----



"I feel like part of the vanishing breed that thinks a writer should be read and not heard, let alone seen. I think this is because there seems so often today to be a tendency to put the person in the place of his or her work, to turn the creative artist into a performing one, to find what a writer says about writing somehow more valid, or more real, than the writing itself."

--from his acceptance speech for the National Book Award in Fiction for J R , April 1976



Aside from a couple interjections all of this information was copied from williamgaddis.org and themordernword.com. I just hope that publishing these summaries on The Dennis Cooper blog will hip at least one or two more people to the genius that is Gaddis. If you equate "difficult" books with pretentiousness he is definitely not the one for you, but if you enjoy a challenge that really gets those synapses firing, Gaddis is the man. –winter rates


The Recognitions – 1955




Though neglected for many years, this monumental, eclectic, and intertextually dense masterpiece is now regarded as one of the foundation stones upon which American literary postmodernism is built. With its unrelentingly mordant ironies and overt reflexiveness, The Recognitions presages both "black humour fiction" and the "self-conscious novel." More than this, the very difficulty and abstruseness of the text, the myriad allusions and symbolism as well as the refusal to identify speakers or explicate and contextualise dialogue and plot details, ensure that the experience of reading the novel is often as maddening an ordeal as the trials which are endured by many of its characters as they too seek in vain to claim or recapture some artistic essence, the ever-elusive materia prima. Inserting himself into the novel (and his subsequent works) in various guises, both Gaddis and his reader are caught firmly within its satiric purview; acerbic, contemptuous, angry, one of the author's primary recognitions is that his own "original" text, no matter how widely received, will reach only "a very small audience". -Rob Jackson
(more)


Gaddis's first novel takes the form of a quest. In a carefully wrought and densely-woven series of plots involving upwards of fifty characters across three continents, we follow the adventures of Wyatt Gwyon, son of a clergyman who rejects the ministry in favor of the call of the artist. His quest is to make sense of contemporary reality, to find significance and some form of order in the world. Through the pursuit of art he hopes to find truth. His initial "failure" as an artist leads him not to copy but to paint in the style of the past masters, those who had found in their own time and in their own style the kind of order and beauty for which Wyatt is looking. His talent for forgery is exploited by a group of unscrupulous art critics and businessmen who hope to profit by passing his works off as original old masters. As the novel develops, these art forgeries become a profound metaphor for all kinds of other frauds, counterfeits and fakery: the aesthetic, scientific, religious, sexual and personal. Towards the end, Wyatt wrenches something authentic from what Eliot called "the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history." The nature of his revelation, however is highly ambiguous and is hedged about by images of madness and hallucination, which disturbs simple distinctions between real and authentic, between faiths and fakes.
(more from williamgaddis.org)


Time Magazine Review from 1955

It is almost impossible to ignore a novelist who produces 956 closely printed pages. William Gaddis, a 33-year-old New Yorker who has never published a book before, rates attention for other reasons as well. He has written this novel from that dark night of the soul where, as F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, "it is always three o'clock in the morning." To the small army of "beat generation" characters in The Recognitions, dawn never comes.

As Author Gaddis sees it, the 20th century U.S. is a soggy butt end of western civilization, an age of publicity and duplicity in which the phonies have inherited the earth. Pronouncing a scarcely original, but nevertheless grandiose, anathema, he finds everyone corroded through the decline of love and the absence of Christian faith. Rangy in setting ( New England, Greenwich Village, Paris, Spain, Italy, Central America), aswim in erudition, semi-Joycean in language, glacial in pace, irritatingly opaque in plot and character, The Recognitions is one of those eruptions of personal vision that will be argued about without being argued away. U.S. novel writing has a strikingly fresh talent to watch, if not to cheer.
(more)


from Fire The Bastards! by Jack Green

william gaddis's the recognitions was published in 1955 its a great
novel, as much the novel of our generation as ulysses was of its it
only sold a few thousand copies because the critics did a lousy job—
—2 critics boasted they didnt finish the book
—one critic made 7 boners others got wrong the number of
pages, year, price, publisher, author, & title
—& other incredible boners like mistaking a diabetic for a narcotics
addict
—one critic stole part of his review from the blurb, part from
another review
—one critic called the book "disgusting""evil""foul-mouthed,"
needs "to have its mouth washed out with lye soap" others
were contemptuous or condescending
—2 of 55 reviews were adequate the others were amateurish
& incompetent
failing to recognize the greatness of the book
failing to convey to the reader what the book is like, what its
essential qualities are
counterfeiting this with stereotyped preconceptions—the
standard cliches about a book that is "ambitious,""erudite,"
"long,""negative," etc
counterfeiting competence with inhuman jargon
—constructive suggestion: fire the bastards!

(more)


Five years or so ago my wife met a new co-worker, and in the course of her introductory conversation she mentioned I was a writer. When asked who my favorite authors were she replied "Pynchon, Joyce, and Vollmann among others."
---"Has he read William Gaddis?" asked this sage, "he has to read The Recognitions."
---The co-worker disappeared shortly after as if he was a messenger from the literary gods.

My wife got me a copy and I read it six months later. I can remember the camping trip I took where I read the first page and immediately knew Gaddis was a genius. When I read the last page I was stunned. This was my new favorite book. Its encyclopedic scope begs for countless rereads. I cannot wait to attack it again. – winter rates.

Buy it


JR – 1975




Twenty years after his first novel, and after twenty years of working for the government and big business, Gaddis produced his highly acclaimed second; the prize-winning J R, another huge book of 726 pages containing very little except dialogue. A number of critics have said that this is the novel which comes closest to catching the varieties of spoken American English, while another has called it "the greatest satirical novel in American literature". The first line of the novel gives us its theme: "- Money...?". J R is a satire on corporate America and tells the story of the eleven-year-old schoolboy JR Vansant who builds an enormous economic empire from his school's public phone booth, an empire that touches everyone in the novel, just as money - the getting of it, worry about the lack of it, the desire for it - shapes a great deal of the characters' waking and dreaming lives. Through conversations, letters and telephone calls, we come to understand what Marx called "the distorting power of money", how all value under capitalism is transformed into economic value. The novel lays before us in immense detail, in the very grain of the human voice, the alienation that is part and parcel of a world in which our innermost feelings have been commodified and where money has become fetishized; rather than it being simply a medium of exchange, a means to an end, money has become an object of desire for its own sake, an outward sign of success and power. The novel draws on a huge range of social and economic thinkers from Marx, a phrase of whose hangs over the entrance to JR's school, to Max Weber, George Simmel and George Bernard Shaw, whose interpretation of Wagner's Ring as an allegory of the rise of capitalism is central to J R.
(more)


In style, J R retains the frenetic allusiveness and self-deprecatingly ironic mood of The Recognitions, but the text is even more uncompromising in its repudiation of conventional fictional modes. Composed almost exclusively as unmediated dialogue, wherein incessant interruptions and the doltish obstinacy of the characters mean that their conversations invariably proceed at cross purposes, the novel bombards the reader at every pass with its outright refusal to conform to any expectation of what a literary narrative should be. The farcical plot, intricate in its design even so, recalls one to the fable of "The Emperor's New Clothes" in exposing the capitalist hegemony as an unmitigatedly corrupt and pathetic sham cloaked by language itself – communication – which is revealed and exemplified simultaneously as the most corrupted and pathetic sham of all. Like Milo Minderbinder in Joseph Heller's Catch-22 and Wagner's dwarf Alberich, the neglected waif-turned-business mogul J R is a personification of corrupted innocence, of the capitalist ethic run amok, an iconic representation of the routinization of greed in Western industrial society.

J Rreceived the 1976 National Book Award. – Rob Jackson
(more)


I read J R a couple of years ago and it was quite the challenge. 95% of the book comes in the form of unattributed dialog, as in he never bothers with "said Bob" etc.

(excerpt)

--------- It's worked so far but it can't work forever, sooner or later somebody will show up who reads Greek. Then where are we?
– Up the creek, Miss Flesch obliged with a promptness that lost her some coffee down her chin, like the smut mail.
– There's an issue. The smut mail rise.
– My boy sent off for a ball glove and what he got back in the mail was. . . .
– Mouthpiece puller, sleigh bells, strobotuner, choir risers, tympanies, marching bell and stand, two thousand five hundred and... what's all that for?
– Breakage. Here, replacing glass, repairing doors, painting, refinishing and so forth, thirty-three thousand two eighty-five. Thirty-three thousand dollars for breakage, isn't that what we're really talking about? Plain unvarnished vandalism? And another fourteen thousand plus item down here, repairs and replacement, chairs, desks, project tables, pianos, same thing isn't it? Breakage. . . ?


Gaddis first experimented with this style during some outrageous cocktail party scenes in The Recognitions. The only bits of non-dialogue occur between scene transitions. These are made of very abstract and highly poeticized prose. Once you familiarize yourself with the characters the going gets relatively easier. It is a very rewarding read and thematically I'd say it is even more relevant now than when it was published in 1976. –winter rates

Buy it


Carpenter's Gothic – 1985




Heiress Liz Booth is trapped inside an unfulfilling marriage and the few furnished rooms of a dilapidated "carpenter gothic" house in a swank but out-of-the-way New York suburb. Meek, self-deluded, and agoraphobic, she spends her days fielding barely-comprehensible messages and trying to placate the three men in her life: her husband, Paul, a Vietnam veteran and wannabe entrepreneur; her younger brother Billy, impressionable and shiftless; and McCandless, a geologist and writer who once sold out to the CIA, and the owner of the house she and Paul are renting. The more Liz tries to intervene and make sense of all the confusion and deceit which plagues their travails, revolving around a crusading Christian televangelist named the Reverend Elton Ude, a geological survey, mining lease and political upheaval in East Africa, and looming Armageddon, the more the shady dealings and destinies of the men she cares for become irredeemably entangled. - Rob Jackson
(more)


Fakery and Stony Truths
New York Times
July 7, 1985
by Cynthia Ozick

THIS is William Gaddis's third work of fiction in 30 years. That sounds like a sparse stream, and misrepresents absolutely. Mr. Gaddis is a deluge. The Recognitions, his first novel, published in 1955, matches in plain bulk four or five ordinary contemporary novels. His second, J R, a burlesquing supplementary footnote appearing two decades later, is easily equivalent to another three or four. For those whom tonnage has kept away, Carpenter's Gothic - a short novel, but as mazily and mercilessly adroit as the others - should disclose Mr. Gaddis's terrifying artfulness once and for all. Carpenter's Gothic may be Gaddis-in-little, but it is Gaddis to the brim. With fewer publications so far than he can count on one hand, Mr. Gaddis has not been "prolific" (that spendthrift coin); instead he has been prodigious, gargantuan, exhaustive, subsuming fates and conditions under a hungry logic. His two huge early novels are great vaults or storehouses of crafty encyclopedic scandal - omniscience thrown into the hottest furnaces of metaphor. Mr. Gaddis knows almost everything: not only how the world works - the pragmatic cynical business-machine that we call worldliness - but also how myth flies into being out of the primeval clouds of art and death and money.
(more)

Apparently Gaddis found the all-dialog style of J R worked for him and he uses it again in Carpenter's Gothic. (and A Frolic of His Own as well, but I haven't read that one yet, just flipped through it.) This time he limits his number of characters and contains all the action in one house over a short period of time. Like a play, all we have are the words his characters say. There is no narrator telling us what is going on inside their heads. But unlike a play this is ALL we have. Even a radio drama provides us with the actor's interpretation of the dialog, and a written play tells us plainly who said what. Again, though published in 1985 the themes remain utterly relevant twenty years later. Like his first two books it is also laugh-out-loud hilarious in parts. –winter rates.

Buy it


A Frolic Of His Own




Similar to J R, Gaddis's last novel announces its theme with its first word, but then develops it in the rest of its first line: "Justice? - you get justice in the next world, in this world, you have the law." The novel follows a series of litigations through the courts and it is the discrepancy between the ideal of justice and the reality of the law that is Gaddis's subject. For Gaddis, the theory of justice is a beautiful, ordered system we have constructed to ward off or minimize the chaos and contingency of existence. The practice of law however, is for him "a carnival of disorder", a self-sustaining system of legalese and a conspiracy against the people run for the benefit of a self-serving legal profession. The law is finally "about itself." As one character puts it, "Words, words, words. That's what it's all about." On the one hand, the law is an attempt to establish a constant principle in the face of social differences, the principle of justice. On the other hand, the operation of the law can be used by the rich and powerful to subvert these very principles.
(more)


Oscar Crease, yet another of Gaddis's fictional alter egos, is a former community college history teacher and failed playwright who lives alone and ostracized amongst the clutter and gradual collapse of the family mansion on Long Island. Incapacitated in a bizarre mishap with his car and only just released from hospital, he is tended to by his step-sister, Christina, brother-in-law Harry, and Lily, his much younger mistress. Despite their solicitations and advice Oscar embarks on a spree of outrageous litigations, eventually suing himself for injuries sustained in the accident while also lodging a claim and injunction against a major Hollywood movie director for plagiarizing from his unproduced Civil War melodrama. Meanwhile, Oscar's father, a Federal judge and eminent nonagenarian, is presiding over a series of increasingly ridiculous court cases in the Deep South concerning an enormous steel sculpture, a dead dog, a drowned boy, and Judge Crease's attempts "to rescue the language," all of which erupts into a national cause célèbre and steals Oscar's limelight yet again.

Incorporating several long excerpts from the script of Gaddis' own unpublished play "Once at Antietam," along with wickedly-accurate travesties of legal judgments and depositions and his trademark dialogue, allusiveness, and sense of the absurd, justice is a travesty in this scathing indictment of the culture of litigiousness, the third and final installment in Gaddis' satire of modern-day America.

A Frolic of His Own received the National Book Award in 1995. –Rob Jackson

Buy it


Agapē Agape




The book is an extraordinary work of fiction by any standards: it is particularly fascinating to anyone with a serious interest in player and reproducing pianos for the way in which it puts them at the heart of debates about modern culture. Gaddis was clearly extremely well-informed about many aspects of these instruments, particularly the technical, so it is a great pity that he entirely failed to understand the potential of the Pianola as a musical instrument of considerable subtlety. Of course he was right that it is quite possible to 'just keep pumping' but anyone who knows what the instrument is capable of will feel that his arguments, scintillating as they are, are undermined by the real potential of the instrument he so maligned. - Claire L'Enfant
(more)


Bedridden and dying writer meditates on the significance of his life and his life's work as he tries vainly to draw together his thoughts and papers into some ultimate coherency. Composed as a dramatic monologue, many of the themes and concerns from Gaddis's major works are reprised in this posthumously-published novella. –Rob Jackson
(more)

Buy it





There are loads and loads of great links to interviews, essays, etc. at the Gaddis Annotations Site
----




*

p.s. Hey. Winter Rates, better known around here in the current day as writer and d.l. L@rstonovich, put together this fantastic look at the stuff of William Gaddis some seven-plus years ago. High time for a revival, and, so, there it is up there. Enjoy it as heavily as you like and can. Hope everybody reading this is doing great.

----















Alive:'In 1956 CBS and the Los Angeles Turf Club (Santa Anita) acquired the lease on the Ocean Park Pier and they proposed to build a $10,000,000 nautical theme park to compete with Disneyland. They closed the pier after Labor Day, hired the best amusement park designers and Hollywood special effects experts and began to design innovative new attractions for the theme park. More than 80 special effects men, scenic designers and artists worked for more than a year on the project.

