, despite being as terrifying as it is with dog fights, drug dealers, and open crime, it's home, and whether or not I should, I feel comfortable. All in all, I'm happy that I moved out of Sweetie's.

One night a bunch of guys were sitting around, drinking beer, asking of each other the greater questions in life.
"So, when you use the bidet, do you ever, you know... finger your asshole a little?"
"I dunno man, sometimes it just slips in there."
"Yeah, I mean... It's good to be extra clean. In that area especially."

Sweetie came over to check on me in my new surroundings and was hardly amused.
"What the fuck are these guys?"
"Chello, I am here too, don't forget," said Moody Poland. Her tiny arms were crossed over her chest  as she stared at him disapprovingly. She usually has a focused, intense, crazed look about her that makes me wonder if they cannibalize where she comes from (my experience of Eastern Europeans is that they are insane), and this moment was no exception.

As a dark skinned man and a business owner in a country quickly developing beyond its means, Sweetie is no stranger to hostile energy and so he chose to ignore her. Though there is a side of him comfortable with dealing with aggressors, incurring violence, and making death threats, he put on his syrupy sweet voice for me: "Tatlim, come home with me and drink tea and let me sleep on your knees..."

Given the way we had broken up, I didn't feel that I owed him anything. "I'm happy here. Why don't you stay and have some Cha Cha?"
He reluctantly accepted the shot Hot Chip's forceful hospitality pressured him into then left without saying a word.
After the slam of the door, Moody Poland tsk'd three times. "Such dramatic. You're better without it, honestly."

All the same, I was sad to see him go like that. His smell and the kiss lingering on my neck were a heady perfume and a burning souvenir. A few shots of Cha Cha, however, and my senses faded.

Igor, Conquerer of my Heart

My birthday is coming up next month, as is my glorious return Stateside.

"I had an idea for your party, but I'm not sure you'll be into it."
"Lay it on me."
"Well, you know, it would just be a good party. Good music, some delish food, good company, obviously... but while all this is going on, I was thinking you would actually be bound in another room for the pleasure of the guests to use. Gang-rape style."

The following are 5 points on why I love my boyfriend.

Pets

“Do you think this is cat meat?”

Sweetie leaned over my ambiguous meatballs in indeterminable sauce and sniffed.

“No, but mine is definitely rabbit,” he concluded as he shoveled another greasy spoonful into his mouth.

I’ve been learning a lot lately. I’ve learned that under a certain price point, the kebab is likely dog or cat meat. I prefer cat, as it turns out. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look my adorable pet feline in the eyes when I get home. Ironically, Sweetie is never phased by eating rabbit or dog, even though he has recused a cat companion, but he won't eat fish. 
"Fish aren't food, they are for aquarium."
Apparently tuna doesn't count, because it comes from a can. 

I also learned from my Turkish lady friend that Sweetie is seen as an Apaçi (as in "Apache", the Native American group). I asked Sweetie what an Apaçi is, he said that it's an insulting term that light skinned Turks call dark skinned (read: Kurdish) Turks. According to him, Apaçi hang out on street corners, get wasted, and rob people because they have nothing better to do than dance to techno music, gel their hair, and admire their white shoes. He was insulted, and silently went back to his food.
"I am the furthest from Apaçi."
I eyed his hoop ear piercing as we ate and watched the game on the overhead TV – it was Russia versus Real Madrid. The Spaniards had a new Turk on their team, the whole lokanta watched with abated breath.

Sweetie’s been keeping me fed 2-3 times a day, more than I was used to on my own. He likes to take care of me. I’m his pet, his princess. There’s no water or heat in the apartment, so I’m cold and filthy. Still, we find ways to keep warm. He's kept me placated with pleasure. Maybe he’s not taking care of me out of love, maybe he’s feeding me simply so I’ll stay alive. I’m beginning to feel like an addict, like all other activities besides fucking him are simply frustrating intermissions to the real act of living.

