About the authors: Hearts together, bodies apart. We (M and F) chronicle our fantasies, erotic fetishes and bridge the miles that divide us (for now) by writing together. Our secret lust, spoken here - Desire X.
This is the same story told from both his and her perspectives.
Standing before me, I look into your pleading eyes. I slap your face. I use the open, soft, part of my hand and do it again, I slap you. It sounds like the shot of a pistol. Your eyes glaze over, you moan. I slap you again.
I unzip your gown and let it fall to the floor in an elegant heap, around your ankles. You step out.
I kiss you again as you help me to undress myself. You are perfectly still, alabaster skin, ruby lips, golden hair and a string of pearls. I lean down to undo the straps to your heels but you put your leg up on the bed, opening yourself to me. I feast on your pussy, I drink you in. Your shoes stay. You feel my erect urgency and again, I slap you.
I point to the bed and you climb on positioning yourself on "all fours" and I love your pussy, glistening with your readiness. I grasp your hips and push myself inside you, softly, you moan. I grab your hair in both hands and pull, hard, impaling myself inside you deeply, in one violent plunge.
Your head is arched back, prisoner to its beauty. You don't respond so I slap your ass repeatedly until both cheeks are vermillion. I thrust harder and harder, your juice is running down my balls, reflecting in small trails down your inner thighs. With one hand, I pull your hair, my fist is full and with the other, I reach around and stroke your clit. I bang into you, deep inside. You give a gutteral grunt. My pulling, stroking and thrusting are urgent, ever more violent. My hand is now slick with your juices and I move it around to your ass and annoint it. I slowly, gently insert my finger inside your ass.
Now my cock is in your cunt and my finger in your ass. I can feel my thrusting cock through the thin membrane inside you. You cum in a long, low moan, shaking, I can feel you clench around my cock and finger. You collapse on the bed but I have not cum yet and as you recover...
I langorously keep moving my cock in and out of you.
HIM
I look up at you, the weight of my lust hangs heavy over me. I am panting for release and you have been making me wait. The building of my excitement has almost made me scream for it. Then your hand meets my cheek with a sting that brings tears to my eyes. The release is immediate as I feel the hot liquid start to drip down my thighs. I let out a groan from deep inside. You slap me again, harder this time, but it only excites me more for the next slap.
You unzip my gown letting it fall to the floor, my knees have begun to tremble slightly in anticipation of the fierce fucking I know you are about to give me. You kiss me hard. You own my lips... my quivering, ready body. I fall into your kiss with my entire body, leaning my weight against you. You hand brushes my still stinging cheek as you drive your tongue into my mouth.
I fumble with your clothes, trying to slow my desperation to get your wrappings off. Your cock is rock hard as my hand finally releases it. I stroke it, wanting so badly to have you inside of me. I know that if you were to slide into me and slap me one more time I would come all over you, soaking us both in my satisfied release.
I raise my leg, the only guidance I am allowed, for tonight you own my fuck.
You own each and every moan and orgasm you give me. I must obey your command, but in that second that my legs are open you relinquish to my need, licking and sucking that first cascading flow from my cunt. I reach for you again as you rise, the sharp sting of your hand releases my first orgasm. It is short, but hot, and the liquid begins to flow once more, my pussy now drenched by your mouth and my cum.
You point to the bed and I climb up on all fours spreading my legs for you to have your pleasure as you demand. I feel your hands grip my hips, then you are in me. Your cock is hot and huge as it sears into me. It hits my spot immediately, then holds in that place, sucking my breath from me as I kneel, suspended, unable to move, paralyzed by the sensation.
You slap my ass hard, again and again, the percussion causes a wrenching orgasm that makes me growl in it's intensity. You begin pulling my hair, my backward motions reined by your hand as you pull me back onto you, even as you thrust harder into me.
You shove your finger into my ass causing my pussy muscles to jump and spasm hard. I am taut, tight as a spring wound under your thrusting cock. And then I climax, clenching hard around you and releasing. Clenching and releasing. My orgasm more of pain than pleasure, but more satisfying than any other orgasm I have ever had.
I am exhausted as it starts to loosen it's grip on me. I start to relax, but you are still fucking me. You have not cum yet, your breathing has not even reached a fevered pitch yet. You are not done, not even close.
You langorously keep moving your cock in and out of me.
HER
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Sunday, November 6, 2005
A Tripp is a dream your heart makes
About the author: He is 44, a gay man living in Raleigh NC. Since splitting from his partner he has embarked on a private sexual odyssey: a no-strings exploration of his sexual needs and desires. His Live Journal blog is a diary of these encounters. He is no longer on Zoloft.
Or: A dream is a Tripp your heart makes. Or something like that.
I dreamed of an old friend last night, someone I've not seen in, I would guess, 15 years. It was a sexual dream, and wasn't at the same time.
It’s a commonplace, I suppose, but time moves more swiftly as one ages. At least, it seems so to me. I suspect it’s because you’re so busy collecting knowledge and experience when you’re young, and settle into more of a routine in later life. The years of my childhood and adolescence seemed endless to me at times (though I imagine they were much briefer to my parents) and those from, say, 18 to 25 stretched out in a languid arc. It often seems to me I packed more into those six or seven years than I have in the nearly twenty since.
Events from my late teens and early 20s have a cast-iron quality. I loved more intensely, I think, and more frequently. God knows I experienced more acute and chronic emotional pain. Depression, my constant friend these many years, was raging on in me then, happy and undiagnosed. But even that has a stiller quality now, not nearly so unrestrained. But then no one is happier than an adolescent in the throes of emotional upheaval. It’s a romantic dream that holds on as long as possible.
When I was 20 or 21, I made friends with a co-worker who went by the nickname Tripp. (I want to say I was 21 and he was 19, but I couldn't swear to that. In any case, we were close contemporaries.) To be honest, he caught my appreciate eye the day he walked in the door. It was one of those happy/unhappy coincidences that the object of my affectionate gaze was also bright, smart, funny, open, and knowledgeable in many of the areas I cared—and care—deeply about.
Tripp was medium height, slender but with the broad shoulders, muscled thighs and well-defined upper body of a swimmer, which he'd been in high school. He wore his hair moderately long for the time, as I did myself—back when I had a lot of it to wear longish. He had thick, dark eyebrows and blond hair, the latter bleached. His face was one of the most guileless and open I’ve ever known. He had largish, rubbery lips—not Mick Jagger grotesque, more sensuous and kissable—and a somewhat piggish, upturned nose I thought of as cute as hell.