'The 28 acre park was decorated throughout in a sea-green and white art moderne look. Its entrance set amidst fountains, sculptures and large sea horse and clam shell decorated frieze, set the mood for the wonders within. The ticket booth in Neptune's Courtyard was set under a six legged concrete starfish canopy. Plastic bubbles and sea horses adorned its top. All day admission was ninety cents for adults; less for children. This included access to the park, Neptune's Kingdom, the Sea Circus and the Westinghouse Enchanted Forest exhibit. Other rides and attractions were at additional costs.

'Opening day on Saturday July 28, 1958 drew 20,000 curious people and dozens of Hollywood celebrities. Sunday's 37,262 paying customers brought traffic jams to the area. During the first six days it out performed Disneyland in attracting customers.

'Visitors entered the park through Neptune's Kingdom where they descended in a submarine elevator to the oceanic corridors below. Across from the elevator was an enormous sea tank where it appeared a shark and its prey shared the same tank. Beyond and covering one entire wall was a large diorama filled with creatures that couldn't live in captivity. Motorized artificial turtles, manta rays, sawfish and sharks glided by over coral reefs and hanging seaweed.

'The 1964 season was the most successful; 1,663,013 visitors. But in 1965 Santa Monica began its Ocean Park urban renewal project. There was wholesale demolition of nearby buildings and closing of streets leading to the park. The entire area was chaos while they built two large apartment towers nearby. In short, visitors couldn't reach the park and attendance plummeted to 621,000 in 1965 and 398,700 in 1966.

'Finally at the end of the 1967 season, P.O.P.'s creditors took action and forced the park into involuntary bankruptcy. Santa Monica precipitated the action when they filed suit to take control of the property because Roberts owed them $17,000 in back rent since 1965. The park closed on October 6, 1967.

'The park's assets were auctioned off on June 28, 1968 and ran through June 30th. The proceeds from the sale of 36 rides and sixteen games were used to pay off creditors. The park's dilapidated buildings and pier structure remained until several fires and the final demolition in the winter of 1973-74 removed it from all but people's fond memories.'-- Jeffrey Stanton, Venice of America - Coney Island of the Pacific


* An illustrated map of P.O.P.
* Wikipedia's P.O.P. entry




____________



Early peak:This is a three minute video shot at P.O.P. during its early, successful years. It comes from a 1959 documentary called 'From the Mountains to the Sea.'




____________




Necrophilia: After P.O.P. closed on October 6, 1967, it sat in ruins for several years. While the abandoned park was still relatively pristene, it was used constantly as a location for films and television shows. As it decayed, it became a popular spot for scavengers and adventure seekers like my friends and I, who found the disheveled, collapsing park a great place to do drugs and hang out. One aficionado of the dead amusement park made a rather thorough photographic document of the place at that stage of its existence, and has created a site called RIP: POP that holds his archives, stories, and message boards for fellow fetishists.




____________




Cremation: In 1970, the abandoned Pacific Ocean Park pier burned in a spectacular night fire. About half the pier (the outer end) was consumed in the arson fire. Transients living beneath the structure set nearly 70 additional fires from 1970 until it was finally demolished completely in 1974.



____________




Grave Robbers: If you saw the documentary Dogtown and the Z Boys, you'll remember the scene where the barren ruins of P.O.P. struck the local surfers as the perfect spot to do their thing. This site memorializes P.O.P.'s post-death charms and the surfing scene that formed around it.




____________




Eternal:'Here in a virtual world you can once again visit "Pacific Ocean Park" of Santa Monica California, one of Southern California's former jewels. So hop aboard one of the parking lot trams and lets visit P.O.P. together once again and have fun in the year 1967 before it closes down for good.'



____________




Ghost:Google maps shows you the exact spot where P.O.P. stood.
----



*

p.s. Hey. P.O.P. was the first amusement park I ever went to when I was something like 6 years-old, and it started my lifelong relationship with the amusement park as muse and notion of utopia. R.I.P.

----



Seeing as how 'Downtown (New York) Writing' has recently been celebrated and studied in big, fat books by Brandon Stosuy and Marvin Taylor, I thought I'd draw attention to one of the most extraordinary and undervalued novels to come out of that scene. At the time Negrophobia was published in 1992, Darius James was best known for his controversial 'Ask Dr. Snakeskin' column in Penthouse magazine as well as for some stories he'd published in the East Village lit. zines like Between C&D, et. al. His ferocious, wacky fiction, whose acknowledged precedents include the great early novels of Ishmael Reed (Mumbo Jumbo,The Freelance Pallbearers), as well as much that is non-literary -- Ralph Bashki's long banned animation feature 'Coonskin,' free jazz, Richard Pryor -- was well known to local friends and colleagues like Kathy Acker, Lynne Tillman, Patrick McGrath, Gary Indiana, and others, including myself. I think we all just assumed that when Negrophobia carried his work beyond Manhattan, Darius was going to be a star, an avant-garde superhero writer a la Burroughs and Acker. But his raucous style and subversive mode of confronting racist attitudes by embracing racist stereotypes were frequently misunderstood at the time, and his work was even denounced as racist itself by certain prominent Black activists. Despite the hubbub and some great reviews, the novel was not a big success. It accrued the requisite cult following then went gradually out of print. Darius didn't help his own cause by being one of the least prolific fiction writers imaginable. He has yet to publish another book of fiction, and his only subsequent book was an uneven but occasionally stunning nonfiction book about the history of blaxploitation films which is noted below. Still, Darius may be a slowpoke, but he's one of he most gifted contemporary American fiction writers in my opinion, and Negrophobia is a singular mindblower of a novel that I think you should do yourself the favor of reading.


_________
Description

'Negrophobia (St. Martins Press, 1992) is written in the form of a screenplay, but no movie version of it exists so far. (There had been discussions about an animated movie version, and a live theatrical production has been long in the works.) The novel becomes a big screen on which Darius James projects reality and fiction, consciousness and sub-consciousness, dreams and fears of not just an American, but a whole western society where racism is in people's conscience. The book is actually a journey inside this racism.
----'All the characters in this book are cartoon–like. James has created a pyramid of racist stereotypes with supernatural powers. Negrophobia describes the strange and hallucinating adventures of a white, drug-addled teenage girl called Bubbles Brazil, and she has all the typical racial stereotypes of African-American people in her head. She lives in Manhattan’s Upper East Side, is a rich girl who hates going to school with "jigaboos" since they’ve turned the high school hallways into a mad spectacle of sex, drugs and violence.
----'Bubbles finds herself transported into a nightmare dreamscape, and she is taken there through the voodoo of a demonic Aunt Jemima called "the Maid". This Voodoo spell throws Bubbles in a parallel world of grotesque visions of racism. She now experiences racism on her own, and suddenly every racial stereotype about black people comes to life.
----'Along the way she meets "a Negro cyborg", Uncle H. Rap Remus (who rapes little children), Malcolm X, she gets beaten up by a group of Ninja-Queens in her schools bathroom, meets a bunch of cartoon savages with grass skirts, who dream of social welfare, crackhead homeboys fantasizing about Spike Lee, a zombie Elvis, and Walt Disney, who wants to take over America and establish a Gestapo state.'-- from the Negrophobia website


___________
Short excerpt:

Bubbles (v.o.):

My high school was overridden with niggas. Not the slow-witted, slow-shufflin’, eyeball-rollin’ flapjack- flippin’ niggas in the brownstone off Central Park West. Or the upwardly mobile, paper-bag-colored Klingon niggas – the nightmarish kind!
Mindless angel-dusted darkies slobbering insane single syllables, flicking switchblades and flashing straightrazor. Hip-Hoppity jungle bunnies in bright colored clothes, carrying large, loud radios we white wits call "Spadios", who drank bubbling purple carbonates and ate fried pork rinds and bag after bag of dehydrated potato slices caked with orange dust. Crotch-clawin’ niggas who talked Deputy Dawg and shot dope. Saucer-lipped ragoons who called me the "Ozark Mountyin She-Devil" and asked to feel my lunch money. Percussive porch monkeys who fart with their faces to a heavy-metal beat.

These were the kind of niggas my daddy warned me about. The kind of niggas my daddy said would whisk me off to the Isle of Unrestrained Negros far, far away, and turn me into a coalblack pickaninny with a nappy ribbon top and white button eyes if I wasn’t a good girl and didn’t do as daddy said.


______
Quotes: *

"I wanted to set up a situation where a reader had to confront his own racist thinking. And I wanted to talk about this in the book: that this culture – that popular culture – is predicted on the fact that it finds black people funny."-- Darius James

" ...these cartoons in and of themselves aren’t intended to perpetuate racism. Rather, they were designed to subvert it(...) One of the ideas for me was that the reader himself, who might have a racist thought after reading Negrophobia, would become ill and throw up. But magically, I would like the reader to step back and look at the absurdity of these images and laugh: laugh at the images, laugh at their own racism and not feel cowed by it. And also, black people should laugh at these images and realize that these images are not reflection of black people but rather a reflection of some diseased mind, which is a real distinction. Because some people – and not a lot of them – became critical of the book because they confuse what I’m writing about with actual lives of black people. My book has nothing to do with the real live of black people. It has to do with mapping out the terrain of a racist psychology and making fun of that."-- Darius James

* Quotes taken from an interview with DJ by Cups Magazine. Read the entirety here.



_____
Buy it:

Order copies of the hardcover edition for as little as $1.14 here.
Order copies of the paperback edition for as little as $5.15 here.











_____________________
The Negrophobia art show:

In 2001, Darius James collaborated with the artist Mark Brandenburg to create an art exhibition version of Negrophobia. It was held at Laura Mars Grp. in Berlin, and you can read about it here.









__________________________________
Short fiction: 'Welcome to Sambo’s World'




The Talking Dreads’ white-gloved hands bookend the words:


The walls of the image-chamber spin with lights and color, projecting a holographic mirage of a small rural town in mid-air suspension. Circled by a nimbus of phosphorescent murk, the ' disembodied head speaks in a smug, no-nonsense voice.



Dawn. As the sun rises over the small Midwestern town of “Garvey’s Corner,” a wizened Black Man in blue-denim overalls pushes a junk cart strung with clanging pots and pans. He drums his wares with two metal spoons, calling out in bluesy sing-song.

Read the rest here.


__________________________________________
Darius James on the death of Michael O'Donoghue:




----"One of the great disservices of western civilization that does us no favors at all," Michael O'Donoghue told me one Sunday afternoon as he sat curled on the sofa in the chandeliered living room of his Chelsea condo, sipping smoke from the gold-tipped filter of a Sobraine Black Russian cigarette, "is that mask you see in theater--the two Greek masks, comedy and tragedy--as if there was any fuckin' difference between one and the other!
----"Things can be both funny and not-funny at the same time. You don't need to separate between the two. They're both basically the same thing."
----As dawn broke on the morning of October 7, 1994, Michael O'Donoghue, two-time Emmy Award-winning Saturday Night Live writer, and originator of thedarkly charming character "Mr. Mike," awoke with what he believed was simply another of the migraines that had tormented him throughout his life. He got out of bed, went to his bathroom and took some medication to relieve the pain.
----Later, he awoke a second time exclaiming, "Oh my God!!"
----His wife, Cheryl Hardwicke, in the bed beside him, reported that his eyes were the color of blood and that she could see bolts of "lighning flash behind his eyeballs." She immediately telephoned EMS.
----In the ambulance on the way to St. Vincent's Hospital, Michael went into a convulsive seizure. Three hours later, a doctor informed Ms. Hardwicke that Michael had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. He was now officially "brain dead." His body was put on life support, his organs donated to children.

Read the rest here.


___
Etc.




* 'I Hate Being Lion Fodder': A conversation between artist Kara Walker and Darius James
* Darius James reviews Saab Lofton's Anarchist Democracy
* Oliver Hardt's documentary BLACK DEUTSCHLAND is an intimate exploration of black life in Germany. It features Darius James, a.o. Read about it here.
* The Negrophobia Website
* Read about and buy Darius James's nonfiction book That's Blaxploitation!: Roots of the Baadasssss 'Tude (Rated X by an All-Whyte Jury) (St. Martins Press, 1995)
----



*

p.s. Hey. Negrophobia is such a great novel. When oh when will some publisher get the brains to reprint it? As for me, I think today I'm on my way via train and then plane from Naoshima to the Japanese island of Yakushima, which is supposed to be pretty amazing. Take care.

________________




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PayPals, 24
Ottawa

Hi! See my photo? That's not trick photography. There are two of us. We're identical twins, and you can fuck us ... No, I'm lying. But I have a sex doll specially made that looks exactly like me, and you can fuck us ... No, I'm lying again. I'm just me living on my own in Ottawa, Illinois, served ­four years­ in the Ma­rine Corps­, did 3 ye­ars field ­side and s­pend the l­ast year d­oing law e­nforcement. But you can fuck me so hard it'll split me in two. I'm not lying.

FEEL FREE TO CALL ME AT ANYTIME FOR ANY REASON.

Dicksize L, Uncut
Position Versatile
Kissing Yes
Fucking Bottom only
Oral Versatile
Dirty WS only
Fisting Active
S&M Soft SM only
Fetish Underwear, Sneakers & Socks, Jeans
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask



_________________





Energeticyoung, 20
Singapore

Cute twink living his life to the edge and nothing can stop me. Tonite you and I will be cool.

#SwaggKing, #PrettyMotherfucker #Differences #DollarBills

Fucking active
Oral active
Watersports active
CBT -
Fisting active
SM -
Bondage -
Dirty no
Kissing yes
Massage active
Safer Sex always
Rate / Hour 0
Rate / Night 0
Rate / 24h 0



__________________



timon018, 24
Paris

hi i m muslim guy new and noexpirience ok so try me if you like me ok....i m new to this escort file because to share my love with you people....i will be so much excited for you to know more details of me on this network....am so good to every one....my desire to all my precious friends in this compound....just hit me like a wrecking ball....i will hit you too with my wrecking ball....

Fucking active
Oral active / passive
Watersports active / passive
CBT -
Fisting active
SM no
Bondage no
Dirty no
Kissing upon agreement
Massage active / passive
Safer Sex always
Rate / Hour 150
Rate / Night 400
Rate / 24h 60



___________________





LewisK, 19
Paris

My services could be bought for reasonable prices.

There is no room for debate.

Currently I'm only participating for oral sex.

I'm not for everyone, I know one guy with whom I can be friends.

I'm a student in college.

I do what I gotta do.

GOOD AND BAD TIMES all included.

Fucking -
Oral active
Watersports -
CBT -
Fisting -
SM -
Bondage -
Dirty -
Kissing -
Massage -
Safer Sex always
Rate / Hour 150
Rate / Night 450
Rate / 24h 1000



__________________




MagicGandalf, 19
Dresden

I SELDOM COME ON HERE MUSIC WITCHCRAFT ALLAH SACRIFICE YOU ARE ONLY SCARED WHEN YOU HIDE ANTON LAVEY LAMB KHOLE DAMIEN ECHOLS SURVIVING KING OF NIGHT 666 HIRE ME IF YOU WANT WHO THE HELL CARES

Dicksize XL, Uncut
Position Versatile
Kissing No entry
Fucking Versatile
Oral No entry
Dirty Yes
Fisting Active
S&M Yes
Fetish Leather, Sportsgear, Skater, Rubber, Underwear, Lycra, Sneakers & Socks, Jeans, Drag
Client age Users between 18 and 45
Rate hour 666 Euros
Rate night 999 Euros



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KidsoPretty, 19
Skopje, Macedonia

Kilo in the kitchen, pussy faggots Merry Christmas
Bitches taking pictures cause we keep on getting richer
Say a faggot name you know you fucking with them best
Walking through the club only salute the real faggots
Ain't no bottles on your table, pussy boy go get your gwolla
Hoes don't credit pussy so you can't pay her tomorrow
Bitch just bought a house she can't afford to run her mouth
I run all these fields, I run the game, not just the South
Bow down to the biggest, Belaire I be spilling
Counting all this paper, no games with these pussy faggots
Double M, we poppin', shoppin' buying new clothes
Heard your shit keep flopping and your crib got foreclosed

Life's short, but i am not.