Sweetie loves to rape his little princess. Both of us report feeling the buzzing high and the injury, our respective parts throbbing from desire and sore from its frantic fulfillment. He promised not to fuck me for two days so we could both heal, but almost immediately that dark, hungry expression fell over his face. I squirmed in fear and discomfort, but he held me down and took me exactly as he wanted to. Having surrendered to pleasure, we collapsed on the couch as double-decker skin bags covered in cold sweat and other fluids. Exhausted, we managed to fall asleep this way, melting and sticking together.

I’m his pet and his slave. He doesn’t like when I go out on my own or with friends, he doesn’t like when I have a drink. He's told me that he doesn’t like my long hair, that I wear makeup, the sound of my voice, or my name. He doesn’t like the music I listen to or my jokes. He hates that I have other boyfriends and he hates my perverted friends, saying:

“At least murderers I can understand culturally.”

I took a pregnancy test and he was upset that it came out negative. Every fiber of my body and mind screams, “HE IS TRYING TO IMPREGNATE YOU: RUN!”

Sometimes he shakes me awake in the middle of the night to tell me that he loves me so much, he can't stand it and that I have to hear it again, to know it. In my head I scoff and think that he couldn't love me because he doesn't even like me. He's manic. 


He told me I looked fat in a picture. I slapped him across the face. I’m starting to think that perhaps we aren’t very compatible, after all. If the sex weren't there, maybe nothing would be left. 


Meet Sweetie HERE and drool at our hot moments described in The Golden Cage and Snapshots. 
Find the latest from Seduce and Confuse. It's like vitamins for your groin. 

The Golden Cage

There was a sweaty pause punctuated by asthmatic wheezings. Sweetie leaned over  me, dripping and struggling for breath, grasping wildly for his inhaler.

"I don't want to die before you love me."

He had just been screaming. It was about halftime of one of our marathons. I don't understand how a man who is not on medication can go so long and stay so hard and hungry... but it's perfect. My delayed orgasms allow me to enjoy filth for hours before finally collapsing into a twitching mass.  He was forcing himself on me hard, interweaving nasty commentary and loving orders, screaming with pleasure when he finally came close. Our activities had become so aerobic, he had to stop, or else his heart would have stopped first. The wailing call to prayer sounded to score inappropriate melancholy under the moment.

I had been screaming too: he is so large that at his fullness, he is often either ripping me apart or punching me in the cervix. It's painful, but also wonderful. I love how he shoves himself into my narrower passageway, pushing in deep and fast... I struggle and cry out and he hushes me, saying:

"I know, I know... don't worry my love, it's ok...it's ok."

I take comfort and fly with pleasure, even in the pain. I think of sex and death, impermanence and it's counterpart.

"If you try to leave me, I just kill you and make [jumpsuit] out of your skin."
Şaka, şaka... jokes, jokes. 

I can see the shining bars falling into place... we are becoming slave to one another, to the insanity, wistfulness, and impracticality of our affections. He wants me to "belong to him" -- he in essence wants to collar me, without knowing that specific terminology or the BDSM culture aspect. If I told him about that, he probably wouldn't care. Despite the violence, love, and power play we do engage in, the emotional significance of "belonging" is enough for him, regardless of leather.

As a non-monogamist already involved in other relationships, this sort of talk is disconcerting. As per usual, I have no idea what I am doing. I enjoy being a slave to him, but I wonder if I should escape the country before the bars of gilded insanity and ownership become welded around me. I don't know at this point if I will stay or if I will go -- I have relationships to honor back in the U.S. and people I love. What keeps me from returning is a certain terror of my own disillusionment: I scoff at the idea that America is the land of opportunity (if anybody actually still believes that anymore). I don't know if I can swallow returning to my pseudo posh service industry job and all the bullshit that it entails knowing that I haven't yet achieved what I came to Istanbul for. Maybe the problem is that I don't know what that is, so I might never find it. Haunting questions come to mind: am I numbing this doubt with compulsive behavior bordering on addiction with Sweetie? Have I been doing this my whole adult life? (But is it such a terrible thing, anyway, to do so?)