He also had a backside to die for. Christ, how I wanted to lay my head between those pillows! The whole package—and I mean his personality and kindness as well as his physique—was attractive enough, but that ass was frosting on a very tasty cake. (I remember one summer afternoon when he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and I commented on how damp it was. “I’ve got a sweaty butt,” he grinned, and all I could think was a bad paraphrase of Shakespeare: O, that I was a wallet upon that cheek …)
I couldn’t “read” people as well then as I have come to be able to subsequently: he was so open and sweet-natured, his smile so quick and genuine. The more I talked to him, the more frequently I saw him on the stock room floor, the more aware I was of how friendly feeling was quickly turning to infatuation. I sent him a note on afternoon, letting him know I was gay and hoping that wouldn’t interfere with our being friends. His answer was positive, although he noted that he’d “had a bad experience and, once bitten, twice shy …”
I asked Tripp about that later. He told me a slightly retarded neighbor kid had tried something with him when he was younger. Still, I kept wondering about him. One is never sure, when succumbing to feelings of love (which I was) whether the sensations one receives are real, or hoped-for. Tripp had been in a rock band (Another Roadside Attraction, named for the Tom Robbins book) with his best friend, and did once confess to me that he had some erotic feelings for him. Trying, in that well-meaning way a gay boy has of hoping to appear non-threatening, I invoked the “it could just be a phase” cliché. Idiot.
I spent a couple of Friday nights at his family’s house—he still lived with his parents—and tried to match Tripp blow-for-blow in beer drinking. To my great satisfaction, I never threw up during one of these binges, but I certainly tired out. One of my proudest moments was his awarding me a small gold medal he’d gotten for some swim meet in honor of my growing drink capacity. It bore the initials “FHST,” which he re-christened for me as “Fast as Hell Suds Taster.” I think I still have it, somewhere.
His bedroom had bunk-beds. He would lie on the top bunk and I would take the bottom. If I remember correctly, the assignments were by choice—I’m acrophobic, and none too steady after getting drunk. I’d fall asleep quickly, under the influence, but wake up early. While he slept I’d lie on my back, staring up at the top bunk, and imagine how it might feel to be up there with him. To wake with him beside me. To feel his warm, nearly hairless, silken flesh snuggled up against my own.
I’m aware that I’m going into more detail than is strictly necessary. But this is a part of my past I’ve never written about before, and Tripp has a small chamber of my heart even now. I’m collecting impressions, trying to get it all down before something slips way. Like the debt I owe his father, a conservative Republican, in making me defend my leftist positions through knowledge and intellectual acumen, not simply emotion and instinct. “Why do you feel like that?” or “What makes you think that?” were, as Tripp told me, his dad’s way of telling me I needed more information if I wanted to hold my own in a debate. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Now, if I have a gut feeling about something but no data to base it on, I try to keep my mouth shut until I know something about the subject. My own father never gave me that.
I’m also aware of how rambling, and possibly incoherent, these musings are. Which is the way with memory—it isn’t linear. One thought or memory causes one to recall another. Bear with me, please.
I’m reminded now of how he got his nickname. He had a younger cousin (if cousin it was—some relation, anyway) who, when he was a toddler, couldn’t say Tripp’s real name. Using one of the slang terms of the ‘70s—is it still in use? I’m not sure—someone had said in front of this child that my friend was “a trip.” The kid couldn’t pronounce _________ but he could say “Trip.” So, Tripp it was.
Since Tripp wanted to leave home, and my so-called “studio” apartment consisted of a dingy room with a kitchenette, bathroom, and cockroaches, we decided to put in together and located a two-bedroom in the suburbs. It was already a curious relationship, slightly masochistic on my part. I wanted him desperately, loved him deeply, and it would have made far more sense for me to keep a respectful distance. The last thing my pain required was working with Tripp and living in close quarters at the same time. But you can’t maintain a cool reserve, can you, when someone comes to mean something to you. My tendency throughout my adult life is to live in hope. I’m not sure why, since it’s never panned out, but it seems a part of my nature—a coping mechanism, maybe. I can live on a vague, unintentional hint the way a bear can survive hibernation on his own stored blubber.
I was largely passive in those days, and much too susceptible to the acts and opinions of others. My best friend (and on-again/off-again lover) had helped get me hooked on cigarettes, and Tripp influenced my future brand. I’d always smoked lights. He smoked light Menthols. While in the middle pf moving my stuff to our new apartment in a borrowed truck, I’d run out of Camels. He gave me his Merit Menthols to tide me over, and that was that. I used to switch brands in those days fairly regularly. Merits, then Benson & Hedges, then something else. I finally settled on Salem Ultra Lights. So the brand changed, but the Menthol stayed.
I should say that life with Tripp was hardly all Sturm und Drang, regardless of my thwarted desire. We continued to enjoy each other’s company, go to movies together, drive to other cities for late shows, discuss music and television and books. But there was an irresistible force and an immoveable object, and it made for an unspoken something, a tension, a frisson that lay between us like the elephant in the room no one will talk about. As long as I didn’t press it, we could pretend it wasn’t there.
Having this boy, for whom I burned so brightly, around made for some interesting contours. Instead of a bed, Tripp had a simple mattress on the floor of his bedroom, usually strewn with clothing. For the first—and so far, only—time in my life I became something of a furtive pantie-sniffer. Not, if memory serves, his actual undershorts, but the bikini-style briefs he wore when swimming. When they were lying around, discarded, on his mattress and Tripp was out, I would bring them to my face and inhale him, deeply—crotch and seat. Then I’d take off my trousers and slip on his briefs, get hard, and masturbate.
I jacked off in the oddest places in those days. Part of my job with the big office supply distributor for which I worked involved keeping inventories. Now and then I would take an inventory binder in hand and wander to the basement. (I had no stock there to count, but the basement personnel probably didn’t know that.) In my wanderings I had discovered the small, dark, dusty room where the boiler resided. You walked in, and next to the boiler was a concrete partition. If you crouched there, no one could see you, even if they were actually in the boiler room itself. So, several times a month (whenever my libido was too randy to ignore) I would grab a couple paper towels from the men’s room, stuff them in my pocket, and mosey down to the boiler room. Hidden behind the concrete wall I’d drop my pants and shorts and bring myself to orgasm. Usually while thinking about Tripp.
When I still lived alone, Tripp took me to a local movie-house for my first taste of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The theatre was small, the audience was sparse, but I loved the experience, and loved it even more for being shared with him. When the audience pulls off shirts and jackets to wave at the smoke on-screen, my heart skipped a beat to see Tripp remove his T-shirt. He kept himself, scrupulously I now think, or at least chastely, clothed around me. The brief glimpse of hairless, sculpted chest was intoxicating.
Tripp struck up a friendly acquaintance with a couple of girls that night, and we all stood chatting comfortably outside the theatre when the movie ended—until he took me aside and confided that they would come with us if we asked them. To my place. He all but begged me, and I refused. The thought of him in sexual congress that close to me was more unsettling to me than the notion of fucking the other girl. I didn’t want to end up participating in either event. It was one thing to “share” him with some young woman, but to be in the same room? Thanks a lot, but—no thanks.
He wasn’t angry, or even all that disappointed, though he pressed me fairly hard at the time. On the drive back to my place, he pumped me for my reaction to the movie, wanting me to share his enthusiasm. Didn’t I think Tim Curry was “sexy”? I did. But Tripp was sexier. And he was alive, beside me. Unattainable, but at least in the here and now, not several years, a few cameras and several thousand miles away.