Dicksize No entry, Cut
Position More bottom
Kissing Yes
Fucking More bottom
Oral Versatile
Dirty No entry
Fisting No entry
S&M Soft SM only
Fetish Skins & Punks, Uniform, Formal dress, Worker
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour 35 Euros
Rate night 55 Euros



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AndreasAll4U, 19
Syracuse

Man, I am just a fucked up disaster of a person. Either headed towards amazing success or utter failure because I have dropped out of school to be a model considering my good looks is the only reason I haven't killed myself. It's also the reason I want to kill myself. I told you I am fucked up.

Why do you matter? What makes you so special that your life should be spared? We all deserve to die, so let's get fucked up and piss in the middle of busy intersections, get honked at, feel like a disco ball, get heatstrokes, get acne, drive to hell drunk, and I could go on and on. Punk's not dead!

Dicksize L, Cut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Yes
Fucking Bottom only
Oral Versatile
Dirty WS only
Fisting No
S&M Soft SM only
Fetish Sportsgear, Skater, Underwear, Formal dress, Techno & Raver, Sneakers & Socks, Jeans
Client age Users between 30 and 80
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask



____________________






James Wesker, 18
Paris

I’m 18 and a funny guy and this is my diary. It’s 100% true and open as possible. I very shy when dealing with new people. That's because I rarely socialize, so yes so. Don't try to figure me out. People think that I am a gay person but I don't want to be treated as such because I still believe that I'm a straight guy. I just wanna try!

Dicksize L, Uncut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Consent
Fucking Bottom only
Oral No entry
Dirty No
Fisting Active / passive
S&M No
Fetish Sportsgear, Skater, Underwear, Uniform, Jeans
Client age Users younger than 58
Rate hour 200 Euros
Rate night 800 Euros



____________________




Iwill_FuckU, 22
St. Louis

I'm Josh, 22, I would hope to meet the client of my dreams like every other escort. i want a client that can be my best friend, has a personality, loving, horny, escort oriented. not all about looks. i do have a type looks wise. i just want a client that will want me always, i want someone that i can be hired by forever. i prefer old men as their hearts are willingly open for a true monogamous relationship. i go to school. i am a mechanic. i work on cars, its my life. i love driving. i'm God free. and i live out in the suburbs, have a great ass.

josh skype? lms
1 hour ago

josh im sooooooooooo bored i wish i had a cuddle buddy
15 hours ago
tOtAlToP43 boring 6 hours ago have fun with that lol

josh anyone wannan text? lms
15 hours ago

josh anyone wanna skype?
1 day ago
taylorgideon likes this.

josh morning... anyone wanna talk
1 day ago

josh depressed :/
2 days ago
DezerraeLillie 1 day ago Why are you depressed?

josh snapchat me joshparis123
2 days ago

josh
Q: Your u fuck a fat guy ? Not fat fat just bigger then u ? asked by Anonymous
A: ya lol i neveer really judge off of weight anyway.. lol just have to have a nice booty, and nice mouth. lol
2 days ago

josh lms for a rate
2 days ago
17 people like this.

josh lms if u wana hang out today
2 days ago

josh Shiiit I need groupies to hang with everyday.
2 days ago

josh anyone wanna hang out tomorrow? lms
3 days ago

josh dont lms if u dont wanna ang out :(
3 days ago

josh someoen wanna get to know me
3 days ago

josh morning im bored aanyone wanna talk?
3 days ago

josh snapchat? joshparis123
4 days ago

josh anyone wanna talk :)
4 days ago

Dicksize XL, Uncut
Position Top only
Kissing Yes
Fucking Top only
Oral Versatile
Dirty No
Fisting Active
S&M No
Fetish Sportsgear, Skater, Rubber, Underwear, Skins & Punks, Uniform, Formal dress, Techno & Raver, Sneakers & Socks, Jeans, Worker
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask



___________________






blake_is_about_you, 21
Hurghada, Egypt

hello, hello, hello, thanks for recommending me as one of the best fucks. i am what i am. and what i am focus on your pleasure. im having 6.5' long tool. donnt over react. my charge includes 3 shots. i casually drink. and i will like to use this medium to thank all my clients and to tell them that blake de best fuck is in hurghada to escalate a rain once again.

Dicksize XL, Cut
Position Top only
Kissing Consent
Fucking Top only
Oral Top
Dirty WS only
Fisting Active
S&M Soft SM only
Fetish Leather, Rubber, Underwear, Skins & Punks, Boots, Uniform, Jeans
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour 20 Dollars
Rate night 20 Dollars



____________________






pinky, 23
Graz

You can fuck me in my bedroom.
You can fuck me in my bafroom.
Jump my bones until the rooster crows.
You can fuck me with a dildo,
Anything to fill my hole.
I don’t care how you fuck me,
Just fuck me right damn now.
There are issues and baggage between us
Always something to get over.
If I had my way surely you would
Shut the fuck up and fuck me.

Some other things:
I'm a Communist (left-communist for those who know their stuff).
I prefer double anal and a gang bang.
I'm in Graz until Saturday at 10:00.
Then maybe I'm going to be Wien.

Dicksize XL, Cut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Consent
Fucking Top only
Oral Top
Dirty No entry
Fisting Active / passive
S&M No
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour 60 Dollars
Rate night ask
Locations



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PalomaPicasso, 18
Sydney

My name is Stephen and i am a rent boy available to suck fat cocks or lick sweaty assholes.
Governments a specialty I can lick cock suck bureaucrat cock lick any fat sweaty asshole especially if you are a lobbyist or a politician and the fatter and greasier the better.

Command me and I will obey and do any dirty work necessary including your toilet clean Just ask Julia Gillard.

If you are a government a government employee or civil servant particularly if you are fat or if you are a lobbyist or can get some free poncing passes then I can lick you all over for free.

Dicksize S, Cut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Yes
Fucking Bottom only
Oral Bottom
Dirty Yes
Fisting Passive
S&M Yes
Fetish Leather, Rubber, Boots, Uniform, Drag
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour 1 Dollars
Rate night 10 Dollars



___________________




dearslut, 21
Boston

i m here to fuck u us u are a slut!

Dicksize M, Cut
Position More top
Kissing No entry
Fucking Top only
Oral Top
Dirty No
Fisting No entry
S&M No entry
Fetish Underwear, Uniform, Jeans
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour 1500 Dollars
Rate night 3000 Dollars



___________________




Good_feelings, 21
Madrid

suck it bitches. I'm amazing. I'm always doing something. can never sit still. I'm a free-thinker! so be prepared to be amazed and have a grate time.

I could make up a bunch of bullsh*t and pretend to be someone that I am not. Sadly, some of you would be dumb enough to believe it. if you really want to get to know me you can invite me over with some money. i need just the fucking money.

I could come to your hotel and suck your mind off and blow you to heaven for 1,2, 3 days or maybe 1 week. but dont unless you give me money then i can maybe forgive you 4 i am verry forgiving its a fawl.

Dicksize L, Uncut
Position Versatile
Kissing Consent
Fucking Versatile
Oral Versatile
Dirty Yes
Fisting Active
S&M Yes
Fetish Leather, Sportsgear, Skater, Rubber, Underwear, Skins & Punks, Boots, Lycra, Uniform, Formal dress, Techno & Raver, Sneakers & Socks, Jeans, Drag, Worker
Client age Users between 30 and 50
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask



____________________



astronomic, 23
Paris

Attention, my dear mice. From life I just want 2 things money and love. I like to be stylish. Like to enjoy whole life as my heart says me. I am a model and i do some shoot-Figuration and Tv. Here I am for just rock.

Dicksize XXL, Uncut
Position Top only
Kissing Yes
Fucking Top only
Oral Versatile
Dirty No entry
Fisting No entry
S&M No entry
Client age Users between 18 and 45
Rate hour 1000 Euros
Rate night 2500 Euros



__________________





Davx, 21
Bratislava

We do not have a stopwatch .
During our appointment , I really dedicated to you, I 'm here to take care of you lol.
I care about you and I love the shared pleasure , without which it would be impossible for me to be escort .

I receive you , certainly with my ass lol but with my head and my mind .
if you want To have a relationship - think twice , can you really Afford it?

Welcome to the sex dream .

Fucking active / passive
Oral active / passive
Watersports -
CBT -
Fisting no
SM no
Bondage -
Dirty -
Kissing yes
Massage active / passive
Safer Sex always
Rate / Hour 0
Rate / Night 0
Rate / 24h 0



___________________





callboys18, 18
Copenhagen

Please- come and have sex with me. I am so cute. You can fuck me, give me deepthroat- play with me naked body - spank me, fist me, tie me up and not only.

I want to have rich people with rich lifestyle. I am interested in modeling. If you know any easy way to be a model then help me. I am promising after being a model, Night will be yours.

My prices are not incl. Taxi, hotelroom and champagne.

Dicksize L, Uncut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Consent
Fucking Bottom only
Oral Bottom
Dirty No
Fisting Passive
S&M Yes
Fetish Leather, Sportsgear, Underwear, Boots, Jeans
Client age Users between 40 and 99
Rate hour 250 Euros
Rate night 1200 Euros



____________________




Dollface, 19
Tokyo

Love is a gun separating me from u.

Heavy Smoker.

I have a combination of Clinical Depression and ADHD.

I am 6'1 and 55kg.

I used to be so kind but sometimes it only changes the way people see u.

I can't help if the devil likes to felch my ass.

I'm like pussy.

I'm basically dead.

Where is your God now?

Fuck me.

H8 u.

Dicksize No entry, Uncut
Position Bottom only
Kissing Yes
Fucking Bottom only
Oral Top
Dirty No entry
Fisting No entry
S&M No entry
Fetish Jeans, Goth
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask



_____________________







WETBLANKET, 20
Istanbul

YOU WANT ME TO BE FISTED ; HAVE A MASSAGE AND FIST AN EMO ? I LIKE FUNNY PEOPLE BECAUSE I AM NOT .

NEW!!!! CHANGE MY LOOK CUZ OF NEW SKINHEAD BOYFRIEND ; AM STILL EMO BUT NOT ON THE OUTSIDE CUZ MY BOYFRIEND HATED IT; SAME QUESTION TO YOU THO WITHOUT THE MASSAGE AND EMO ; YOU WANT TO FIST ME .

NEW!!!!!!!! NO BOYFRIEND ANYMORE !!!! I LOWER PRICE CUZ I AM DEPRESS STUPID BORING NOTHING ; FIST ME FIST ME FIST ME !

I search a date from 23.12.2013 evening after 23:30 or from 24.12.2013 in the morning! I search somebody to spend the christmas together fisting me! from: 24.12.2013 til 26.12.2013 in the evening! 3 days!

Tell me if you like me. Straight to the point please.

Dicksize M, Cut
Position No entry
Kissing Consent
Fucking No
Oral No
Dirty No entry
Fisting Passive
S&M No entry
Fetish No entry
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour ask
Rate night 20 Dollars



_________________



YoursZorro, 19
Torino

im a happy guy living independent in a small town,,,im agood boy in our place....jejejeje,,,,i love to have sex without a condom, men with fear can contact me,,,,,willing to be your friends,,,, quiet sometimes,formal person... if you know me already im so very joker jejejeje,,,love you alll,,,and simple,,,,cute and handsome jejeje,,,,thats they tell me about they see jejeje...

Dicksize M, Cut
Position Versatile
Kissing Yes
Fucking No entry
Oral No entry
Dirty No entry
Fisting No entry
S&M No entry
Fetish Underwear
Client age No restrictions
Rate hour ask
Rate night ask




*

p.s. Hey. Today you get the second and final brand new post from this two week-long blog vacation period that the blog and I seem to be going through at the moment, and, surely no surprise, it's full of your monthly dose of escorts. Warmest greetings to you all from, I think, Yakushima.

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*

p.s. Hey. Someone asked me months ago if I would repost the blog's old Alexandro Jodorowsky Day, and I hope that whoever requested it and at least some of the rest of you enjoy it. I'm still in Japan and away from my daily duties here for a little longer. Greetings!

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“It started as more of a description of the style of music I write than a name. One fine spring day years ago, I was writing a track with really fast snare rolls that sounded like scraping a stick across a grate or running a pencil down Venetian blinds in a distracted classroom. I always pay very special attention to the detail of my snares, and you could say that the snare is the lead instrument in most of my tracks, where maybe a vocalist would tell the story.

"Since the name came about, I've been told of a television news piece entitled ‘Venetian snares’. Apparently children were accidentally hanging themselves in Venetian blinds and dropping like flies.

I enjoy the word snare in the context of a trap or a lure...”


Venetian Snares is the nom de plume of Aaron Funk, an experimental breakcore and electronica producer who currently lives in Winnipeg, Canada.

For those who don’t know, “breakcore” is a subculture of electronic music that combines elements of industrial, jungle, hardcore techno and IDM (Intelligent Dance Music) into a mostly breakbeat-oriented sound that encourages speed, complexity, impact and maximum sonic density. Now more than ever breakcore, like punk, is better defined as an attitude than a musical style.

Funk is an incredibly prolific artist, having released over twenty albums since his debut in 1999. Before then, he played in a number of punk and death metal bands, and his love of extreme music styles has influenced his entire output since he began creating music on computers. He lists his personal interests as “sound, structure, shape and chaos” and has claimed in interviews that inanimate objects “fascinate him”.



The “crack rush”

The focal element of his style is the intricate drum programming, a reaction to the repetitive and stale rhythmic patterns of modern techno and drum & bass. Often he will deconstruct a single breakbeat, before reworking it into a million different interpretations. Funk compares this intense surge of over-complexity in the listener with the same feeling he experienced as a crack addict:

“For a period I would literally do crack all night and then after I came down I'd sleep a couple hours, get up and make music. I would twist the music until it gave me that same rush I got from the crack, that full euphoric adrenalin blast. Those were strange days! I remember the whole time making those early 12”s I was staring at a devil on an empty can of some kind of energy drink I don't think they sell here anymore”

YouTube vid for ‘A Lot of Drugs’: here


____________

Nymphomatriarch





In 2003, Venetian Snares gave new meaning to the term ‘artistic collaboration’ when he co-produced Nymphomatriarch with then-girlfriend Hecate. The album is constructed entirely of samples of the couple fucking. Microphones are applied internally and externally, ass-slaps are pitched in all manner of directions to create snares, and orgasmic grunts and squeals are morphed into cathedral-like choruses to create a dark ambience that is both arousing and greatly disturbing.

“It’s weird to deconstruct the sounds of sex. It makes you conscious of a lot of stuff you’d normally ignore”

Press release: # 1
------------------# 2


“We Be Friends Wi’ Childkillas”




In 2001 Venetian Snares released Doll Doll Doll, and in 2003 the companion remix album Find Candance.

Both albums are inextricably linked, and investigate the twin themes of child murderers and paedophiles – drawing material from such high-profile cases as the JonBenet Ramsey killing – and the fantastic notion of what it would be like to be a child’s doll (the track ‘Pygmalion’ on Doll Doll Doll is a reference to Doll Space Pygmalion, a Japanese company that manufactures erotic dolls). There are some terrifying sounds on these records.