If someone I trusted called me a fool, I would be inclined to agree. Scales of optimism are tilting: I hope I'm learning the hard way, otherwise my life will just be "the hard way" without learning. We'll see. All I want is to be free, and to learn to love the people in my life without destroying them. Maybe for their sake I should be kept in a cage after all. (That sounds awfully narcissistic -- what to do?)

Meet Sweetie for the first time HERE and enjoy more sexy anecdotes HERE. 
Don't forget to check out the latest from Seduce and Confuse.

Snapshots

Istanbul: My whole body is sore. I move slowly down snow-packed cobble stone streets, walking with the caution of an old lady. This is partly because I hurt, I'm dizzy from endorphin overload and lack of sleep, and partly because I've already fallen twice on slippery hard ice. Still, those slips can't account for all the bruises decorating my knees, thighs, and ass. People on the street look at me like I'm insane for walking around in an area like this by myself -- I'm living in Istanbul's equivalent of the Tenderloin.

I get to my place and thankfully the keys work smoothly this time, before the gypsy teenagers who are always hanging out on the corner can saunter over to my doorstep to intimidate.  Even the starving street cats keep their distance. I melt into the heat of my foyer and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror -- limping, battered, wild mane of piled knotted hair, a dull stare, and a stupid grin from ear to ear: "ohhh..." it sets in. I look totally fucking insane.

I spent the night with Sweetie again. We've made love eight times in two consecutive days, sometimes for hours each time, and yet it doesn't seem to be enough. I'm not surprised I look like a nut case. After several attempts of getting up, getting dressed, and greeting the daylight (all of which ended in ever fervent fucking turned loud consensual rape on various furniture pieces in various rooms) we finally made it outdoors. By the time we finished breakfast, it was 7:30PM and he was late to work by several hours. But he didn't seem too concerned. I was more than happy to gaze at him over our Turkish style scrambled eggs (menemen) as he spoke passionately about social activism for disabled children in the tea-growing region near the Black Sea. Dreamy.

I make it up the stairs to my bathroom and spend the next half hour liberating my hair from it's dreadlocked state. I'm thinking of Sweetie, our conversations...
"You look so unsuspecting but you're so kinky..."
"What is 'kinky? What is it meaning?"
"Well, it's just... everything that you do in bed."
----
"Tell me what you want -- teach me!"
His pleas were met only with whimpering moans of pleasure. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, he wasn't in need of instruction. Besides this, I had decided that I didn't like to speak to him in bed. Next to his accent, thick and sweet like grape molasses, my own voice sounded clumsy and boorish, inseparable from it's Americanness, and it turned me off to hear it.

He responded desperately and energetically.
"I want to learn, I want to know how to please you! Don't you understand? I want to be with you... Can't you understand that?! I want to be with you."
He stopped making love to me and put his head between his hands. He breathed hard, reached for a glass of water, spilled it, and jumped up to protect my notes and papers from the liquid. He forfeited to the mess that he had become and sunk to the ground, placing his hands back on his head again, a position that seemed to quiet the voices of doubt and anxiety.