I puzzled over that one. “Isn’t he sexy?” Was it the fish-net stockings? The half-feminine look and sound and expression? I didn’t think so. But I would never pin Tripp down on that one. But what was it that made him tell Michael, within minutes of meeting him, that he “might be bisexual”? That Michael wasn’t living with him, and pining for him, under the same roof? It was also the kind of thing that, in those days, served only to reinforce my own negativity about my physical self. Michael had made me feel unattractive, so I believed I was. (Typical of Michael, too, to repeat Tripp’s comments to me—sadist to my masochist. At least Tripp was never cruel.)
In hindsight, and with photographic evidence, I now understand that I looked as good then as I ever had, and better than I ever will again. When I see old photographs of myself at that age, my heart flutters slightly. Who is that cute kid? Aw, fuck—it’s me. Why didn’t someone tell me?
And now, in the meandering turns of memory, each remembered occurrence feeding off another, I recall how I posed Tripp for a photograph in my ratty old apartment. I had the sense of atmosphere in my head, although of course I had neither the photographic acumen nor the lighting equipment to realize it. But I saw him very specifically, and tried to make it real. First, I sat him at my small, cheap wooden table, my sporty cap on his head, a scarf around his neck. Then I gave him a hand of cards before carefully (and as slowly as I could manage without making him self-conscious or causing my own fingers to tremble) I unbuttoned his shirt and opened it, gently pulling the sides apart to reveal as much of his naked chest as possible. I can’t remember what I said to him about the look I wanted him to give the camera, but whatever it was, he got it. In the photograph he’s staring up, and his gaze is the living embodiment of the term “bedroom eyes.” They smolder, sensual and grave. It was all I could do not to sit myself on his lap.
I remember now, too, the night he asked to stretch out on my bed and nap. Was he sleeping, or only pretending to, when—after what I considered a decent interval to insure his slumber—I knelt by the side of the bed and, watching his back rise and fall with each breath and his incredibly shapely bottom curving up on my mattress, slid down my trousers and masturbated until I came? I have a feeling he knew very well what was going on, maybe even wanted it to happen, but he never said a word to acknowledge the event, and it’s sure as hell I didn’t either.
Looking back from this distance, I don’t entirely blame myself for what eventually happened, as I did at the time. I think he was complicit to some degree, even if it wasn’t wholly conscious on his part. Although never an overt or even covert sexual tease, I wonder now if some part of him didn’t enjoy being the object of my desire, and perhaps even illicitly (and wholly un-consciously) even encourage it.
I’m not going to recite my misdeeds with Tripp here. The catalogue is long, and some of it embarrasses me still. The long and the short of it is, I made him uncomfortable enough to leave. Reading over this account, it occurs to me that I may have given the impression that my feelings for Tripp were entirely, or perhaps largely, sexual. They weren't. Had it been merely a matter of physical attraction, I doubt I could have been so tormented by our friendship and our close proximity. It could have been treated as a kind of cosmic joke. But I wanted Tripp in every way it is possible to desire another human being; only love can make us behave so badly. But as that great Western philosopher Woody Allen once remarked, the heart wants what it wants.
A few years later, in a moment of rue and rather typical self-hatred, I wrote him a fairly long letter in care of his parents, apologizing for it all and wishing him well. That I never heard back didn’t altogether surprise me. Perhaps he never even received it.
I saw him again around 1990 or 1991. I was having dinner with a friend on her dinner break. She worked at a Waldenbooks in a local shopping mall, and she had just leant me enough money to put to rest a very expensive and extremely inconvenient bill from the IRS. I was giving her my undivided attention … when the doors to the mall opened and Tripp walked in.
He was dressed in business attire, which took me a bit aback; jeans, a T-shirt and an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt over that were his everyday attire when I’d known him. He caught my eye, smiled that sweet smile of his, and moved off to get himself some food.
I ached to go and speak to him, but I couldn’t. I felt I owed her my solicitude. It would be rude, wouldn’t it, to get up and talk to someone else? This is the way money affects me. If someone—parent, a friend, whomever—loans or gifts me emergency funds, I feel beholden in a very immediate and all-pervasive way. I just couldn’t excuse myself and go talk to Tripp—could I?
I never saw him again. Until last night. In Dreamsville, Baby.
I don’t know what prompted the dream. Probably a combination of things. As autumn chases summer’s dreams, my seasonal depression is taking hold, aided this year by the numerous jolts of the last couple of months. I’ve been wool-gathering after going to bed of late, and my anxiety takes in both the future, of which I am uncertain and scared, and he past, which is filled with regret. I was also loading some old files into a new PC last night, among them a couple of erotic fantasy stories I’d written about Tripp, so that may have contributed to the mix as well.
In my dream, he had agreed to a sort of sex-date with me. It wasn’t just fucking—I never wanted anyone I loved in that period of my life in only those terms—but was to be the initiation of our making love. Odd that we were planning it rather than allowing it to happen spontaneously, but that’s the way with dreams, isn’t it? They hold their own logic, of which logic knows nothing.
In the dream he told me it would be that night, when he got home. In the meanwhile, I was to prepare the music—in particular, I was instructed to listen to a specific cassette which he gave me. It had a hidden track of some kind (which, in typical dream-logic, was actually a second strip of tape in the cassette itself) that pertained directly to us.
I never heard what was on that tape, though in the dream I listened to it. I also, maddeningly, didn’t get to witness our union. It wasn’t so much “discrete fade-out” as it was never fade-in. The dream segued from my perusal of the tape to the two of us, the following day. We were walking and Tripp was talking to a third person whose identity is unclear to me. He was speaking almost as though I wasn’t there, and when asked about his opinion of whatever it was they were discussing, said “My girlfriend agrees with me, but my boyfriend doesn’t.”
In the dream I was flush with equal parts pleasure and amazement. Shock that he would admit a same-sex relationship to a third party, wild excitement that his “boyfriend” in question was me.
That was it. All of it. So little, to provoke so much. But old yearnings may, unlike old soldiers, not fade away so much as receded for a time, until resurrected by a look, a phrase, a melody, or a dream.
Of all my regrets, and have more than my share, Tripp has always been high on the list. Regret for my actions, rue for our never having been together as I so fervently desired, and a strong prickle of anxious sorrow for that last glimpse of him.
What would I have said? Does it matter? Does any of it? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Or: A dream is a Tripp your heart makes. Or something like that.
I dreamed of an old friend last night, someone I've not seen in, I would guess, 15 years. It was a sexual dream, and wasn't at the same time.
It’s a commonplace, I suppose, but time moves more swiftly as one ages. At least, it seems so to me. I suspect it’s because you’re so busy collecting knowledge and experience when you’re young, and settle into more of a routine in later life. The years of my childhood and adolescence seemed endless to me at times (though I imagine they were much briefer to my parents) and those from, say, 18 to 25 stretched out in a languid arc. It often seems to me I packed more into those six or seven years than I have in the nearly twenty since.
Events from my late teens and early 20s have a cast-iron quality. I loved more intensely, I think, and more frequently. God knows I experienced more acute and chronic emotional pain. Depression, my constant friend these many years, was raging on in me then, happy and undiagnosed. But even that has a stiller quality now, not nearly so unrestrained. But then no one is happier than an adolescent in the throes of emotional upheaval. It’s a romantic dream that holds on as long as possible.