YouTube vid for ‘Find Candace’: here

Press release: here



Trevor Brown

Underground artist Trevor Brown (mentioned on this blog many times in the past) has designed covers for four Venetian Snares releases. The cover for the Horse and Goat EP caused controversy: two manufacturers in the US refused to print it, and a removable black outer-cover had to be inserted before it could be sold in record shops.




YouTube vid for ‘Sink Snow Angel’: here

Trevor Brown: here



PlanetMu

Many of Funks best albums have been released on the English label PlanetMu, including Rossz Csillag Alatt Született (Hungarian for “born under a bad star”), in my opinion the most beautiful record of 2005. Here, Funk throws some classical orchestration into the mix. Imagine Elgar and Debussey played by freejazz drummer Gene Krupa – on crystal meth – and you have an idea of what to expect. Oh, and it’s also concept album about pigeons.

wikipedia/RCAS

YouTube vid for ‘Öngyilkos vasárnap’ (Suicidal Sunday): here

planet-com



____________

Live



I saw Venetian Snares play live once, at my hometown in a riverside dive called the Waterfront. To this day its still the most insane, awesome and life-changing gig I’ve ever been to. During the non-stop three hour set, I can only describe what I heard as an out of body – or more accurately, out of mind – experience. Time for me seemed to slow down and yet continuously accelerate, like the ‘hyper drive’ sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
I had no idea music could be used to such an effect.

YouTube vid for ‘Szamar Madar’: here

Breakbeats disintegrated into pure nothingness without ever once missing a beat, like the sound of an infinite number of monkeys on an infinite number of drum machines. Achingly beautiful synthesizer melodies melted into obscure samples from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A robobtic female voice intoned “someone in Leicester got stabbed with a syring full of, like, AIDS blood”.

If you tried dancing to this type of music at home, anyone watching would immediately call an ambulance for fear that you were suffering an aneurysm. In a club full of fucked up and crazed noise junkies this is not a problem. At one point I saw a kid jumping around like a pogo stick, nose smashed in and blood soaking his Aphex Twin t-shirt. Rather than an expression of pain, his eyes said “yes, oh FUCK -- YEAHHH!!”.

Some Goths who had earlier been nonchalantly passing a joint were now becoming visibly distressed. One girl began to freak out and spent the rest of the night crossed legged on the floor weeping.

At some point in the evening I went for a leak, only to find the door to the men’s room had been torn off its hinges. Apparently the staff never found it. A 14-year old kid offered me a great deal on mushrooms. I bought one on impulse but didn’t eat it. I didn’t need it, not with that wonderful, wonderful sound in my ears…

venetiansnares.com
isolaterecords.com/venetian
----



*

p.s. Hey. Beloved and M.I.A. d.l. Richard Eichmann used his guest-hosting slot ages ago to direct your attention to the very fine music maker Venetian Snares, and he remains worthy of your attention all these years later, so I hope you'll give him some. Thanks a lot again, Richard, wherever you are. Where I am today is back in Tokyo for the final stretch of Zac's and my Japan adventure. One of the things that we're scheduled to do today, and are almost for sure doing, is spending part of the day at this, if you're curious.

Porn Miniature:

THE IDEAL

Is a teenage suicide bomber, 18, and short, like 5 foot 3, so short the other boys all make fun of him. But he's well built, surprisingly muscular. Extremely fervent and totally passive. He has a black fade and full lips that live for cum and these dark, liquidy eyes, like octopus ink, that open really wide as you fuck him. Long lashes. Totally smooth, his ass is amazing, plump, exuberant, disproportionately large in relation to his slender waist. It's the kind of ass that makes you want to commit suicide.
    Alone in his bedroom, the boy stands in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but his explosive belt and his black dynamite vest. His ass looks great, but he's completely unconscious of this. Totally oblivious, even as he spreads his cheeks, and gazes at his pink hole, which is like one of those nonpareil candies, and, wetting a finger, fingers himself. If he were aware of his power, he'd see there's really no need to go blow himself up. Mesmerized, the West would stare so long into his ass, we would eventually disappear.
    But the boy is going to explode amongst us. In the meantime, for him, getting fucked with luminous spit is better than being a footballer, better than martyrdom, better than anything.






Walter (West Berlin, 1987 ? I think he’s dead)

Walter mastered the gas and the brake with his hand while his mouth never stopped making dirty jokes about ‘you fags.’ Carla laughed passionately as if she was flirting with him. Maybe she was ? her hints on the ‘special friendship’ between her and her ‘favorite cripple’ had sounded all but tame.

Viktor and Bob, on whose lap I tried to steady myself, giggled in growing embarrassment, and Hendrik on the passenger seat, showing no sign of interest whatsoever in any of us, shifted his attention between the street names outside in the dark and the map, mumbling commands for directions every once in a while which caused Walter to wait, wait, and then turn the wheel in the very last second.

‘Gay punks!’ Walter howled. ‘What’s that supposed to be? Pink poodles with riveting collars?’

When Bob asked him, in an attempt to defend themselves, since when he was paraplegic, Carla burst out, ‘Since his last car accident!’

Walter sped up the old limousine approaching a yellow streetlight. ‘A large truck crashed into my left side at full speed. My Ford was as cleanly cut as my spine. The legs had to go later, due to an in-fec-tion (he pronounced it like a Spanish holiday resort), but I was happy to get rid of them as they felt like nothing anyway, and actually hands are much, much better for driving. -- You afraid there, sweethearts?’

The community center was located on the sixth floor of an old factory building. There was no elevator. Viktor and Bob had to carry the chubby Walter who looked quite heavy even without his lower third and who had insulted them all the way to here. Carla sang a Dutch chanson to ‘levitate’ them as she called it. I heaved the wheelchair out of the trunk, locked the car and slowly went after them.

The narrow room that resembled a large corridor was crammed with people ? most of them indeed punks and skinheads, plus a couple of Kreuzberg freaks who combined army coats with glitter skirts and wore plastic crowns in the form of a hammer and sickle or the victory column. Outside it reeked of piss, inside the air was thick with smoke. I found Carla, Walter and the exhausted Russian-American couple surrounded by a bulk of others. Some probably Carla’s acquaintances, whereas the rest seemed interested in our cripple. Walter, leaning back comfortably in his wheelchair, enjoyed the attention. While excited glares ran down his thighs to the point where the jeans had been cut off, its frayed hems exposing some dark crumpled skin, he greeted his new friends in his own fashion,

‘You take it up the ass? Why, doesn’t that hurt? Or do you like it when it hurts? You care to pull out the shit somehow before some manimal shoves his dick into your hole? I mean, maybe it’s better WITH shit, I’m no expert on that, hehe. The social guy who handles me on weekdays has a big bulge in his pants every time he lifts me from the john and sees the steaming heap inside the bowl...’

He ejaculated a bleating giggle and smacked one of the guys, who had dared to rub himself against the edge of his left wheel, on the buttocks with the full force of his well-trained arm. The guy squealed.

‘Well, in case I gotta go take a dump later there won’t be any problem getting some assistance I guess.’

We pushed ourselves in a row where some empty chairs were left, but as soon as the first band started their gig, everybody jumped up anyway and the old furniture was kicked away into the corners. The second band consisted of about a dozen sixteen-year old boys with uniform blond hairdos who wore nothing but Bavarian style leather shorts while they played. Their “folk punk” was terrible, but the audience went wild. Some time later (I had managed to get pretty close to the stage) Carla gripped me by the hips and her lips were suddenly close to my ear,

‘They’re at the toilet. Come on ? you wouldn’t wanna miss that!’

We climbed another flight of stairs to where the toilets were. In front of the entrance a crowed had gathered. The guys we elbowed ourselves through all had their dicks in their hands. They were staring in direction of the only existing cabin, whose door stood wide open.

Walter sat on the front rim of the toilet seat. His short-cuffed jeans had been taken off. The admirer from before pressed it to his face. Next to the toilet another one lay on his back, his head bent far backward, and moved to get his tongue deeper into Walter’s asshole. Walter, babbling on incessantly, grunted and cursed.

‘Hey, the bi-queen gives us the honor to join our little private party,’ he barked as he noticed me. ‘Where’s the Russian fag, and his girl, the American fag? Come closer, take a look, sweetie ? see what the wicked cripple will do...!”

A sincere, concentrated expression entered his face. It looked almost beautiful like that. Walter’s cock (I hadn’t even noticed it before) stood up straight like a pole.

The lad under his ass who realized things were about to happen tried to push himself closer using the heels of his heavy black boots. He slipped on the tiles all wet with piss, and kicked several times into the air. Walter groaned. The other one twisted his foreskin between two fingers and pinched the nails deep into the soft yellow stuff. Maybe to divert himself from the object of his desire.

The circle of observers closed in tight around the cabin door. Someone carefully pulled away the wheelchair, which was in the way. Carla slipped in front of me, scratching her stiff sprayed hair against my cheek, and started to unbutton my fly behind her back.

A suppressed moan filled the room as if the air pressure had suddenly mounted. All of them were ashamed. All could feel quite clearly the humiliation the evil dwarf with no legs meant to their community. All knew that every stroke with their hands bereft them of another piece of dignity, but nonetheless ? or, well, because...

‘Whoah! Man, that’s a relief!’

With the raunchiest sound of the world Walter let escape a gigantic turd from his rectum. The other one was so startled by its length he choked. Coughing and convulsing, he rolled to his side, writhed, hit his head hard against the toilet’s base. For about a second it seemed unclear what anyone in the room was supposed to do. Then things happened quickly.

The guy made an attempt to jerk off, his forehead covered with blood, but a gush of puke forced him to stop. Walter made the tiniest of gestures to make another from the first row of spectators drop onto his knees. He opened his black lips wide, and before Walter had even finished yelling, ‘Don’t touch it, sicko!’ heavy white stuff squirted into the gaping throat of the punk.

I came the very same moment. Carla snuggled against me ? my load went over her pants, right across the lighter bulge in her bottom pocket she then used to rub me until it hurt. The others approached as far as they could and shot fountains over the kneeling one’s pink hair and tattooed shoulders. He didn’t care about them. He fixated with his eyes, with the whole of his face the burning red bulb that kept floating in the air and that he was neither allowed to lick nor to kiss, nor even to touch.

‘If I sense the faintest whiff of your breath, I’ll break your neck,’ said Walter’s voice with great calm.

Down in the other one’s groin something fluid sloshed about in short intervals, like an overflowing bottle a child refills at a tap.






‘A Woman’ an excerpt
From The Consumer
By M. Gira

He’s looking down my dress. He can see my breasts. He wants to hurt me, hang me with the noose that’s in his hand. He’s mocking me with it, swinging it in front of my face, showing me that if I go with him he’ll hang me with it after we fuck. I’m not sure if I want him to hurt me. I know that when he pushes his cock into me it will hurt when it hits my uterus. His cock fills me up and makes me another person, subject to his desire, his violence. He’s going to call his friends over and invite them to gang rape me. Then hang me while they masturbate in harmony with my suffering.






So last summer I wrote a porn story for this anthology that came out on Alyson Books called "Hustlers: Erotic Stories of Sex for Hire". The story is about this guy who is obsessed with a porn model named "Shawn." Anyway He finds out that Shaw also escorts and sets up a date with him. This scene takes place before the narrator's meeting with Shawn. He hooks up with some guy from the gym.

The Shawn in the story is based on this one porno guy I'm into named Shane. The story is dedicated to him. I've included Shane's picture along with the excerpt from the story.







The blond guy from the gym is laying face down, spread eagle on my bed. I’ve been rimming him for what seems like hours now. My cock is so hard it’s aching, pre-come dripping. His hole is as pink as his balls and it’s driving me crazy, I just can’t seem to get deep enough in there. He’s moaning, thrusting his ass in my face, wiggling his hips and then I start fingering him. I slide one finger in effortlessly, work it around inside his slick ass, feel its textures, try to find his prostate. Is that? Wait, no. Maybe. Then I work in another finger and then another. I wonder if he’s into fisting. I’ve never done that, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. I pop a fourth finger in. I’m just about to figure out how to get my thumb in him when he starts whining, “fuck me,” in this breathy way that, I suppose could be sexy, but instead comes across as desperate and a little slutty. My fingers make a slight slurping sound as I pull them out of his ass. I yank his hips close to my crotch and spread his cheeks. His asshole his wet and red now, I rub my cock up and down his crack, he goes wild. I push the head of my dick against his pucker and it slides into the warmth of his ass with no effort. Then he freezes, stops moaning, wiggling etc…
    “Dude, are you wearing a condom?”
    “No, shit, sorry, it’s just the tip. Sorry I got carried away.”
    “Okay, just put one on all right? You’re neg right?”
    “Yeah, totally.” I tell him as I go over to the night stand, grab a condom and unroll it over my fading hard-on. Then I lube up and start fucking him. I watch, almost mesmerized as my dick slips in and out of his ass. After I get bored with that, I flip him onto his back so I can watch him jerk himself off. I love watching guys jack themselves while they get fucked, it makes them look so submissive and sad. It’s great. Anytime a guy looks more pathetic in bed, the better the sex is going to be.
    I fuck him for what seems like an eternity. Maybe I loosened him up too much or maybe he’s just a huge bottom whore who’s had his ass torn up too many times, but no matter what position I stick him in I can’t seem to get enough friction to come. He shoots before me, so I pull my cock out of him, take off the condom and masturbate onto his chest.
    After it’s all over we take a shower together, pretend to be sweet to each other, pretend that it was more than it was and then he tells me to call him, like that’s going to happen. Like either one of us really want that.
    Once the trick’s finally gone, I bust into my emergency stash. I have two grams that I’ve been saving for an occasion like this. Basically I feel like shit and it’s either do coke or spend the afternoon crying. At least if I do enough coke I’ll be motivated to clean my bathroom. I don’t think I’d be motivated to do anything if I gave in to this stupid self pity. I have to choke back the tears as I cut lines. Then I snort one and it’s instantly better. Three more days until I meet Shawn, my heart’s all a flutter and it’s not all on account of the coke.






this is really killing me...

my favorite novel is not on my shelf, my copy is a state away.
it contains my favorite porn scene, one that gave me massive wood on a bus-ride
from Harvard's main campus to their medical campus. (coincidently slothrop attended harvard)

i will be gone before i can track down a copy and copy the phrases...
and won't be back before deadline...

from the index: Blicero with Katje and Gottfried, 94-99, 101-04 (these pages apply to most versions)

illustration #1
illustration #2
illustration #3






Barely Legal: An Annotated Lyric Play in One Scene
for DC


Dramatis Personae

Lynx and Lamb, the barely legal Aryan chanteuse duo Prussian Blue
Freestyle boxer and internet gladiator Kimbo Slice
A porn-director named Lorne Green 1

The Setting 2

According to the principles of appropriation and historicization, a Burnaby warehouse, made to appear as a Restoration stage. 3

The scene opens in medias res, with Kimbo bedecked in a banyan, his waistcoat and breeches on the floor, and a cap. Lynx and Lamb each wear a sleeveless bodice 4 and a floss g-string. Lamb bleeds profusely from her nose and mouth, and Lynx has suffered a fierce and savage bout of sodomy, blood and fecal matter smearing her inner thighs. Lorne Green films alone, working cinéma vérité. Both women perform fellatio on Kimbo, who utters the only line of our play 5:

Kimbo: Yeah, suck that dick, bitch.