He is naked, hard, muscular, and thin, with coffee-and-cream colored skin and wild black hair that stands straight up from his scalp. Even while prostrated, reaching out only with a shaking velvet voice, he is powerful and masculine. I'm a little terrified of this man, notably because he is insane, and that is exactly why in this moment I felt love for him although I still do not pretend to understand him. I reflected on my thoughts: that he does not know me, and that of what he does know, I could not possibly be impressive to him. And yet I don't judge him loving what he have, regardless of our not understanding each other. In fact, I admire him for it, though I'm aware that I probably shouldn't.
----
"Why you were so cold to me last year?"
A year ago we met at the alternative workshop and performance space he runs in an underground cave in the city. I didn't even know if he liked women, but I just thought he was the cutest and I had a big fat crush on him. Naturally, as my selective anxiety would dictate, I didn't give him the time of day.
"Why you didn't hug and kiss me to say hello?"
He recounted to me in detail everything about our few interactions, even down to what I had been wearing. He told me that we had exchanged some long eye contact -- I remembered it too, but had dismissed it as a mirage in the hot desolation of my loneliness at the time. He had been waiting for me for talk to him, but when I did, I had said:
"Hey man, where's the bathroom?"
I wasn't quite the seductress then. I had fled to Turkey for the months following an escape from the burning broken shambles of a serious monogamous relationship I had left behind in a small country in Eastern Europe. First thing I had done in Turkey was rebound with the exact wrong person and I fell on my own sword again. I didn't feel good. Even though I liked and was fascinated by him at the time, my heart, trying to heal itself, wasn't open. And I didn't know how to reach him in that state, or how to want to.
I explained to him that I was shy. His only response was to kiss my face, hug me, and we fell asleep like that.
"I like holding you this way... it make me feel you belong to me. That you're my women."

Meet Sweetie HERE, and read more about my experience in Turkey HERE. 
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Face Soup

The first inquiry is usually: "Who's face was it?"
"I don't... sometimes I don't ask questions."
Followed by: "Well... was it good?"
"It was better than the stomach stew."

Istanbul: I'm in the modest living room of my handsome musician friend who happens to be Kurdish-Turkish-Armenian -- a politically volatile pedigree in Turkey. Turks and Balkaners say Kurds are "voodoo people," liable to be liars, gangsters, and thieves.
"Yes, but being Armenian is even worse..." he chuckles, deciding between his Persian tar and his Greek lute.
I don't have the experience or the blood memory to fully understand these kinds of aggressive racial-cultural accusations or to have their meaning resonate in my bones. I do know, however, that my friend is a sweetie -- he's good natured, good humored, talented, and clean of heart. As he plucked out haunting micro-tuned melodies on his lute in 11, 15 and 7 time signatures ("the ladies must love this guy," I thought), I tried catching on to the beat as best I could.
"Us Westerners are used to 4 or 3," I said.
"Ok, so we play something in 9."
3 times 3 is close enough, I suppose.
[As a passionate side note, I love beats divisible by three -- I've always been naturally drawn to waltzes and vals. There's a symmetry in trinity that I'm attracted to, though I didn't even notice it until I started drumming.]

After we played our fill of exotic odd meter, the subject of food came up.
"So... it is soup, made of face (tongue, cheeks, eyes, you know), and you put much vinegar in, and much boiled garlic, chili flakes... and all this helps the smells."
"What smell?"
"The smells of... face."
SOLD.  Garlic and offal? Perfectly monstrous date-food. I couldn't possibly imagine something further from my hungry imagination, so of course I had to try it.
"This is normally food Turks only drink when very drunk, so if you are to have to soup you must have some of this first," a swig of ouzo.
This guy is into Greece. Charming.

Now I'm not saying it was the face soup, nor am I positing that the rambling Benigni film that followed was the most erotic thing ever, and for the record, though strong, a single swig of ouzo isn't obliterating. Perhaps it was some gypsy voodoo from this guy's bloodline, but some kind of aphrodisiac ("padişa macunu" in Turkish) magic happened that resulted in the two of us making love like it was our call to prayer - roughly four times in 12 hours. And roughly. This guy is so sweet, with an extreme gentleness towards cats and a kind of soft fairy voice that at first had me question his orientation, that the impressive cock that hung below his skinny-man six pack and the perverse energy with which he wielded it took me by surprise, which was more intoxicating than the ouzo. I wasn't expecting anything from our date except for some music, but Sweetie gave it to me like man for hours and hours, somehow tapping into fetishes I wouldn't speak aloud and executing them with an unforgiving panache. All of this perverted exuberance was punctuated by peacefully entwined hugging naps, endless marathons of tender kisses, and quiet exclamations such as "My beauty! My beauty... you make me so happy."