When I was 20 or 21, I made friends with a co-worker who went by the nickname Tripp. (I want to say I was 21 and he was 19, but I couldn't swear to that. In any case, we were close contemporaries.) To be honest, he caught my appreciate eye the day he walked in the door. It was one of those happy/unhappy coincidences that the object of my affectionate gaze was also bright, smart, funny, open, and knowledgeable in many of the areas I cared—and care—deeply about.
Tripp was medium height, slender but with the broad shoulders, muscled thighs and well-defined upper body of a swimmer, which he'd been in high school. He wore his hair moderately long for the time, as I did myself—back when I had a lot of it to wear longish. He had thick, dark eyebrows and blond hair, the latter bleached. His face was one of the most guileless and open I’ve ever known. He had largish, rubbery lips—not Mick Jagger grotesque, more sensuous and kissable—and a somewhat piggish, upturned nose I thought of as cute as hell.
He also had a backside to die for. Christ, how I wanted to lay my head between those pillows! The whole package—and I mean his personality and kindness as well as his physique—was attractive enough, but that ass was frosting on a very tasty cake. (I remember one summer afternoon when he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and I commented on how damp it was. “I’ve got a sweaty butt,” he grinned, and all I could think was a bad paraphrase of Shakespeare: O, that I was a wallet upon that cheek …)
I couldn’t “read” people as well then as I have come to be able to subsequently: he was so open and sweet-natured, his smile so quick and genuine. The more I talked to him, the more frequently I saw him on the stock room floor, the more aware I was of how friendly feeling was quickly turning to infatuation. I sent him a note on afternoon, letting him know I was gay and hoping that wouldn’t interfere with our being friends. His answer was positive, although he noted that he’d “had a bad experience and, once bitten, twice shy …”
I asked Tripp about that later. He told me a slightly retarded neighbor kid had tried something with him when he was younger. Still, I kept wondering about him. One is never sure, when succumbing to feelings of love (which I was) whether the sensations one receives are real, or hoped-for. Tripp had been in a rock band (Another Roadside Attraction, named for the Tom Robbins book) with his best friend, and did once confess to me that he had some erotic feelings for him. Trying, in that well-meaning way a gay boy has of hoping to appear non-threatening, I invoked the “it could just be a phase” cliché. Idiot.
I spent a couple of Friday nights at his family’s house—he still lived with his parents—and tried to match Tripp blow-for-blow in beer drinking. To my great satisfaction, I never threw up during one of these binges, but I certainly tired out. One of my proudest moments was his awarding me a small gold medal he’d gotten for some swim meet in honor of my growing drink capacity. It bore the initials “FHST,” which he re-christened for me as “Fast as Hell Suds Taster.” I think I still have it, somewhere.
His bedroom had bunk-beds. He would lie on the top bunk and I would take the bottom. If I remember correctly, the assignments were by choice—I’m acrophobic, and none too steady after getting drunk. I’d fall asleep quickly, under the influence, but wake up early. While he slept I’d lie on my back, staring up at the top bunk, and imagine how it might feel to be up there with him. To wake with him beside me. To feel his warm, nearly hairless, silken flesh snuggled up against my own.
I’m aware that I’m going into more detail than is strictly necessary. But this is a part of my past I’ve never written about before, and Tripp has a small chamber of my heart even now. I’m collecting impressions, trying to get it all down before something slips way. Like the debt I owe his father, a conservative Republican, in making me defend my leftist positions through knowledge and intellectual acumen, not simply emotion and instinct. “Why do you feel like that?” or “What makes you think that?” were, as Tripp told me, his dad’s way of telling me I needed more information if I wanted to hold my own in a debate. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Now, if I have a gut feeling about something but no data to base it on, I try to keep my mouth shut until I know something about the subject. My own father never gave me that.
I’m also aware of how rambling, and possibly incoherent, these musings are. Which is the way with memory—it isn’t linear. One thought or memory causes one to recall another. Bear with me, please.
I’m reminded now of how he got his nickname. He had a younger cousin (if cousin it was—some relation, anyway) who, when he was a toddler, couldn’t say Tripp’s real name. Using one of the slang terms of the ‘70s—is it still in use? I’m not sure—someone had said in front of this child that my friend was “a trip.” The kid couldn’t pronounce _________ but he could say “Trip.” So, Tripp it was.
Since Tripp wanted to leave home, and my so-called “studio” apartment consisted of a dingy room with a kitchenette, bathroom, and cockroaches, we decided to put in together and located a two-bedroom in the suburbs. It was already a curious relationship, slightly masochistic on my part. I wanted him desperately, loved him deeply, and it would have made far more sense for me to keep a respectful distance. The last thing my pain required was working with Tripp and living in close quarters at the same time. But you can’t maintain a cool reserve, can you, when someone comes to mean something to you. My tendency throughout my adult life is to live in hope. I’m not sure why, since it’s never panned out, but it seems a part of my nature—a coping mechanism, maybe. I can live on a vague, unintentional hint the way a bear can survive hibernation on his own stored blubber.
I was largely passive in those days, and much too susceptible to the acts and opinions of others. My best friend (and on-again/off-again lover) had helped get me hooked on cigarettes, and Tripp influenced my future brand. I’d always smoked lights. He smoked light Menthols. While in the middle pf moving my stuff to our new apartment in a borrowed truck, I’d run out of Camels. He gave me his Merit Menthols to tide me over, and that was that. I used to switch brands in those days fairly regularly. Merits, then Benson & Hedges, then something else. I finally settled on Salem Ultra Lights. So the brand changed, but the Menthol stayed.
I should say that life with Tripp was hardly all Sturm und Drang, regardless of my thwarted desire. We continued to enjoy each other’s company, go to movies together, drive to other cities for late shows, discuss music and television and books. But there was an irresistible force and an immoveable object, and it made for an unspoken something, a tension, a frisson that lay between us like the elephant in the room no one will talk about. As long as I didn’t press it, we could pretend it wasn’t there.
Having this boy, for whom I burned so brightly, around made for some interesting contours. Instead of a bed, Tripp had a simple mattress on the floor of his bedroom, usually strewn with clothing. For the first—and so far, only—time in my life I became something of a furtive pantie-sniffer. Not, if memory serves, his actual undershorts, but the bikini-style briefs he wore when swimming. When they were lying around, discarded, on his mattress and Tripp was out, I would bring them to my face and inhale him, deeply—crotch and seat. Then I’d take off my trousers and slip on his briefs, get hard, and masturbate.
I jacked off in the oddest places in those days. Part of my job with the big office supply distributor for which I worked involved keeping inventories. Now and then I would take an inventory binder in hand and wander to the basement. (I had no stock there to count, but the basement personnel probably didn’t know that.) In my wanderings I had discovered the small, dark, dusty room where the boiler resided. You walked in, and next to the boiler was a concrete partition. If you crouched there, no one could see you, even if they were actually in the boiler room itself. So, several times a month (whenever my libido was too randy to ignore) I would grab a couple paper towels from the men’s room, stuff them in my pocket, and mosey down to the boiler room. Hidden behind the concrete wall I’d drop my pants and shorts and bring myself to orgasm. Usually while thinking about Tripp.