1. From an abandoned short story by the author entitled "The Mysterious Disappearance of Tracy Trapp, or Death in A Swedish Discotheque".
2. Or scene, since the author has rendered this as a picture, wanting to capture a frozen moment on a stage, not so unlike Jeff Wall's A Ventriloquist at a Birthday party in October. A scene rife with allegorical implications, which, it may be said, are common in image production, especially in the city where the author now lives. See "Mad Tales: Considering Allegorical Tendencies Now" by Jeremy Todd, for a particularly thoughtful examination of this phenomena.
3. Of course, this scene owes too much to too much, and the author must abandon it, having given up on allusion, and since it can only be a pale homage to Robert Coover's Lucky Pierre. Besides, the title "Barely Legal" contrives to point out the difficulties of semblance with regard to living persons (in addition to being a double entendre, a trope with exemplary ties to the Restoration stage) and their representation, which prohibits the staging of this play. An interesting alternative might include a shift to call "Barely Legal" a "lyric essay" (see "Time Must Die: The Lyric Essay and the Fictionalization of Genre by Ben Marcus).
4. Interestingly the sleeveless bodice was never worn, in either France or England in the 18th c. but departures from verisimilitude are oft found in Green's larger oeuvre. The sleeveless bodice was an adaptation of the southern colonies, which might have been more fitting considering the mixed race of the actors, had it occurred to Green, who's productive literary model ought to have been Aphra Behn vs. William Congreve. See The Mythical Bodice, by Ingrid Schaaphok in the Brigade Courier
5. Thus, we know nothing of the characters, or their motivations, or their hearts, as is so common to pornography. A squadron of readers will complain that this is the problem with post-modernism in general, and with footnoted stories in the style of David Foster Wallace. To this criticism the author affords only one response, being that, the only story he can remember is "Funes, the Memorious" by Jorges Luis Borges. The citations, in terms of understanding and recollection, are forgeries, the rest is fiction, with no resemblance to any person living or dead, and merely grotesque.

*
Hyperlinks on JW Veldhoen's blog to the actors, and italics etc.






When I think of 'porn writing', I don't think of something I've read that got me all hot. I think of something I've done, given up on, and pushed away, nauseated.

If you're pretty cute and comfortable with meaningless sex, you probably do a few porn pics or vids, and/or some whoring/hustling, at some point in your life. Similarly, if you're good with words and comfortable with meaningless sex, you probably write some 'erotic fiction' at some point in your life, for one reason only: It Pays. Since I graduated college, most of my income has come from various ghostwriting and editing projects. Annnnnnnd....

In March 2005, when I was still living in L.A., I was making a last- ditch effort to land a real job and build a real life there. With all the energy I could possibly summon, I was going after a position as an editor at Alyson Books. They're located in a building on Hollywood Bl; I lived just blocks away at the time. After I did three interviews with various people in the parent company [LPI Media, who print The Advocate and Out], I was told they'd narrowed it down to 2 candidates: me and some other girl. The final 'audition' would be that we would each edit an entire book, and write the introduction to said book, under contract. The editing meant about 3 weeks of solid work [true 40+ hour workweeks] and the pay was only $1,000 total [my monthly rent at the time was $860], but I was ok with that because I thought it might land me a Real Job. And really did do the best I could with what I was given.

The book I edited was called Show and Tell: True Tales of Lesbian Lust. Alyson never gave me any copies and I've never even seen the damn thing 'in person'. The editor-pseudonym that Alyson used was Nicole Foster, a personality who 'edits' most of Alyson's lesbian erotica [there is no real Nicole Foster]. All the stories in Show and Tell were written by about 7 or 8 people total. All the stories were absolutely horrible. A disturbingly large number made use of the term 'love button'. My job was [1] to make the stories much, much better and [2] to make them look like they were actually written by like 15-20 people and [3] to write the introduction. PLEASE, if any of you lovely people ever look at this book, keep in mind that I wrote the introduction to ghostwriter- industry- specs. That is NOT my voice. Not even close. Oh yeah and: I don't think any of the stories in the book are 'true tales'. I'm pretty sure that every single story in the anthology was fiction.

The whole experience was frankly terrible and stupid. Literally, it put me off having sex with girls for like 8 months. After reading all that stupid girl-on-girl text and trying to transform it into something actually sexy? I just wanted cock. No love buttons please.

And I didn't get the job. According to the people at Alyson, neither did the other girl. Alyson Books called me one day and said the whole company was being restructured and now there was no job available. That story is plausible enough, but the tone of the phone conversation made me feel like it was all a big, big lie. I have a pretty good bullshit detector. I don't think there was a position available in the first place. So, as Kermit Oswald once said: it is what it is.

__Now. As for writing that makes me really fucking hot? Words that visually conjur a sexual act, wet the insides of my insides, all that amazing shit? The only thing that honestly comes to mind is a one-sentence description of theft, from Genet's The Thief's Journal. Even though Genet is really just talking about stealing a material object in this particular sentence, when I read it, I thought immediately of a hand on a dick, a fist in an ass. I nearly passed out from the sexual energy that overwhelmed me at the time. A few months later, I saw Todd Haynes' film Poison, and I was startled to see that he quoted the same line and also interpreted the line as explicitly sexual. My copy of The Thief's Journal is loaned out, but, doing my best from memory:

'My heart is in my hand, and my hand is in the bag, and the bag is shut, and my heart is caught.'

Now those are words to get off by. Fuck: Yes.









in English translation:

In the toilets
there is The Face
issue number
seventy
two hundred and
thirty-six pages

You can see Mac
Caulay Culkin
spiting out swallowing
his white dribble
on the cover
at twenty-two

He has white
milky eyes without
trace of abuse
even though you think
smooth-cheeked chest
page number eighty

White tank top
Gap grey boxer shorts
the hours are
Roman numerals
thick lip
eighty-one

Grey smoke
visible pore
the coton
became black
not like in the
double page

The fag is white
all the seam
you can't even
see its name
mine is not
stomach ache


*


in the original French:


Dans les toilettes
il y a The Face
le numéro
soixante-dix
il fait deux cent
trente-six pages

On y voit Mac
Caulay Culkin
crachant avalant
sa bave blanche
en couverture
à vingt-deux ans

Il a les yeux
d'un blanc laiteux
sans trace d'abus
quoiqu'on en pense
le torse imberbe
page quatre-vingt

Débardeur blanc
caleçon gris Gap
les heures sont des
chiffres romains
la lèvre épaisse
quatre-vingt un

La fumée grise
pore apparent
le coton est
devenu noir
pas comme dans la
page doublée

La clope est blanche
toute la couture
on n'en distingue
même pas le nom
le mien n'est pas
j'ai mal au ventre






I write a lot of porn, so in lieu of posting my own stuff, I thought I'd note porn writing that I especially enjoy.

Lars Eighner has written several books of erotica, but is most known for his nonfiction book "Travels With Lizbeth". Eighner's erotica, in particular the novel "Wank: The Tapes", was the first porn writing to really blow my mind, in that it turned me on both sexually and to the artistic possibilities of porn writing.

"Wank" concerns the sexual goings-on in a college dorm. Eighner takes the tried and true college dorm fantasy and makes it fresh by imagining a world of roles and rules that his straight, gay, and bi characters assume in their encounters. The prose is tight, hard and even poetic. The novel follows the motion of a typical porn scene in that it builds and builds to a penultimate climax; and the way that Eighner manages to sustain this build-up is a thing of wonder. I also recommend his Houston Street stories, which are included in the book "Bayou Boy". In particular, the story "Parks" is as tough, uncompromising, and erotic a coming-of-age narrative as I've ever read.

Geez, I make it sound so fucking academic, but it's really hot stuff, trust me. The only place I've been able to find these books online is Amazon, because they're mostly out of print. I hesitate to post URLs because they're so long, so just go to Amazon and search "lars eighner". If you like a good dirty story, I'm sure you won't regret it.

**

I'm a big fan of amateur erotica. There's a sincerity and earnestness in the best amateur porn that you just can't get anywhere else - the creator is doing it simply for his own pleasure and the pleasure of his/her readers.

Unforunately, it is often poorly written; but a major exception is the work of NPhillydogg, who regularly posts on Nifty.org. His stories of African-American men on the down-low are intensely erotic and offer a glimpse into a fully-realized world. Just to witness the author getting totally carried away with his characters and stories is a blast.

To find his Nifty stories, go to this link, and look for "NPhillydogg"

Or try these stories which I recommend:

"Weed" (p.2)"

"The Kiss"

Another favorite amateur porn writer is Sebastian Wallace, but I won't say anything about him except to direct you to his website, where there's lots to discover and wank over:

http://stories.remoworld.com/

**

Ah, fuck it; I can't resist posting some of my own stuff. This is a link to the latest story posted on my website (http://www.bacteriaburger.com). I think it's one of the better stories I've written this year, but I wasn't able to publish it anywhere. It also relates to some of the discussion I've had with Dennis on this blog, regarding those amateur "straight college guy" porn-model sites:

"Bradley Gets Fucked"






    He had a skinny little mustache that looked like it belonged on a lonely boy from a bleached and weathered photograph in a seventies porn mag. I couldn't tell if I thought it was cool or ugly. When I opened the door of the bar he was right there, an off-center smile and his head tilted back. He moved in sharp, slanted motions that I thought were cute and child-like. We stood in the corner and talked – chitchat. We discovered we both loved the same brand of underwear. "I'm wearing them right now," I told him, and he was, too. "See?" he said, lifting up his shirt and pulling up the elastic band of his underwear above his jeans so I could look. My eyes flickered to the sinewy pubic hairs that peeked out from behind the top of the underwear.

    "Do you wanna take a walk?" he asked me. I said sure. The streets were empty and damp, echo-y. The temperature had dropped suddenly, without warning, and I pulled my cardigan tightly around my chest as we walked and smoked. We headed in the direction of his apartment – he led and I followed. I waited for him to touch me, to brush his hand against mine or tap my foot with his shoe, but he never did. When we finally reached his apartment, he stopped and said "you can crash here, if you want" without looking at me. I said sure.

    In the kitchen he made toast and sprinkled some yeast on it before he bit into it, which I thought was weird. "I'm obsessed with toast," he said with a full mouth. "I eat it all the time." He found a half-full bottle of cheap wine and when he finished eating we took it to his room. He lived in a railroad and his roommates were asleep, so we had to tiptoe through their bedrooms to get to his. The door to his room was made mostly of thin glass panes, so we still had to talk in whispers. His walls were painted a comforting baby blue, but the room was stuffy and still, which made it seem like some forgotten nursery for a stillborn boy.

    His bed was just a worn mattress supported by some crates that were uneven, making the bed slope down at the head. We sprawled out on it and downed our wine. We laughed at the same things for a while and then he kissed me. It felt sweet and that bothered me – I liked him. I liked him enough to worry that maybe if we fucked I'd never see him again. But he kept kissing me in quick, balmy swipes and I let go. We took our clothes off.

    He was unbelievably skinny. He had a wiry torso that seemed longer than me and hips that poked out of his body frame like handle bars. His cock was thicker at the base and thinned out towards the head, which I liked. Pressing my fingertips along his backside, I felt each of his…flaws. But they didn't seem like flaws on him. The spot of acne on his shoulder, the dark moles on his back, the insistent black hairs that swirled above the crack of his ass – they were beautiful and they made him real. I wanted to memorize each of them. With his clothes off his body odor overtook the room – it was pungent and stiff but gorgeous, and I found myself drawn to his armpits.

    The sex was warm and fragrant and we fell asleep quickly, his pointy skeleton nestled into my hide. In the morning we gave each other blowjobs before he had to go to work. When I was about to come, he pulled his mouth away and I shot it on his hand. When I was sucking him he never told me he was close, and he ejaculated in my mouth. I almost gagged, but I swallowed it all.

    As we ambled to the subway under gaudy daylight he said that we should see each other again. He was leaving for business next week, though, and he'd be gone a while – but perhaps this coming weekend, he suggested. I nodded. He didn't return my first phone call, but he answered the second one and his voice was placid and tender. Maybe we could get together on Halloween, he said. But he didn't call. A few days later when I called he told me "look, I think you're a nice guy..." and the words just kind of dissolved into soft, fuzzy noise after that.

    So then I hated him. I would see him in bars every so often and I would hiss at him from afar. Eventually, he'd spot me, come over and say things like "you look really great. I love your beard," and that made me hate him even more, that he was being so sweet. I thought my hatred was a good thing – it kept me from pining after him.

    But one night he didn't say anything to me at all. From my perch at the bar I saw him walk in, and I groaned to my friends. I tried to ignore his presence, but a few minutes later I turned around and he was just standing there, next to me. I could only mumble "hi." He stared for a moment and then he leaned into me drunkenly, pushed his mouth against mine. His tongue separated my lips, filled my mouth, seemed to find its way down into my throat. The kiss was endless, overwhelming. It left me disoriented, and hard. We left for his apartment.

    Outside he tripped on the sidewalk and pretended it didn't happen. He was glassy-eyed, wasted. We ignored all the other passengers when we got on the subway and I laid my head in his lap while he twisted my hair in his fingers and hummed. On the walk to his apartment his pants kept falling down because he wasn't wearing a belt and he would have to stop and hike them up. We would make out and I'd stick my hands down the back of his pants to feel the heat coming off the skin of his ass. I'd press his crotch into mine to feel his erection and then we'd keep walking. Before we got there we stopped and pissed behind some cars and I watched his stream of urine snake down the pavement.

    It smelled like a casino inside his apartment. Everything seemed to be coated in ash and soured cigarette butts. Lumps of clothes and empty ice cream containers dotted the floor. There was an empty condom wrapper right by his bed. It bothered me. He's dirty, I thought, and I'm going to fuck him anyway. I was still drinking whiskey, trying to catch up with him, when he offered me what he said were anti-epilepsy pills that were like percodan or percoset or something. "They just make you feel really good," he explained. I didn't ask how he got them. He stuck his palm out, two little pills in it. I took them and when he turned his head I shoved them in my pocket. He told me he had gone on a bit of a drug binge a few days ago - just random pills - but that he hadn't taken any in a few days. I wasn't sure if I believed him. He seemed more than drunk.

    Once we stripped he never took his mouth off me. His kisses were heavy and warm, sloppy. When I realized that I still had my pink bandana around my neck I took it off and blindfolded him. "That's hot," he said, as I pushed his spine against the mattress. There was a shoebox full of off-brand condoms under his bed. I snatched one, tore open the wrapper and slid it on his cock, which was pulsating. Once it was in me, we couldn't stop fucking – we were attached, we were melded, we were meshed in flesh and moisture. His thrusting was aggressive and he panted and squinted his eyes. We fucked so hard we would slide off the bed, over and over. But we didn't stop, we didn't separate – we just kept going on the floor. I would slap his ass, grab huge chunks of skin, and he would pump faster. Then he would make a little fist and press it deep into my chest, right by my nipple. I grunted when he did this, and he began to do it a little harder. Instead of fuck me I found myself whispering hit me. And then I wasn't whispering anymore. He was shushing me and I was saying hit me. I didn't care what he was thinking. I started shouting and he was sneering Shut Up. Shut Up. But he was hitting me.






ST Lil Bro (4) Punishment Party t/t m/b group spanking anal enema toys speedos

(Part 4)

That weekend there was a BBQ at Coach's house outside of town. It was an orientation for rookies since swim team try-outs started in two weeks. Even though Jimmy still had another year at Junior High School, coach wanted him on the High School Team. Jimmy had won the district championships in his age group (10-13) in both the 50 Freestyle and the 100 meter breastroke. He was already showing a natural talent. And not just in swimming.