What the fuck? What kind of sorcery is this? Where the fuck did this guy come from? He doesn't wear leather gear or bondage raver pants, or for that matter have anything about his demeanor, outward appearance, or media taste that would suggest that he is anything other than a sensitive, sweet, well-traveled musician. In fact, his Nepalese sweaters would make me think otherwise, but the fact is that not only is he one filthy-sick lover, he is also the king of aftercare! This guy should teach workshops, god damn it, and he doesn't even know what the subject's called.

It occurred to me at some point in the seduction process that perhaps this guy's voodoo power was from sheer slutty experience. The persistent thought arose, that sex as an end-game shouldn't be rewarded -- that's how girls are taught to protect themselves, that their sex should only be doled out to those worthy by seemingly arbitrary factors. But who am I to guess what Sweetie's end game is? Even after his second orgasm, even after MY second orgasm, even into the present, he's made me feel cherished and loved, and I love sharing pleasure with him. Whether his endgame is the love or the sex, and the other is simply a part of his emotional/sexual "slut-style," I'm into it!

What's the punch line here: Don't judge a Kurd by his soup? Offal the name of love? Hey baby, I want your face-soup? Now accepting entry related pun submissions in the comments...

Secret Slave

The sound of the fierce slap I had planted on his face silenced the pub. It was the kind of triple exclamation mark that makes stomachs sink, like the sound of glass breaking in an expensive restaurant.

Infuriated, I grabbed my things: a purse, a jacket, and a bag of nasty food and booze splattered work clothes. I delivered my next line from between gritted teeth, just before storming out into the cold:

"You're welcome, asshole."

It felt good. 

After a second or two, the stun wore off. He forgot to keep playing it cool and chased after me. "I'm sorry I'm such an jerk... I don't know any other way to be. I'm trying to stop... I'm sorry," pleaded the thickheaded man as he kissed my furrowed brow. I blinked my tearful eyes hard as I loathed myself for my feelings. A criminal record including two restraining orders for violent destruction of property as well as a DUI, the emotional maturity and communication skills of a child with Asperger's without the elevated IQ, dead beat tendencies, a sty of a room in his parents' house as a grown man, and lastly, painfully, an innocent unwitting monogamously programmed girlfriend? How much more evidence did I need that this guy was nothing but trouble and stupid to boot? And yet... maybe it was an energetic thing resulting from a past life of being torrid lovers... or maybe it was his freakishly mammoth dick... but in any case, the only way I could identify my feelings for this stupid piece of shit was, foolishly, love. 

Ever since I started working there, we'd been aware of each other, though we didn't share a word for months. I started out as front of house and came into the kitchen rarely. When I did, I could count on him gazing at me. Gazing turned into staring, then staring turned into meditative intent. Maybe on occasion I stared back.
We broke the ice awkwardly. A comment or two here and there, and innocuous question. I left for a month to travel - It was during this time he collected a girlfriend.

I came back and was promoted, finding myself flitting between the front and back of house - the difference being that the front of house required a certain finesse of politesse, and the kitchen required a sharp tongue.  In no time, I found myself barking acerbic teasings in a battle of wits. 

All the other guys saw something was there between us, and teased endlessly. Banter was silly, something like:

     me: "I just wanna do good"

     him: "uh, don't you mean do well? I thought you went to an ivy league school"

     me: "I thought you went to beer camp instead of school." 

OR

     me: "He showed me a picture of his girlfriend last night that he really shouldn't show to other people..."

     <moment of uncomfortable silence in the kitchen>

     me: "It was of her face."

     <moment of schadenfreude jubilation in the kitchen>

OR 

     chef: "Hear that, man? She broke up with her boyfriend!"

     him: "You mean there's a slot in her stable? No thank you..."

     me: "That metaphor's relevant because you look like a horse." 