When I still lived alone, Tripp took me to a local movie-house for my first taste of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The theatre was small, the audience was sparse, but I loved the experience, and loved it even more for being shared with him. When the audience pulls off shirts and jackets to wave at the smoke on-screen, my heart skipped a beat to see Tripp remove his T-shirt. He kept himself, scrupulously I now think, or at least chastely, clothed around me. The brief glimpse of hairless, sculpted chest was intoxicating.
Tripp struck up a friendly acquaintance with a couple of girls that night, and we all stood chatting comfortably outside the theatre when the movie ended—until he took me aside and confided that they would come with us if we asked them. To my place. He all but begged me, and I refused. The thought of him in sexual congress that close to me was more unsettling to me than the notion of fucking the other girl. I didn’t want to end up participating in either event. It was one thing to “share” him with some young woman, but to be in the same room? Thanks a lot, but—no thanks.
He wasn’t angry, or even all that disappointed, though he pressed me fairly hard at the time. On the drive back to my place, he pumped me for my reaction to the movie, wanting me to share his enthusiasm. Didn’t I think Tim Curry was “sexy”? I did. But Tripp was sexier. And he was alive, beside me. Unattainable, but at least in the here and now, not several years, a few cameras and several thousand miles away.
I puzzled over that one. “Isn’t he sexy?” Was it the fish-net stockings? The half-feminine look and sound and expression? I didn’t think so. But I would never pin Tripp down on that one. But what was it that made him tell Michael, within minutes of meeting him, that he “might be bisexual”? That Michael wasn’t living with him, and pining for him, under the same roof? It was also the kind of thing that, in those days, served only to reinforce my own negativity about my physical self. Michael had made me feel unattractive, so I believed I was. (Typical of Michael, too, to repeat Tripp’s comments to me—sadist to my masochist. At least Tripp was never cruel.)
In hindsight, and with photographic evidence, I now understand that I looked as good then as I ever had, and better than I ever will again. When I see old photographs of myself at that age, my heart flutters slightly. Who is that cute kid? Aw, fuck—it’s me. Why didn’t someone tell me?
And now, in the meandering turns of memory, each remembered occurrence feeding off another, I recall how I posed Tripp for a photograph in my ratty old apartment. I had the sense of atmosphere in my head, although of course I had neither the photographic acumen nor the lighting equipment to realize it. But I saw him very specifically, and tried to make it real. First, I sat him at my small, cheap wooden table, my sporty cap on his head, a scarf around his neck. Then I gave him a hand of cards before carefully (and as slowly as I could manage without making him self-conscious or causing my own fingers to tremble) I unbuttoned his shirt and opened it, gently pulling the sides apart to reveal as much of his naked chest as possible. I can’t remember what I said to him about the look I wanted him to give the camera, but whatever it was, he got it. In the photograph he’s staring up, and his gaze is the living embodiment of the term “bedroom eyes.” They smolder, sensual and grave. It was all I could do not to sit myself on his lap.
I remember now, too, the night he asked to stretch out on my bed and nap. Was he sleeping, or only pretending to, when—after what I considered a decent interval to insure his slumber—I knelt by the side of the bed and, watching his back rise and fall with each breath and his incredibly shapely bottom curving up on my mattress, slid down my trousers and masturbated until I came? I have a feeling he knew very well what was going on, maybe even wanted it to happen, but he never said a word to acknowledge the event, and it’s sure as hell I didn’t either.
Looking back from this distance, I don’t entirely blame myself for what eventually happened, as I did at the time. I think he was complicit to some degree, even if it wasn’t wholly conscious on his part. Although never an overt or even covert sexual tease, I wonder now if some part of him didn’t enjoy being the object of my desire, and perhaps even illicitly (and wholly un-consciously) even encourage it.
I’m not going to recite my misdeeds with Tripp here. The catalogue is long, and some of it embarrasses me still. The long and the short of it is, I made him uncomfortable enough to leave. Reading over this account, it occurs to me that I may have given the impression that my feelings for Tripp were entirely, or perhaps largely, sexual. They weren't. Had it been merely a matter of physical attraction, I doubt I could have been so tormented by our friendship and our close proximity. It could have been treated as a kind of cosmic joke. But I wanted Tripp in every way it is possible to desire another human being; only love can make us behave so badly. But as that great Western philosopher Woody Allen once remarked, the heart wants what it wants.
A few years later, in a moment of rue and rather typical self-hatred, I wrote him a fairly long letter in care of his parents, apologizing for it all and wishing him well. That I never heard back didn’t altogether surprise me. Perhaps he never even received it.
I saw him again around 1990 or 1991. I was having dinner with a friend on her dinner break. She worked at a Waldenbooks in a local shopping mall, and she had just leant me enough money to put to rest a very expensive and extremely inconvenient bill from the IRS. I was giving her my undivided attention … when the doors to the mall opened and Tripp walked in.
He was dressed in business attire, which took me a bit aback; jeans, a T-shirt and an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt over that were his everyday attire when I’d known him. He caught my eye, smiled that sweet smile of his, and moved off to get himself some food.
I ached to go and speak to him, but I couldn’t. I felt I owed her my solicitude. It would be rude, wouldn’t it, to get up and talk to someone else? This is the way money affects me. If someone—parent, a friend, whomever—loans or gifts me emergency funds, I feel beholden in a very immediate and all-pervasive way. I just couldn’t excuse myself and go talk to Tripp—could I?
I never saw him again. Until last night. In Dreamsville, Baby.
I don’t know what prompted the dream. Probably a combination of things. As autumn chases summer’s dreams, my seasonal depression is taking hold, aided this year by the numerous jolts of the last couple of months. I’ve been wool-gathering after going to bed of late, and my anxiety takes in both the future, of which I am uncertain and scared, and he past, which is filled with regret. I was also loading some old files into a new PC last night, among them a couple of erotic fantasy stories I’d written about Tripp, so that may have contributed to the mix as well.
In my dream, he had agreed to a sort of sex-date with me. It wasn’t just fucking—I never wanted anyone I loved in that period of my life in only those terms—but was to be the initiation of our making love. Odd that we were planning it rather than allowing it to happen spontaneously, but that’s the way with dreams, isn’t it? They hold their own logic, of which logic knows nothing.
In the dream he told me it would be that night, when he got home. In the meanwhile, I was to prepare the music—in particular, I was instructed to listen to a specific cassette which he gave me. It had a hidden track of some kind (which, in typical dream-logic, was actually a second strip of tape in the cassette itself) that pertained directly to us.
I never heard what was on that tape, though in the dream I listened to it. I also, maddeningly, didn’t get to witness our union. It wasn’t so much “discrete fade-out” as it was never fade-in. The dream segued from my perusal of the tape to the two of us, the following day. We were walking and Tripp was talking to a third person whose identity is unclear to me. He was speaking almost as though I wasn’t there, and when asked about his opinion of whatever it was they were discussing, said “My girlfriend agrees with me, but my boyfriend doesn’t.”