Coach let Mike know that Lucian and Ian had told him everything. All about busting his little brother's ass cherry, and details about other little swimmers they raped at their clubhouse. He had seen pictures of Jimmy's adorable ass being abused. Mike was ordered to bring him to the BBQ and told specifically not to touch his little fanny. No spankings. No assplay. No fuckings. The only thing he was allowed to do was lotion it.

Of course these were very hot thorough lotionings that started as soon as Mom and Dad left for work in the morning. Mike and Jimmy took full advantage of the last few days of summer, spending long hours in their room having sex. Jimmy would lie there every morning waiting for his brother's hands to slide under his briefs. He loved being stripped, spread and lotioned. Every inch of boy fanny was polished. The soft supple white cheeks and deep smooth crack, endless circling and probing of the pink starfish. It made Mike crazy, exploring his baby brother's tender back door, and not being able to fuck it. But he knew not to disobey coach. Mike had a feeling he was in for a spanking. Didn't seem like the Coach was very pleased about them ass raping his 12 year old brother.

By the time Dad dropped them off at the Coach's house the party was in full swing.
In the backyard upperclassmen and even some older guys were gathered around the smoking BBQ. Clearly they weren't just BBQing ribs either. Someone yelped as a paddle smacked a wet Speedo clad bottom.

In the driveway five 13 and 14 year old boys were polishing the Coach's large black SUV. All of them were in Speedos, and embarrassed since everyone else was dressed in shorts and shirts. Each had been invited to try out for the team not because they had fast times, but because they were the hottest boys, Pony Boys who had just spent the summer splashing around the pool getting golden brown tans. The upperclassmen scouted the Youth Swim Team for the best, roundest asses. Sometimes it wasn't even sexual attraction that made them personally invite these boys to try out for the team. Some of the straight bullies just liked how a bubble butt bounced during a spanking.





These poor little boys actually believed that they would be swimming that day. Instead they were getting their tails roasted. 13 and 14 year old boys in wet speedos were being made to detail the Coach's truck while a bunch of seniors paddled them. Random blasts with a garden hose kept their asses nice and wet, which made the paddle sting even more.

"You missed a spot faggot."

CRACK !

"OWWWW It hurts"

Each year the swim team held a car wash to raise money. People came from miles around to have wet Speedo clad teenagers polish their cars. The freshmen were told they needed to learn how to polish a car properly.

"If you miss another spot on that bumper I'm gonna paddle your ass raw!"

Jimmy was turned on by the sight of the 18 year old swimmers paddling his friend's small behinds. These were all boys Jimmy knew from the pool. All that swimming was good for building tight muscular little bottoms. Nice deep cracks for wet speedos to wedge themselves in. There was a lot of fanny flesh on display. Innocent little boys being circled by paddle weilding predators. Swim team hazing had begun.

One of the Seniors was particularly hot and evil looking. This guy looked right at Mike and Jimmy and headed in their direction, a beer in one hand and a small paddle in the other. Paul came right up to Mike and swatted him on the ass. He then pulled back Mike's shorts and Speedos to have a look at his crack.

"Hey Pussyboy. Guess you didn't see Coach yet. He wants you in the Basement."

The way Paul hissed this into Mike's ear made Jimmy wonder if he punished his older brother. Mike's cock bulged as Paul continued exploring his ass. He was rubbing the very top of the smooth crack, right below the tanline.

"When he gets done with you find me. Understand Hole?"

That little paddle cracked against Mike's tender fanny flesh. Smooth pale unexposed ass that hadn't been punished all summer. It was clear what kind of BBQ this was and Mike's 15 year old's ass was on the menu. Unwittingly, he had brought his little brother to one of the coach's Punishment Parties. And it looked like the party was being held in honor of Mike his buddies. Mike noticed none of them were out in the yard. He had a pretty good idea what was going on inside the Coach's rambling ranch-style house.

The stairs to the basement were right inside the back door of the house. The sound of hard spanking and lots of crying was coming from downstairs. Asses were being loudly punished.

A den area was set up in the main part of the basement. There was TV, PlayStation,
and plenty of room for the swim team to hang out, which they were welcome to do any time they wanted. Everyone was chilling, relaxing with beer, chips and dip. ESPN was playing on the big TV set. It looked completely normal and wholesome, except in the middle of the L shape sectional a strapping Senior named Luke had Lucian bare ass in the wheelbarrow postion. Lucian's blue Arena racing suit was yanked down just below his buttcheeks. No one was paying that much attention to the smooth 15 year old being punished. He was spread on Luke's lap with his strong legs pulled apart, face down, hands laced together and on his head. This was one of the best spanking postions. In this postion a boy always showed hole. Lucian's little winker was pulsing every time Luke's hand landed on one of his meaty cheeks. You could tell that Lucian had been getting his fanny tanned all afternoon by Coach as well as Luke. The glimmer around the teen's hole indicated ass play as well. They were always teasing Lucian because he was pretty. His long eyelashes, pouty lips, and long hair made him look almost like a girl, especially when his ass was in the air. Sometimes they made him wear a pair of pink silk panties, and a little teddy. In spite of his ten inch cock he was a trained pussyboy.

"My hand's gettin tired Lucian. Guess it's hole time."

Luke picked up a long dildo from the coffee table and started to lube it with Vaseline.
There were paddles, straps, handcuffs, buttplugs, empty beer cans, smashed potato chips, and a big jar of Vaseline on the table. The red dildo Luke was going to use on Lucian was about 14 inches long, an inch and a half thick, and it vibrated. The thing buzzed to life and then was slowly pushed against Lucian's pink hole.

"See baby, it's got four different speeds."

Luke put only the tip against the wet hole and showed Lucian how all four settings felt. It buzzed his hairless ass pucker, making it flutter obscenely. After this little warm-up the fat dildo was slowly roatated in. The guy next to Luke got interested and helped pull Lucian's ass farther apart. He had a nice hole. The rim got inspected, looked at, rubbed. The dildo probed in and out. A finger would swirl around the hole every time the toy popped out. Another glob of Vaseline was rubbed in so the dildo could go deeper. Everytime Lucian moaned his ass got slapped which made his anus open further. Soon 7 inches of dildo was in the teen's ass. From his prostrate to the rim of his hole, his butt was being buzzed. No attention was being paid to his throbbing ten inch cock, dangling between Luke's legs. They didn't want him to cum until he was upstairs.

In the bedrooms upstairs three of the teens involved in Jimmy's ass rape were being gang banged. Coach had already finished frying their fannies. After a full punishment session that included some OTK and an enema, the 15 year olds were sent upstairs to spread.





Seniors, and even some older guys were lined up in the hall waiting to get into one of the rape rooms. Mike's teamates were tied up, with plenty of hard cock waiting to plug any available hole. The beds were stripped down for hard play, each boy's ass was in the air, face pussy available. Pulled down Speedos were used as cum rags. Hard muscled swimmers pounded away at the supple asses and hot wet mouths. Free beer and tight pussy, what stud could turn that down? No one cared if it was boy pussy they were pounding. These boys were young, smooth and hella tight. With their speedo fuck panties pulled down you could hardly tell that they weren't girls. Some of them, like Ian had better looking asses than a lot of these guy's girlfriends. There were guys there just to perv, a few real dirty talkers who would whisper the nastiest things in your ear about how pretty your mouth or hole was, then cream all over your face or up your nose. Coach invited the nastiest guys to the Punishment Party to make sure each of the six boys got banged good.

"Hey Fag, want a beer?"

Ian was about to get a beer enema. Someone was twisting an icy cold bottle into his small pink hole. The coolness felt good on his punished flesh, but he knew that once the liquid was inside they would leave him there, with the 40 ounce bottle shoved up his ass. He cried and screamed as the cramps started, writhing helplessly against his binds.

"You leak a drop of that beer and we'll make you drink it."
"Yeah dude! Let's make him drink Ass beer!
"Put a hose in his ass and drain it into his mouth!!"

The guys in Ian's room opened more beers and took a break from pounding his pussy. They talked among themselves about which teen was tightest, who sucked the best cock, which ass took the hardest spanking. Someone decided a beer enema was a good idea for all three bottoms. More than thirty cumloads had already been deposited, and the gang bang had just gotten into full swing. It was time to clean the pussies out, stretch them on the fat bottle necks. Each got a full forty ouncer.

Ian reached agony first, so they untied him and he was alowed take his enema dump.
He would sure to suffer more since everyone was getting into torturing his little ass. They could do anything they wanted to him. He was so drunk from the beer enema that he would probably pass out, then the fisting and double dicking would begin.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Mike and Jimmy were standing in the doorway of the Coach's discipline room. It was about 10x10 and painted black. A door in back led to a small bathroom. Next to it was a custom padded punishment table. It was adustable and had many leather straps to restrain the victim. The thing was designed to perfectly spread and immobilize a teenage boy. There was a metal stand for an enema bag and three drawers underneath for medical and surgical toys.

Spanking implements and toys were kept in a large oak cabinet. Many a boy shivered as the Coach would choose among the many devices he had to torture hole. Also to be found were a myriad of restraints, gags,cameras, ball stretchers, pony tails, the collection of a true sadist.

Center in the room was the Coach himself. Seated in a sturdy wood chair. Seth, the boy who had taken the digital pictures of Jimmy's rape was over the Coach's knee. Nothing was more embarassing to a maturing 15 year old than getting an over the knee spanking. Getting your speedos yanked down, and then being treated like a little baby.

Seth had a baby ass. It was very round and bouncy. Not only hairless, but extremely soft. Everyone loved looking at Seth's deep crack in the showers. He was a shy boy and tended to be the voyuer during their sex parties. Mike wasn't even sure if he had given up his ass cherry yet. He was into group J/O sessions and dirty talk on the phone, but hadn't had that much actual sex. Coach delivered another series of fast swats to Seth's cheeks, he had been riding the man's knee for about thirty minutes. His tail was roasted. Coach wiped his sweaty brow and then motioned Mike and Jimmy into the Punishment Room.

"You must be Mike's little brother. Come over here so you can see better. I'm just taking a little break here. My hand's getting tired."

SWAT!

"You like seeing boys get their fannies tanned?"

SWAT!

Jimmy was transfixed as the Coach's big hand rubbed Seth's spanked fanny. His finger were roaming all over. Lightly stroking the crack, then down between the legs and back over the bright red punished cheeks.

"Mike go fetch me the Fanny Sauce and that black latex Spanking Glove from the cabinet."

Mike knew right away what Seth was in for. Once coach got done spanking with his bare hands he would put on a thick Latex glove designed especially to punish ass. Coach could tan fanny all afternoon and never worry about his hand getting sore. The latex made the spanking that much more painful. Worse were the fingertips of the glove. Each had raised bumps and thorns. Cheeks were pulled apart and the fingertips would dance over the exposed flesh. This is where the "Fanny Sauce" came in.





Every time there was a Punishment Party the Coach would whip up a batch of homemade Fanny Sauce to slather on each punished boy's ass. The sauce had a base of Baby Oil and was seasoned with peppermint oil, ground ginger,ground red pepper,and a special ingredient that made the skin itch. This fanny sauce was in a large bottle custom fitted with a large nozzle. Coach squeezed some of it into his hand and began rubbing it into Seth ass cheeks. At first it felt soothing, but soon the oil would heat up. making his ass feel even more on fire. The poor guy was soon thrashing around trying to put the fire out. Coach kept Seth's arms pinned so he couldn't rub his tortured tail.

The ass went higher as the Coach repostioned him with his legs spread. Seth was showing hole. The hole didn't get touched. Just looked at. After drenching the crack in sauce Coach went to work on it with the bumpy tips of the gloves. He massaged and teased the whole crack while dancing around the hole. Heat seared tender flesh as the wicked latex bumps and cones circled closer to the pink skin around Seth's pucker. Coach used his forefinger and thumb to spread the area around the anus and used his middle finger to lightly tickle it. The smallest bit of Fanny Sauce was now being applied to the most sensitive part of this boy's body. Every nerve felt the sweep of the fingertips molesting the fifteen year old's innocent back door.

"See how that Fanny Sauce is making his hole burn?
You're getting my finger twenty times all the way in and all the way out Seth.
You tell me when your ready."

Seth didn't want the Coach up his ass, basting it with that fucking sauce. But soon the itch at his hole was too much to bear. He was helpless. There was no way he could get at the itch. Coach loved looking at Seth's hole as the sauce did it's trick. The little thing was winking as the tip of his fuck finger grazed it. Then Coach suprised him with a hard slap to the left cheek.

"Tell me when you're ready."

"Alright Alright. Do it."

Coach re-spread Seth's ass. "Do what boy."

"Finger my ass."

The black latex fuckfinger corkscrewed in and Seth felt every inch. The bumps and protrusions were tickling his sore, hot opening. Coach wiggled his finger once it was all the way in, and after a little probing it was slowly corscrewed out.

"That's one boy. I want you to fuck yourself on my finger now. You've got nineteen strokes to go."

What a little slut Coach turned this kid into. Making him screw his own ass onto a middle finger lubed with torture sauce. And he was doing it in front of his best friend and his kid brother. They were watching Coach make a pussy out of his unexplored asshole. The guy really knew how to use his thick long fingers. He played that ass like a piano. By the tenth stroke Seth was really riding it. Coach was making a real nice ass pussy for the team to exploit, and he wasn't nearly done.

The fingerfucking speeded up, Seth was on fire at this point. His hard-on was postioned between the coaches legs and stretched the pouch of his pulled down Speedos. Nothing mattered but the finger tickling the depths of his ass and deliciously tight place he was humping on Coach's legs. As embarassing as it would be, he was about to blow a load into his Speedos and all over the Coach's lap while cornholing himself on that middle finger. Mike and Jimmy couldn't believe it as Seth creamed his pouch. Some of it even landed on the floor.

He got another sound spanking for cumming without permission and staining his Coach's pants. Seth was made to suck his own load out of the pouch of his Speedos before the Coach stuffed them in his mouth. The boy was made to stand in the corner with his hands on his head, showing off his red ass. The fanny sauce would roast his flesh for another twenty minutes, making Seth dance around and moan into his gag.

"This is the same punishment all of your buddies got Mike. When I'm done with Seth you're next. Now go fill up the enema bag for him."

As the red two quart bag was filled with water, Coach explained to Jimmy the punishment each boy was being given before being sent upstairs to get banged. It was called Fire & Ice. First the OTK ass roasting. Then the Fanny Sauce got rubbed into the cheeks and deep inside. This had them singing and dancing as it grew hotter and itchier. A cum soaked Speedo gag made it even more humiliating.

After corner time came the "Ice" part of the punishment. Coach had a small freezer in the corner of the room that contained Klyster enema nozzles for each boy. The nozzles are made of machined satin finished aluminum. This metal is beautiful, durable, light enough for comfortable wear yet heavy enough for a very solid feel. The nozzles were shaped like butt plugs, some tapered, others had bulges, one was rippled. They were all more than six inches long and two or three inches wide.

Once Seth was secured to the punishment table Coach got ready to give him an icy enema. The water in the enema bag was cold, but the nozzle was freezing. Seth was terrified as his Klyster nozzle was removed from the freezer, gleaming in the dim light. He had never seen anything so scary looking. It was coated with mentholated gel and attached to the enema hose. Seth knew it was going to be screwed into his little ass.

Coach had to spank him apart. The kid still had enough of a fight left to squeeze his butt cheeks together, trying to avoid the freezing thing about to invade his ass. Useless. It sank into his fresh hole. All the way in.