...and so on. 

I started to get high on cutting him down. This guy took cuts like a champ, but eventually I started to see pain in his sad little face - it was then when I finally realized he had feelings that I resolved to be nice. I asked him if he wanted a beer after work, he accepted, and you know, he wasn't that bad. He even paid for my beer. Pretty soon it got to be a post-shift tradition, and it was alright. I even looked forward to it. 

Things got out of hand when we started talking about kink.

At first it was a casual discussion of sexual preferences and various city kink club scenes worth frequenting and our experiences there, as well as the ones we hoped to have. Soon after I found myself driving 45 minutes out of my way to a shit hole ghetto thinking: "fuck fuck fuck, what am I doing, fuck..."

Next thing I knew he was silently, solemnly, and even gently leading me up the stairs.

Next thing I knew he was carefully peeling my clothes off, with the tenderness and respect one would disrobe an expensive porcelain doll, a collector's item. 

Next thing I knew he was asking me, "What do you want?" My hunger to own him was so great, I allowed a clichéd response to slip from between my lips: "You."

Next thing I knew he was piercing my being. He held that familiar yet disarming gaze with me, a look of such unprecedented sincerity that I feared my heart my stop beating at any moment like a bunny that dies in the arms of the child who squeezes it too tightly.

After our little deaths we lay limp among the twisted sheets with the embarrassment of our sincerity, nakedness, and pressing guilt for our lack of regret seeping in, along with our sweat.
When we were finally able to move and enjoy critical thought again, the issue at hand presented itself: being tender with each other was kind of beside the point.

We went to a bar. He pissed me off. I dragged him back to his room. I tied him up and beat the crap out of him in a manner from which I am sure he still retains scars. Physical or emotional, it doesn't matter to me which. All that mattered was that he was, in that moment, my slave to abuse.

I finally unshackled him and ordered that he fuck me like a man this time. Such an erotic rage was unleashed, I thought he would split me, rip me apart. He violated me with delicious conviction and in doing so exacted retribution for his humiliation. "Is this what you wanted?" he hissed beyond his tensely veined neck, gritted teeth, and focused glare. Between my cries, I could only nod yes as he continued to forcefully ravage. (Heaven.)

Nothing about that experience could change the fact of "the girlfriend" matter. She was as good as he was going to get in terms of serious life partners and I applaud her for swallowing his hot load of royal fuck up with a relatively impressive amount of grace and acceptance. I owned my slave for a hot afternoon, but I knew that in the end I would have to let him go.

The thing that strikes me again and again is that monogamous people (that is: those seeking fidelity in singular partners) don't realize that to satisfy their curiosity with more open "non-monogamous" people (those who seek fidelity whilst enjoying the freedom of multiple partners) is to crucify them. I was hurt that I was good enough for that one misstep, but not enough for more - a waltz of affairs that might have lasted in a lifetime the analogous length of a song in a movie. However transcendent the event felt to me at the time, feelings were trumped by security, something I can never be able to offer as long as security equals static. I have endured a handful of lovers walking out of my life tearfully on this account, and that is something I have come to expect. People say I'm a heartbreaker, but the reality is that openness makes me raw and vulnerable to the core. Because I have multiple lovers, it's hard for people to appreciate the sutures sewn in my own heart, and yet I don't expect them to. It's just the way of the world. 

Also, his dad came home early and saw me fully nude. (That was fun!)

In the end, despite the face-slapping at the bar, the half-assed apologies and platitudes, and finally the lingering question marks, things are still jovial between us. Our secret is now the greatest thing we share. In a moment of confessional disclosure, I did tell the foul-mouthed bartender. His reaction was: "I can actually see you retards being good together."

I'm glad I had that experience, satisfying a number of burning curiosities in doing so. I'm happy to have realized that in discovering my adulthood, I have become a person who is willing to be vulnerable, to risk by saying "yes".

For anecdotes of *functional* and sexy debauchery, go HERE.  
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