In the dream I was flush with equal parts pleasure and amazement. Shock that he would admit a same-sex relationship to a third party, wild excitement that his “boyfriend” in question was me.
That was it. All of it. So little, to provoke so much. But old yearnings may, unlike old soldiers, not fade away so much as receded for a time, until resurrected by a look, a phrase, a melody, or a dream.
Of all my regrets, and have more than my share, Tripp has always been high on the list. Regret for my actions, rue for our never having been together as I so fervently desired, and a strong prickle of anxious sorrow for that last glimpse of him.
What would I have said? Does it matter? Does any of it? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Friday, October 28, 2005
My First Everything: Chapter 1, In Which I Get My Fingers Wet
About the Author: He is a forty-ish, single-ish, straight man. He wrote this article in return for a cam show.
Wendy Liebman was my sexual awakening, my first everything. Before I met her, I had kissed and French kissed and experienced a decent amount of outside-the-clothes breast touching. But for everything else, Wendy was the first. My first under-the-clothes feel, my first oral sex (given and received), and the recipient of my virginity. Pretty much all in the same week, too.
Not that I was Wendy’s first. Not by a long shot. Wendy was experienced. She went to a private girl’s school, the kind parents send their daughters to in order to prevent them from having sex. This was pretty funny, because Wendy and her private school chums were the most prodigiously promiscuous bunch I ever met. Wendy lost her virginity at the age of 13 in an empty classroom with a much older boy from a visiting school. Not only was I not her first, I'm not even sure I was in the top ten. This kind of stuff matters a lot less when you're 17.
We had known each other a while before we decided to make our relationship romantic. And, predictably, we moved pretty fast. There was no "getting to know you" politeness. Really very quickly into the kissing, licking, and fondling.
For our second "date," Wendy invited me over to her house late. She had been out to dinner with her parents, and was reasonably drunk. Wendy had the kind of parents who treated their teenage daughter like an adult. For them, that meant buying her cocktails at dinner, and not particularly caring who their daughter was messing around with. Each night, they disappeared upstairs to their bedroom, and were not seen again until the next morning. This gave us a lot of opportunities.
So that night, I was sitting with pretty-drunk Wendy Liebman at 11:00 PM, her parents safely ensconced in their Ivory Bedroom, and we, believe it or not, engage in the extremely sexy behavior of folding laundry. Not bra-and-panty laundry, either, but towels and t-shirts and stuff. And as unsexy as this activity would seem, when you are teenagers, this is the equivalent of eating oysters and dancing the Lambada. Before long, we were making out like Catholics at Bible Camp.
My hand moved under her shirt, and I felt no resistance. No reluctance or pretend "please-don't." This was new stuff. I had full access. I felt for the clasp of her bra, and fumbled, trying too hard. She giggle, undid the clasp, then put it in my hand so I could pull it apart. Then she kissed me.
My hand slipped under her bra and cupped her breast. My fingers went instinctively to her nipples, which felt hard and erect. Touching it caused her to recoil slightly, with a sharp intake of breath. She smelled vaguely of gin, and the alcohol gave her a relaxed, compliant nature.
My hand moved down and rubbed her pussy through her slacks. She pressed up against my hand automatically, hard. I could feel how warm she was. She reached down and undid the clasp of her slacks, but went no further. I obediently lowered her zipper revealing dark pink panties. I reached down between pants and panties and rubbed gently. It felt warm and moist and nice. I was overwhelmed with desire.
And suddenly, I felt things were going too fast. Like I was in over my head. I'd seen lots of pussies in Penthouse, but this was a real live one. Photos cannot convey the tactile sensation of fingers on a warm pussy. So I withdrew my fingers, zipped her back up, and looked at her for approval.
"You're not going to get very far that way!" she said, her words slightly slurred. She removed her slacks, grabbed my hand, and thrust it into her panties.
I was prepared for soft, I was prepared for warm, but what I wasn't prepared for was WET. I mean, really wet. Especially when you're not expecting it. I imagine we're all adults and we all comprehend the wet pussy phenomenon. But let me tell you, at 17, it was a revelation. With the gentlest push, my fingers slid into her vagina. Then her hand on the back of my hand, holding it inside her. Then pushing it in and drawing it out, gently fucking herself with my happy fingers.
A sharp intake of breath, a high, slightly muffled cry, and she came. Her back stiffened, her hand grasped my forearm, and I felt the walls of her pussy tighten around my fingers. I was frozen in time. Then, slowly, she relaxed; first back, then hand, then lastly, reluctantly, her vagina released my fingers, which slid gently out. She had the slightly stupid haze of a happy orgasmic drunk, as she squeezed my still-wet fingers and said just two words.
Thank you.
Wendy Liebman was my sexual awakening, my first everything. Before I met her, I had kissed and French kissed and experienced a decent amount of outside-the-clothes breast touching. But for everything else, Wendy was the first. My first under-the-clothes feel, my first oral sex (given and received), and the recipient of my virginity. Pretty much all in the same week, too.
Not that I was Wendy’s first. Not by a long shot. Wendy was experienced. She went to a private girl’s school, the kind parents send their daughters to in order to prevent them from having sex. This was pretty funny, because Wendy and her private school chums were the most prodigiously promiscuous bunch I ever met. Wendy lost her virginity at the age of 13 in an empty classroom with a much older boy from a visiting school. Not only was I not her first, I'm not even sure I was in the top ten. This kind of stuff matters a lot less when you're 17.
We had known each other a while before we decided to make our relationship romantic. And, predictably, we moved pretty fast. There was no "getting to know you" politeness. Really very quickly into the kissing, licking, and fondling.
For our second "date," Wendy invited me over to her house late. She had been out to dinner with her parents, and was reasonably drunk. Wendy had the kind of parents who treated their teenage daughter like an adult. For them, that meant buying her cocktails at dinner, and not particularly caring who their daughter was messing around with. Each night, they disappeared upstairs to their bedroom, and were not seen again until the next morning. This gave us a lot of opportunities.
So that night, I was sitting with pretty-drunk Wendy Liebman at 11:00 PM, her parents safely ensconced in their Ivory Bedroom, and we, believe it or not, engage in the extremely sexy behavior of folding laundry. Not bra-and-panty laundry, either, but towels and t-shirts and stuff. And as unsexy as this activity would seem, when you are teenagers, this is the equivalent of eating oysters and dancing the Lambada. Before long, we were making out like Catholics at Bible Camp.
My hand moved under her shirt, and I felt no resistance. No reluctance or pretend "please-don't." This was new stuff. I had full access. I felt for the clasp of her bra, and fumbled, trying too hard. She giggle, undid the clasp, then put it in my hand so I could pull it apart. Then she kissed me.
My hand slipped under her bra and cupped her breast. My fingers went instinctively to her nipples, which felt hard and erect. Touching it caused her to recoil slightly, with a sharp intake of breath. She smelled vaguely of gin, and the alcohol gave her a relaxed, compliant nature.