Then Coach tenderly rubbed his back and he relaxed enough to breathe and begin to deal with the huge butt plug dialating his asshole. It sent shivers through him, but the freezing cold plug cooled the effects of the Fanny Sauce, which had been roasting his pucker for the last ten minutes.

"Just open up and take it, it's just like stretching before a race Seth."

A little of the lube dribbled down Seth's balls. He was fully exposed on the table. Cock and balls hanging through an opening in the table. It was designed so that the Coach could bring his chair over and comfortably study a boy's ass from between his splayed legs. There was also a convenient goose neck lamp. It provided focused bright light. You could see Seth's pink assring throb around the base of the custom torture nozzle. Plenty of light to look at hole, even take some pictures (gotta pay for those nozzles somehow.) Sometimes the Coach put on his reading glasses to he could really inspect the flesh he was torturing.

This Coach was the kind of guy who made boys quiver just by looking at them with his piercing blue eyes. He was a stocky, dark man. In good shape for his age because of years in the pool, training and tightening boys up til they were ripe for the table. Seth's asshole was beautiful. Perfect age to begin prolonged stretching.
The fat enema nozzle would be in there for a good half hour while the coach slowly filled him up. This fifteen year old boy was an enema virgin.

Cooling water blasted his tortured prostrate. The nozzle had holes up and down it's length to evenly stimulate the insides of Seth's ass. Coach had Mike fetch him a beer. He wanted to relax and enjoy giving Seth his very first enema. Jimmy watched as Coach used the stopper to control how much water flowed into the blond fifteen year old. For and enema virgin two quarts was quite a load. was giving Seth had a wicked boner, the stimulation of the endless frigging and twidling of the enema nozzle was making him get hard again even though he had just creamed his pouch. Coach was a talented enema administrator. By the time Mike came back with the beer, the man was ready to kick back and watch the boy writhe in agony as the enema began cause cramps.

Sometimes he would add some flat coca cola mixed with castille soap into the enema bag at that point to add to the pain, but Seth was already screaming into his gag. Soaking it with spit. Dancing on the punsihment table as the leather straps binding him seared his soft flesh.

At this point boys would start "singing"
Shrieking as the ass punishment climaxed.





What was worse for Mike, worse than seeing his buddy tortured, was knowing he would be splayed across the Coach's knee soon, then after corner time he was headed for the torture table. And would likely get it worse than Seth. This was the punishment for raping a twelve year old boy's ass. A good lesson in enduring pain and dred. Mike's nice plump ass cheeks clenched in his swimsuit. He noticed that the spray bottle Coach used to keep his ass wet during a spanking was sitting on the floor next to where Seth had been punished. That cool water felt good until the spanking started again and your soaked Speedo clad ass simmered under his big hands.

Jimmy got to watch his older brother get a hard over-the-knee spanking. Both on skin tight Speedos, and bare. Their dad never let him watch when he spanked Mike. It was his first chance to see his big brother's ass get roasted. Mike was OTK for a while before his butt got sprayed with water, then wet spanked.

The black latex glove was used to spank and then apply a thick coat of Fanny Sauce to every inch of Mike's juicy ass. A very sexy smell was coming from this sweaty teen as he danced on the bumpy tips of the glove. Mike got cornholed as sweat dripped off his juicy balls. Since there weren't any more boys to punish Coach filled the kid up with the rest of the Sauce. He used the nozzle to squirt it deep inside. Some trickled out of the hole and dripped onto Mike's aching balls. With his free hand Coach reached under and wrapped his hand around the kids hard cock. This made a moist tight tunnel for Mike to fuck. By the time he realised the slick hand was coated in Sauce it was too late. Mike spent corner time with his cheeks,hole,cock,and balls on fire.

Seth was eventually allowed to expell the enema and sent out to be spanked and raped upstairs and in the Rec room. A tight clean hole to exploit. Even the straight guys at the party wanted a piece of that fresh pussy.

Mike was now strapped down to the warm sweaty table, the enema nozzle deep in his ass. The bag would take a few minutes to empty so Coach gave Jimmy a tour of his dungeon. All the different toys and their uses were explained to him. The Coach's dick lump grew as Jimmy examined a collection of anal speculums stored below the enema table. Some of them were child sized.

Coach had of course seen the photos of Jimmy's ass rape posted online. They had clearly photographed, in detail, his ordeal. The long hot fanny tanning. An excruciating plugging with the ginger root, lavish hole spanking, the gang ass rape. Cum dripping off his face and out of his stretched asshole.

Coach was dying to get a look at Jimmy's fanny flesh.

"Maybe when Mike's done on the table we can give you a big boy enema Jimmy."

In his mind Jimmy had already picked out the enema nozzle that he wanted the Coach to use on him. It was unique. About five inches long and beaded. Jimmy instinctively knew how pleasurable it would be to have the Coach frig his ass with that black beaded nozzle.

Once Mike was sent out to get his ass raped his lil bro was placed over the Coach's lap, not for a spanking, but so the Coach could gently pull down his brand new swimsuit and inspect his ass flesh. You see, Jimmy's Arena racing suit had come in time for the party. Mike had done a good job putting his brother's fresh ass pussy on display. This skimpy cut suit sank obscenely into Jimmy's scrumptious butt crack. Only a slit in the back to access his hole would make it sluttier. The suit even put the very top of the kid's ass crack on display.

As the Coach pulled the suit away he was able to see for himself the deep crack that had brought so much pleasure to Mike and his friends. He was gently exploring one of the freshest pieces of ass he had ever put across his knee. It was unbelievably smooth and soft. No sign of the punishments the older boys had administered. Big warm hands rubbed his baby ass all over, made him feel good on the coach's knee.
He could feel the man's big cock lurch as his tiny starfish was exposed.





The coach gave Jimmy his enema so gently that he didn't need to use restraints.
He loved being stretched out on the table, with his Speedos pulled down.
After his hole was good and clean the coach let him pick a toy out for some
detailed pleasuring. His choice was a vibrator, which had a thin anal probe attached to it. This was perfect to tease the kids tiny winking hole. There was nothing but moans of pleasure as the fanny tickler danced around Jimmy's sweet asshole. More warm vaseline was smeared on so the anal tip could probe deeper. There were four speeds and a heating element, so the Coach was able to give Jimmy a long modulated anal massage. He had that twelve year old's hole dancing on the vibrator until they had both worked up a sweat. Then attention was paid to the kid's stiff 6 inch cock.

Coach pulled off and used the brand new Arena swimsuit to jack Jimmy off with.

That's how Jimmy blew his first load in the Coach's basement. Ass in the air, being diddled with a vibrator as he blew a load right into to his brand new fuck panties.






(This excerpt comes from an unfinished work. Please note the picture represents a general idea of one of the characters, not an exact match).





    He straddles his chest and his balls rest on a fiery sun god. On his neck a lightning bolt flashes to and fro in the opposite direction of the cock in his mouth. The clown remains surly and humorless, although one might suspect Snoopy’s rye smirk might belie another not so benign impression of the encounter. He pulls out of tattoo guy’s mouth. Beads of sweat appear more clearly on his body as it is covered by nothing but a pair of white athletic socks. As he slides down they meet face to face. His chest hair sinks into the sun. He raises his head and their eyes meet.
    “Are you having fun yet?”
    “No.”
    ‘No’ is the expected answer, but there is something about the delivery that didn’t quite work. It will have to be addressed by next time.
    “Kiss me like you fucking love me.” The sound of his own voice shocks even the speaker for a second. There are sometimes moments like these where he finds his energy so raw and hateful that he can actually scare himself. The reflection lasts only a second and he is able to let go of the analysis and drift back in.
    Their lips lock. He feels himself sucking the soul out of the tattoo guy. In the years he has known him he hardly ever got the impression that tattoo guy liked him even a little bit. Tattoo guy has never had a boyfriend or girlfriend to his knowledge, but there is such a sense of passion given off by that kiss that it shocks him out of the moment again into yet another meta-moment where he is reflecting on things as they happen. As he holds him down and makes him kiss him a strange emotion bubbles up. It’s tender and all together useless.
    “Now kiss me like you hate me.”
    This allows both of them to return to their comfort zone. The joining of their anger and rage causes the bigger man to rise up. Kneeling on the edge of the bed (actually just a mattress on the floor) he grabs his ankles and twists. Like a chain reaction the tattoo guy rolls over and the other dives back on top. The right arm comes over the right shoulder and around his neck and is guided to his left wrist. The left arm slides under his torso and grabs the right wrist. His knees spread the knees below him.
----In the past this part had gone much slower, but the improvisation of the kissing and the feelings it created makes it seem not so important. With a single thrust his cock enters the sweat drenched ass. The body tightens underneath him. Tattoo guy is clearly stunned.
    “No take it out!”
    “Why?”
    “It hurts!”
    “So, don’t you fucking like it?”
    “NO!”
    “Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”
    “No, please!”
    “OK, now you can shut the fuck up.”
    There is no objective way of discerning whether or not the fucking takes a long time or a short time. Tattoo guy’s face is crammed against the bare, stained mattress. He listens to a barrage of insults as his ass is violated.
    “You ready?”
    “What?”
    He squeezes the guy under him.
    “Are you ready?”
    “No, pull out don’t cum inside me!”
    “Shut up”
    “Please, please don’t”
    Three climactic thrusts, two grunts and a long groan and then the two turn calm. He lets his head rest for a minute on the side of tattoo guy’s head. Thirty seconds later a twitch and a sigh from underneath indicates that it is time to get up.
    He rolls over and his dick slips out. Tattoo guy puts on boxers and scampers off to the bathroom. He is somehow always surprised when he sees tattoo guy has gotten off. On the uncovered mattress is the pattern of a human being in sweat with a small pool of semen directly in its center. It reminds him of the chalk outlines from detective shows on TV, limbs strewn helter skelter.
    He only ever gets to the bathroom second so he puts all his clothes on right away. He’s filthy but he isn’t about to do anything about it besides give his dick a quick bath in the sink and piss.
    He emerges from the bathroom to find tattoo guy standing in the hall. Tattoo guy has the same smirk as snoopy. Tattoo guy extends his hand.
    “Thanks dude!” he says.
    “Yeah man, that was hot.” Their hands join for a friendly, brief squeeze.
    “I’ll catch you.”
    “I’ll be looking for you.”






my sex sex erotique fragment......

when he pull my jeans down
he admire mi dick mi balls
he inmerses himself
in them on them
like a prayer
on his knees
lick them soft and hard
sof and hard
more hard more lick like eternal long licking
his mouth is fresh
i feel the wet in my skin
my balls are sliding
my dick is hard hard shaped by
his loopy tongue
his loopy tongue
his hands round my ass
opening it
spliting it
my hole is expanding
dilatating like a mouth
and i want him in there
so so so there
the sound of his lick
is louder and louder
my compulsions are most
dificult to control
i wish it last forever
spasms my liquid
my cum my cum is so ready
in there
his mouth is so ready
my ass is so so ready
i want to shake shake
shake
and i shake and shake
his hair falls on his eyes
his hair falls on my dick
his long hair covers his face
but his mouth his tongue
are shining hot
he suck me real good
he suck me real real good
i can see my cum in his mouth
my cum inside his troath
his teeeh....
on my cum
his hair on my cum
his tongue full of cum
he is so hard he takes me
by my back
now he is going to fuck me
hard hard hard
his dick moves in out in out
his mouth bites my ear
my neck
his tongue inside my sound hole
noising sucking real good
fucking me so good
filling me hard
oh yeah
do it like this
oh yeah
real good
like this
give it now now
give it now
oh yeah
boy
you are so good
this is soo good
his balls against my butt
hitting me hard
come on boy
scream boy
scream yeah
give it
yeah
give it now
real good
i want his hole
and i get his hole
and his hole is
glory on my mouth
his taste i wet
oh now
oh now
my tongue licks
him real good
my tongue fucks him real good
and he is hard
againg so hard
againg so so so hard
i know i am staying here
now
loopying your hole
kissing your ring
losing me in it
and i am hard
againg hard
againg
fucking hard
for you









She lies back and the shock of the slab juts her nipples out and arches her slender back. Her breasts are large and intrusive. At odds with her pubescent framework. She has the hips of a twelve-year-old. I run a hand across the width of her navel which is hard and sticky and gleams in the moonlight.
"Look at your tits," I whipser, "Touch them."
She does so, reluctant at first but wanting to be urged on. I slip an arm around her small back and flick my tongue across her flat young tummy.
"Do you like that?"
Impatient now, I part her legs which are coloured with fresh bruises. I slide a finger inside. She's dry and stiffens at my touch. For an instant, I feel I should stop, I should turn on my heels and run. But as my mouth falls upon her cunt and the smell of rubber smacks me in the face, I resume my role. Guiltlessly. As a punter. With a stiff tongue I press down hard on her clit and with short purposeful strokes, I slowly massage her to life. I feed in another then another finger and her resistance gives way to minimal yet compliant thrusts. My movements become more forceful and her juices gush freely onto my face. The body arcs upwards and outwards and holds up there as she strains against this pleasure.
I slide a hand in my trousers and seek my cunt. I manipulate myself hard an selfishly, the whore becoming nothing but a body. A cunt in a magazine. My climax is powerful but as soon as those crackling shortwaves subside I'm overwhelmed by the impulse to abscond. I feel sober and akward. I remove my hands from her body, which are lathered in our sweat and wipe them on my hips.

-- "Brass" Helen Walsh (2004)


On the floor of her mother's walk-in closet, she gagged his mouth with a suede Dior belt; behind the cinder-block retaining wall, she employed a railroad tie to hold his legs spread. Deep in the furnace room, hidden among the spare tires and Flexible Flyers, she repetitiously wrapped him with kite string and extra electrical cords,
tying him to the hot-water heater, his puny ass burning a bright and cheery pink as heat seeped through the thin insulation. She pushed him past his limit, drove his sweet Schwanstück backward and forward, slamming him from drive to reverse. Stripped, she slid her naked body over his, sweeping the rubbery tips of her tits across his fine and sensitive skin from neck to nuts, making him twist and turn, trying to pull away from the heater, the heater itself making a groaning sound and him begging, "Put it in, put it in."

-- "The End of Alice" A. M. Homes (1996)


"Put it in my ass, Sir Edmond." Simone shouted.

-- "Story of the Eye" Georges Bataille (1928)


http://www.XTube.com/play_re.php?v=4TrW6BGSL4f
http://www.insexarchives.com/
http://www.infernalrestraints.com/
http://www.spankingblog.com/
http://www.herfirstpunishment.com/






from THROUGH THE WINDOW


(This story takes place in a future where virtual reality allows , well virtual reality. You come up with a fantasy, The Machine lets you indulge it as though it were real. John has just had a bad interview and an argument with his boyfriend Scott and he’s mad as hell…)


‘Scenario: The Interviewer from the clinic today. We’re both American pilots, World War Two. Get the uniforms right. He’s decided to go straight and get married but I won’t take no for an answer.’
’Not that one again,’ The Machine said wearily.
’Just do it!’ He slammed a window shut.
Then shouted ‘Machine Response off!’
He’d programmed ‘Cheeky’ into Response, but was thinking of changing it to ‘Supportive’ any day now.