My hand moved down and rubbed her pussy through her slacks. She pressed up against my hand automatically, hard. I could feel how warm she was. She reached down and undid the clasp of her slacks, but went no further. I obediently lowered her zipper revealing dark pink panties. I reached down between pants and panties and rubbed gently. It felt warm and moist and nice. I was overwhelmed with desire.
And suddenly, I felt things were going too fast. Like I was in over my head. I'd seen lots of pussies in Penthouse, but this was a real live one. Photos cannot convey the tactile sensation of fingers on a warm pussy. So I withdrew my fingers, zipped her back up, and looked at her for approval.
"You're not going to get very far that way!" she said, her words slightly slurred. She removed her slacks, grabbed my hand, and thrust it into her panties.
I was prepared for soft, I was prepared for warm, but what I wasn't prepared for was WET. I mean, really wet. Especially when you're not expecting it. I imagine we're all adults and we all comprehend the wet pussy phenomenon. But let me tell you, at 17, it was a revelation. With the gentlest push, my fingers slid into her vagina. Then her hand on the back of my hand, holding it inside her. Then pushing it in and drawing it out, gently fucking herself with my happy fingers.
A sharp intake of breath, a high, slightly muffled cry, and she came. Her back stiffened, her hand grasped my forearm, and I felt the walls of her pussy tighten around my fingers. I was frozen in time. Then, slowly, she relaxed; first back, then hand, then lastly, reluctantly, her vagina released my fingers, which slid gently out. She had the slightly stupid haze of a happy orgasmic drunk, as she squeezed my still-wet fingers and said just two words.
Thank you.
Friday, October 21, 2005
sixty-three
About the Author: She is a twenty-something bisexual woman wading through her sexual encounters in an attempt to experience ecstacy in its purest form. Her blog is My Not-So-Secret Self.
I walked the aisles of home depot in search of rubber tubing, but in the end settled for black vinyl irrigation tubing. At a price of $8.19 cdn for 50 feet of tubing, it definitely fell into the cheap and affordable category. I originally got the idea from Red; she has a highly prized homemade flogger made of rubber tubing that I had been admiring recently. I hadn't expected a trip to home depot on this particular day, but as my mind wandered to my recent spankings, I found myself feeling the need to flex my crafty muscles so to speak.
The internet told me that an average flogger should have 15 to 25 tails each, which should be 15 to 22 inches long. I promptly cut the majority of the tubing to create 8 long pieces, which when folded would create sixteen 15" tails with a sizable handle to allow my honey the freedom to hold and maneuver the flogger as he chose. It took very little time to create this torture device, in fact I likely spent just as long shaping the vinyl--with the aid of hot water--to ensure that the tails were relatively straight.
When presented with his new toy, my honey was ecstatic and eager to try it out, however time was not with us and it would be a while until we would be able to test it out. We finally got the chance last weekend.
He instructed me to get dressed in something sexy and hurry back to him. When I returned he seated me on the ottoman in front of him and after the briefest of kisses he began to rub my breasts. He often tells me I have "perfect nipples" and spends nearly infinite amounts of time touching them.
However, that was not the plan this evening. He stopped his gentle caresses short and instead instructed me to remove my top and bend over the ottoman. He began my spanking with the koncis spatula.
Little did I know that when he switched to the vinyl flogger, my world would turn upside down. The flogger created a much deeper sensation than the sting of the koncis, it is closer to the belt, but somehow better. As the vinyl came down on my backside, I couldn't help but respond; especially when the tails landed on the soft flesh of either my inner or outer thigh. My body shook and quivered with each stroke, and I had more than a few. I recall he made me count as he gave me one stroke per year, and then immediately began again. I counted the second batch in my head, and although the strokes were varied I remember when he finally paused my lips parted and the word sixty-three slipped from my mouth. He was pleased that I had continued counting, and rewarded me with more strokes. Surprisingly, I can't remember how high the numbers went, but the word sixty-three is ingrained deep within my mind.
I walked the aisles of home depot in search of rubber tubing, but in the end settled for black vinyl irrigation tubing. At a price of $8.19 cdn for 50 feet of tubing, it definitely fell into the cheap and affordable category. I originally got the idea from Red; she has a highly prized homemade flogger made of rubber tubing that I had been admiring recently. I hadn't expected a trip to home depot on this particular day, but as my mind wandered to my recent spankings, I found myself feeling the need to flex my crafty muscles so to speak.
The internet told me that an average flogger should have 15 to 25 tails each, which should be 15 to 22 inches long. I promptly cut the majority of the tubing to create 8 long pieces, which when folded would create sixteen 15" tails with a sizable handle to allow my honey the freedom to hold and maneuver the flogger as he chose. It took very little time to create this torture device, in fact I likely spent just as long shaping the vinyl--with the aid of hot water--to ensure that the tails were relatively straight.
When presented with his new toy, my honey was ecstatic and eager to try it out, however time was not with us and it would be a while until we would be able to test it out. We finally got the chance last weekend.
He instructed me to get dressed in something sexy and hurry back to him. When I returned he seated me on the ottoman in front of him and after the briefest of kisses he began to rub my breasts. He often tells me I have "perfect nipples" and spends nearly infinite amounts of time touching them.
However, that was not the plan this evening. He stopped his gentle caresses short and instead instructed me to remove my top and bend over the ottoman. He began my spanking with the koncis spatula.
Little did I know that when he switched to the vinyl flogger, my world would turn upside down. The flogger created a much deeper sensation than the sting of the koncis, it is closer to the belt, but somehow better. As the vinyl came down on my backside, I couldn't help but respond; especially when the tails landed on the soft flesh of either my inner or outer thigh. My body shook and quivered with each stroke, and I had more than a few. I recall he made me count as he gave me one stroke per year, and then immediately began again. I counted the second batch in my head, and although the strokes were varied I remember when he finally paused my lips parted and the word sixty-three slipped from my mouth. He was pleased that I had continued counting, and rewarded me with more strokes. Surprisingly, I can't remember how high the numbers went, but the word sixty-three is ingrained deep within my mind.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
How to Make a Professional (Amateur) Porn Film #1 - Planning
About the Author: (From his blog) Sam Sugar started his career as a journalist and copywriter. He quickly moved into magazine publishing, where he was part of the team that launched Maxim magazine.
His first venture in the adult world was with Danni.com, where he directed efforts in Business Development, Marketing and PR. During this time he learned about the adult industry from the inside out. Figuratively speaking of course, he was always scrupulously professional.
He went on to devise and launch the adult industry's first business-to-consumer auction site, forged links between mainstream companies and the adult industry and brokered some of the first deals to offer adult content by phone in Japan and Europe.
Sugar is a popular adult industry speaker and pundit. He has been 'that English guy' in countless documentaries, films, articles and features about the adult industry, including work with The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Guardian, The BBC, HBO, PBS, CBS, NBC, ABC, E! and many others.
This is the first in a series of instructional articles about making your own porn. Please visit SugarBank for Part 2: Gear, Part 3: Casting, Part 4: Budget, and Part 5: Location.
MAKING A PORN MOVIE with the intention of selling it requires more than a camcorder, Paris Hilton’s phone number and limitless supplies of gak (also known as snow, blow or charlie - only joking, drugs are for fools kids. Just. Say. No.)
That’s not to say making porn is difficult – a fact more obvious when you’ve spoken to a couple of porn’s more successful auteurs – but if you don’t plan before you start, you’ll have more than disappearing erections, PCR-DNA tests and sand in the AstroGlide to worry about.
• You don’t need a plot, and a poorly thought out plot is worse than none at all (e.g. the Da Vinci code hinges on hidden meaning in the words ‘Mona Lisa’, despite Leonardo’s painting not being called that until hundreds of years after his death, making a hidden meaning impossible. Sloppy Mr. Brown, sloppy.) What you do need is an idea - something to make your epic stand out from the five thousand other fuck-clicks currently in production. Don’t start without one – it’ll probably be your title e.g. ‘Pimp My Bride’ – see, it’s easy.
• Shoot what you know. It’s not smart to attempt things on camera you aren’t familiar with. Kink and fetish themes are particularly dangerous – there are few groups of people as frightening, or unforgiving, as angry geeks with hard-ons.
• Make a shot list. Imagine the whole movie in your head and write a list of everything you need to film. This will become your shot list, and by the time you’ve crossed off every item on it, you’ll be able to start editing without discovering you’re missing a crucial sperm juggling sequence.
Sam’s Swollen Tip: Do your homework. Look at what’s selling and note how many performers and scenes movies like yours contain, how long they run, and the kind of shots they use. If you want a movie that’ll sell, you have to know what’s going on in a very active market. Even breaking the rules means knowing them to start with.
His first venture in the adult world was with Danni.com, where he directed efforts in Business Development, Marketing and PR. During this time he learned about the adult industry from the inside out. Figuratively speaking of course, he was always scrupulously professional.
He went on to devise and launch the adult industry's first business-to-consumer auction site, forged links between mainstream companies and the adult industry and brokered some of the first deals to offer adult content by phone in Japan and Europe.
Sugar is a popular adult industry speaker and pundit. He has been 'that English guy' in countless documentaries, films, articles and features about the adult industry, including work with The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Guardian, The BBC, HBO, PBS, CBS, NBC, ABC, E! and many others.
This is the first in a series of instructional articles about making your own porn. Please visit SugarBank for Part 2: Gear, Part 3: Casting, Part 4: Budget, and Part 5: Location.
MAKING A PORN MOVIE with the intention of selling it requires more than a camcorder, Paris Hilton’s phone number and limitless supplies of gak (also known as snow, blow or charlie - only joking, drugs are for fools kids. Just. Say. No.)
That’s not to say making porn is difficult – a fact more obvious when you’ve spoken to a couple of porn’s more successful auteurs – but if you don’t plan before you start, you’ll have more than disappearing erections, PCR-DNA tests and sand in the AstroGlide to worry about.
• You don’t need a plot, and a poorly thought out plot is worse than none at all (e.g. the Da Vinci code hinges on hidden meaning in the words ‘Mona Lisa’, despite Leonardo’s painting not being called that until hundreds of years after his death, making a hidden meaning impossible. Sloppy Mr. Brown, sloppy.) What you do need is an idea - something to make your epic stand out from the five thousand other fuck-clicks currently in production. Don’t start without one – it’ll probably be your title e.g. ‘Pimp My Bride’ – see, it’s easy.
• Shoot what you know. It’s not smart to attempt things on camera you aren’t familiar with. Kink and fetish themes are particularly dangerous – there are few groups of people as frightening, or unforgiving, as angry geeks with hard-ons.
• Make a shot list. Imagine the whole movie in your head and write a list of everything you need to film. This will become your shot list, and by the time you’ve crossed off every item on it, you’ll be able to start editing without discovering you’re missing a crucial sperm juggling sequence.
Sam’s Swollen Tip: Do your homework. Look at what’s selling and note how many performers and scenes movies like yours contain, how long they run, and the kind of shots they use. If you want a movie that’ll sell, you have to know what’s going on in a very active market. Even breaking the rules means knowing them to start with.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
My First Experience with a Trannie
About the Author: He is a young at heart, 50-year-old man. He bisexual, and can be either sub or dom. He lives with his partner and kids in Glasgow, Scotland. His blog is My Spanking Thoughts.
I'd been communicating with this person for a few months. I suddenly got the opportunity for some fun. She was away for the night.
I phoned up Suzie the schoolgirl and told her to come around for a good spanking. She agreed but never turned up.
I called her back and she said she got lost but that she would return. Twenty minutes later he was standing outside my door.
I showed him into the bathroom where he became she. I had lent her a wig and large shoes. She was told to report to the study and soon I heard a knock on the door. There was Suzie.
I looked her up and down, white shirt, plus short skirt and white socks with long red hair. I could see a big bulge under her skirt. I made her do a twirl and lift up the skirt. A big hard-on was poking out!
I put her over my knee and gave her a spanking to warm up. Soon she was down on her knees giving me a blow job.
She showed me the contents of her handbag - a condom, which I DIDN'T USE, and a wicked looking hand shaped paddle which I used to devastating effect.
I then asked her if she would like to spank master.
She put me over her knee and made my bottom hot. She then used the paddle and boy, did it hurt.
After this we went up to the bed where we both hungrily sucked each other off.
He soon exploded in my mouth.
This was the first time I had tasted spunk. I rushed to the bathroom and spat it out. It had a strange taste!
All in all a good night!
I'd been communicating with this person for a few months. I suddenly got the opportunity for some fun. She was away for the night.
I phoned up Suzie the schoolgirl and told her to come around for a good spanking. She agreed but never turned up.
I called her back and she said she got lost but that she would return. Twenty minutes later he was standing outside my door.
I showed him into the bathroom where he became she. I had lent her a wig and large shoes. She was told to report to the study and soon I heard a knock on the door. There was Suzie.
I looked her up and down, white shirt, plus short skirt and white socks with long red hair. I could see a big bulge under her skirt. I made her do a twirl and lift up the skirt. A big hard-on was poking out!
I put her over my knee and gave her a spanking to warm up. Soon she was down on her knees giving me a blow job.
She showed me the contents of her handbag - a condom, which I DIDN'T USE, and a wicked looking hand shaped paddle which I used to devastating effect.
I then asked her if she would like to spank master.
She put me over her knee and made my bottom hot. She then used the paddle and boy, did it hurt.
After this we went up to the bed where we both hungrily sucked each other off.
He soon exploded in my mouth.
This was the first time I had tasted spunk. I rushed to the bathroom and spat it out. It had a strange taste!
All in all a good night!
Monday, October 17, 2005
From the Private Booth Mailbag
Documentary TV production company seeks women of all sexual orientations [queer/straight, single/in relationship(s)] to be featured in the second season of Private Parties on The Documentary Channel. The show follows people on their sexual adventures and we would like to talk to women who have interesting sexual lives outside of the "norm" who would like to share their stories. If you are interested, please e-mail and we can discuss further. Thanks!
rachel@8storey.com
rachel@8storey.com
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