The rape went well. Twice. Very satisfying. At first the big leather bomber jacket with the furry collar was too romantic and cuddly to be sexy, so he changed it to Mafia boy in black shirt and white tie. Ripped the shirt open across the chest.
’Think you’re Superman pal eh? Think you know it all?’
He squeezed both nipples until they were purple.
‘ More dick!’
The Interviewer’s trousers swelled up until it looked like he’d got a rugby ball behind his zip. John pulled the trousers down, grabbed the snake-size dick .
’Pliable Gravity’ had already been programmed into Rape He lifted the weightless legs up over his shoulders and pummelled in. So much easier than all that awkwardness with Scott.
The second time he got carried away.
‘A dick coming out of his mouth. And Giovanni from sixth year, up my arse at the same time He’s secretly wanted me for years. Verbals. Biting my neck. Hands all over. The usual’.
John had V-raped and been V-raped by every guy at school he’d ever been frustrated by before his parents gave him the key to the machine scrambler.
And V-loved by Giovanni. And Scott (exactly the way he wanted it - he and Scott in the Manhattan film poster world: on the bench beneath the bridge, forever.)

Read the rest here.


----------------


From ARISTOTLE MCNAB


(Aristotle McNab is a serial killer with a penchant for Mormons. He has drugged his latest two victims, Ruben and Gabriel, the latter of whom he’s working on…)


‘You telling me, Gabriel, in six or seven years you never whacked off ?’
‘I’ve sure tried not to. Once in a while.’
‘.That’s a lot of little swimmers to keep inside you. Do they die off in there? I mean you might as well let them out then. Or are there little five year old sperms in there quietly going nuts?‘ I’m thinking, shit, that’s why these religious types are all freaks - their father’s swimmers are all stir crazy.

Gabriel started unbuttoning his shirt then abandoned that and started on his trouser buttons then unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers and pants down in one. Wham! - his dick sprung up and battered his belly. I pulled his trousers and pants and shoes clean off in one.
He stared at his hard dick like he’d never seen it before.

I said, ‘You know if whacking off once in a while with your own hand ain’t so bad, what’s the difference if it’s someone else’s hand?’
‘Beats the shit out of me.’ He shut his eyes.
‘Just what I intend to do.’

I sucked it first. God it was hot. And greasy. I noticed before how those Mormon boys weren’t so clean and fresh inside as out. Then I moved over his balls and up, licking every one of his shirt buttons then those big brown nipples then the neck and jaw. I ran my hands all over his beautiful gold crew-cut and licked his jaw. Finally I licked his mouth, kissed it. He opened his eyes. Stared for a minute. Or a million years. Then kissed me back, at first slowly, uncertainly then deeply and hard when I began to pump him. Then he was virtually biting my mouth off. I got mine’s out and his eyes widened, less than an inch from mine, as he felt it’s length and thickness. He pumped furiously, trying to find new grips as even his long fingers found it hard to get around it.

We both volcanoed. And here’s what it’s all about for me. As we lay on each other, shirts covered in sweat and spunk, he leaned over and kissed me gently, eye to eye. And it was Gabriel, not the drug, that was loving. For whatever reason.

Then I strangled him with his tie. It was quick and clean. I really just broke his neck. He would never have had any thought of murder or death. His last act and thought on Earth was loving me.

So here’s what I can’t understand: why can’t you understand that? He would have woken up, maybe remembered maybe not. Said a few meaningless words as he dressed himself. Then gone. He would have gone. Forever.

I fucked Ruben while he was still out cold, with Gabriel there slumped against the wall watching, his head quizzically turned to one side. I pulled Ruben’s trousers off and put him on top of Gabriel, rubbing his mouth against Gabriel’s dick, then mouth. Then I gave him the injection to wake him. His eyes opened quickly. The last thing he was aware of was Mormon shirt and tie on Mormon shirt and tie, Mormon dick on Mormon dick, Mormon mouth on Mormon mouth. Then I twisted his head and laid it on Gabriel’s.

Read the rest here.






He grabbed both of my ankles with one giant hand and pushed my feet toward my head. As he let go, I grabbed my legs by the backs of my knees and pulled hard, my hamstrings taut, my pucker of an asshole gasping for cock. He spit into his hand, lubed his dick with three long, slow, powerful strokes, then put the head of his massive member to my hole, teasing me with light, meaty brush strokes up and down my raw crack. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I yelled, "Please!" and he plowed all 10 inches straight into me, taking away my breath. He pumped me for a good half-hour, first slow, then with quick little pumps that damaged my prostate beyond belief and left my belly button full of my own pre-cum. Just before I began to beg him to stop through erratic gulps of the hot sex air filling the room, he pulled out of me, the sound of a vacuum throttling out of my ass, and busted his dank, creamy load all over my sack.
    "Vincent," said Dennis.
    I looked up at him through my sweat-soaked eyes, trying to breathe. "Yeah?"
    "Get the fuck out of here, you skinny little fucking pig, before Yury gets home."






Tongue moving in slow circles, widening my incision – teeth biting softly, pulling my skin – two fingers pulling down my asshole – touch of dead insects – tickle, revulsion pushing me to disengage; fist entering between my legs, please – she says suck the blood from my knuckles. Punches fist into my mouth. I suck hard because I might cry. Limbs moving away from torso, legs walking away, hands floating away and disappearing – nails stripped from fingertips - teeth falling out of mouth – face stripped, cock stabbing mouth – lips breaking - teeth and hair knotted - knots sinking - organs and stomach erupting through incision - seething out in globs and black foam - mouth open, cockroaches and millipedes - exoskeletons exploding lubricate – swallow, choke – seething out antennae and thorax – no stomach – lungs bursting – heart, tight and hard, like a grenade – bursting – cloud of dead organic matter – white skull emerging – floating – jaw touching surface.

scalpel please

suck the cuts between my knuckles – suck – have they noticed this cut? The one I spit on – mom and dad never notice – two fingers in my asshole – pull it toward my mouth - have they noticed these cuts? – pink life forms thrashing in the water - genitals locked, spinning and glowing like halogen lights – noxious fumes of cooked frogs rising from the lake – waves lapping dead eels and tadpoles over our knotted limbs – dead mosquitoes and larvae between our toes - under out toe nails. Blinding light of the sexual binaries - wild contortions - splash lubricate over our bodies. That one sucks its own asshole! Did they notice these cuts at school? The ones on your dick and wrists – the ones I made by accident when the scissors slipped and I made this hole in my hand – between my thumb and index finger – you can look inside – stab it with your tongue.






It's like the opposite of sex, Paul thinks, instead of warmth and pleasure and pain and nothing more there are a thousand details to be noticed, registered and remembered. The hand on his thigh traces a curve up to the side of his torso and his skin is prickling, almost stinging. It's like he has never had hands there before, but he has. "Like a virgin" his mind says, "touched for the very first time." But it's not true. This is not that feeling at all. This feeling is memory.

When Neil's hand slips over his hip bone, fingers tracing his navel, arm around his waist, it's Sasha creeping close, tracing his navel, grabbing his hipbone, keeping him where he is. The burning traces of Neil's hands aren't good things. They are memories awakened by a touch that is much too soft for Paul's tastes.

Pain doesn't hurt. Pain is pain and can't be dealt with on it's own terms. Pain is pain and pain is useful. Pain is cleansing. Pain isn't that bad. Sasha never used pain, and there is nothing that hurt as much as Sasha. Neil loves him, and it makes Paul feel absolutely helpless. Neil loves him, and it makes Paul feel as if he is back in a place where sex is something that can actually hurt him, and not just something that leaves bruises.






It's an erotic three-act play culled from the script for the pilot episode for the TV show "The Golden Girls", written by Susan Harris. I took a lot of stuff away from the original text, removing words and scenes, but made no other changes whatsoever. The character of Coco -- a flamboyant gay housekeeper played by Charles Levin -- was in the pilot but never made it to the actual series because the producers felt he took away from the bond between the women.

"The Golden Girl"
An erotic play in three acts
Originally written by Susan Harris

DOROTHY
(Played by Bea Arthur)

ROSE
(Played by Betty White)

BLANCHE
(Played by Rue McClanahan)

COCO
(Should be played by Charles Levin)


ACT ONE

INT. KITCHEN
(COCO IS COOKING. DOROTHY ENTERS)

DOROTHY
Two girls had shaved heads and three boys had green hair. Why don't you just shoot me.

COCO
Enchiladas Rancheros.

(ROSE ENTERS)
COCO / DOROTHY
Hello, Rose.

(BLANCHE ENTERS)

BLANCHE
I need some cucumbers

ROSE
Does it work on thighs?

BLANCHE
I need it on my thighs. (SHE EXITS)

ROSE
He still has teeth.

DOROTHY
All the single men are cocaine smugglers.

ROSE
I'd kill again.

DOROTHY
I'd kill again. I got the shock of my life today. I was talking to some girls. They were so pretty. At that age you don't even have to be pretty and you're pretty. I just came. And I had such a good time, too. Then I got into my car and caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and almost had a heart attack.

ROSE
Every time I look down, I see my mother's legs.

COCO
When my parents found out I was gay, my mother had a heart attack and died.

ACT TWO
(BLANCHE SITS AT MAKEUP TABLE APPLYING MAKEUP. DOROTHY KNOCKS)

DOROTHY (O. S.)
Blanche?

BLANCHE
Come in.

(DOROTHY ENTERS)

BLANCHE
I guess I'll know when I come.

DOROTHY
You'll know when you come. This isn't a belch, My God, more colors than Benjamin Moore paints.

SFX: DOORBELL RINGS

BLANCHE
Ohl God. I haven't finished.

ACT THREE
EXT. LANAI VERY LATE THAT NIGHT
(ROSE, DOROTHY AND COCO ARE HAVING TEA. THEY ARE IN NIGHTCLOTHES)

ROSE
Blanche needs a man. She made a date at the funeral. Oysters move. Very slowly. You have to watch very closely.






Stephen Davis'Hammer of the Gods:The Led Zeppelin Saga

Chapter 3 - The Year of the Shark

"What happened next isn't really clear. One girl, a pretty young groupie with red hair, was disrobed and tied to the bed. According to the the legend of the Shark Episode, Led Zeppelin then proceeded to stuff pieces of a shark into her vagina and rectum."
"It wasn't shark parts anyway: It was the nose that got put in. Yeah, the shark was alive! It wasn't dead!"
"But the true shark story wasn't that it was even as shark. It was a red snapper and the chick happened to be a fucking redheaded broad with a ginger pussy. "You'd like a bit of fucking eh? Let's see how your red snapper likes this red snapper? That was it."
"It was the nose of the fish, and that girl must have cum 20 times."
"No one was ever hurt. She might have been hit by a shark a few times for disobeying orders, but she didn't get hurt."

*

William Burroughs'The Wild Boys

THE PENNY ARCADE PEEP SHOW

Naked boys standing by a water hole savanna backdrop a head of giraffe in the distance. The boys talk in growls and snarls, purrs and yipes and show their teeth at each other like wild dogs. Two boys fuck standing up squeezing back teeth bare, hair stand up on the ankles, ripples up the legs in goose pimples they whine and whimper off.






Jean came back from Rome
*********************************************

Jean came back from Rome after four days and she had an uncommon shy air about her.
During those days I had fucked her girlfriend Emma, whose husband was away too. It was news because we usually had to hide in the back of her gallery where I was employed.
The first night Emma told me immediately that Jean was not in Rome for the exam she said she had to prepare, but because she had a date with someone she had hooked on the Internet.
I knew Jean frequented a fetish chat because I had showed it to her the first time, and I knew her nickname was "Justine". The guy was certainly a master or a wannabe master with whom she referred to me as "the other master I have". We still lived together back then.
"They all want girls with big tits", I bitterly said to Emma "He will be disappointed". Then I giggled stupidly. We walked around for a little while.
Emma had started sucking my dick already at the osteria, bending under the large wooden table in the shaded corner in the back room while I sipped her wine. All she ever wanted was sucking dick. It gave me pleasure having to pull her away by yanking her hair gauging her resistance.
"I should be on my knees" she said.
"Let's go home".
Emma's lips where like small red rubber dinghies and she could blowjob you for hours on end. The first time it had started between us we were at the gallery, near closing time. She just asked me if she could suck my dick because it was a long time she hadn't had one, which wasn't even true.
So when Jean came back-- I pretty much knew what was what, because Emma had told me, and a glimpse at Jean's face at the station showed me that the thing had gone wrong and she was feeling guilty.
I had trained Jean to lick my ass during blowjobs, and she used to do it greedily, moaning passionately, and the moment I saw the uncommon shy air she had about her climbing down the train, I immediately pictured her licking that Rome guy's ass. Licking the hairy guy's ass she had never before saw in her life, for the sole sake of having given orders to obey.
Was it even clean? I thought.
We walked home, bridge after bridge. Her wheeled luggage made a hammer sound against the trachyte slabs and her round ass swayed few inches in front.
All I could think of was she, forced on her knees to lick this guy's ass, her curly reddish venetian hair gathered together by her left hand against her shoulder.
I thought about it so much that I finally had an hard-on and a little problem to walk normally. For the time we were home I just had to do something about it, so I started to stroke her innocently and she backed away.
Wait a minute, I thought. She is feeling guilty, and I could ask her whatever I want, or force her to do whatever I want and she just has to comply, if only to avert the chance of me asking questions.
In a moment she was undressed, trying to hide with her hands the fact that her cunt was completely shaved.
"What is that for?" I asked, pushing away her arms. The typical master pre-date instruction is what it is, I thought.
"I did it for you", she said-- looking down.
I slapped her on her face. "On your knees!" I said, or something equally typical. She started sobbing. My excitement was so strong I was worried about it. I was shaking. I opened the door to our room and and she walked in on all fours. Against the wall was a bamboo stick I always wanted to use.
I used it. Jean sobbed harder and finally calmed down. I took the phone wondering how to convince Emma to come over.






note: this is part of JANET BOUND by SooprBRane, which is available all over the web for free and seems to be the only thing this author has done. This is one link to the 10 parts I know.


Janet Bound Part 2
by SooprBRANE


Part 2

“Look I promise I won't make any noise if you don't hurt me" Janet pleaded. Hillary did not seem to hear the helpless girl underneath her. She reached into the chest again and removed a red rubber ball, at least as big as a tennis ball, from the chest. It had several straps and buckles attached to it.
"This is called a head harness ball gag sweetie." Hilary explained. "It is designed to keep the ball tightly wedged into your mouth. Once something like this goes on, the only sounds you will be able to make are little mews and grunts. It is much more effective then a normal one strap ball gag, because there is no chance of you being able to slip it off without unlocking it. The straps will cover your face holding the ball in and your jaw locked around it. It is very uncomfortable and very effective."
"Please Hillary. I swear not to make a sound unless you say so. I cannot handle that in my mouth. Please I'll choke."
Hillary put her knee into Janet's back, and grabbed her red hair, pulling Janet's head straight back.
Janet's mouth opened involuntarily as her neck was jerked roughly back. Once her mouth opened. Hillary expertly began to shove the ball in Janet's unwilling mouth. After a few seconds of struggling the ball forced Janet's jaw to extend wide enough to accept its form. Janet groaned and tried to pull her head away, but Hillary had a nice wad of Janet's lustrous mane wrapped in her hand. Rapidly Hillary pulled the main strap of the gag around Janet's head, under her hair and buckled and locked it as tightly as possible at the base of her skull. More straps ran from the ball, over Janet's' head and bucked at the top of her skull. Another strap ran under her chin and attached to the main strap around her mouth. When all these straps were tightened and locked, Janet could not move her jaw at all. Her mouth distended horribly by the ball wedged in her mouth. Janet tried to scream around the gag. Of course nothing came out but a pathetic mew.
"Isn't that better Janet, now I can talk without any interruptions from you."

Drool was already forming at the corners of Janet's mouth were the gag let a tiny bit out. Hillary got off Janet and let her struggle a bit with her already strict bondage. Janet got up to her knees, her bound hands flailing helplessly at the elbows, unable to reach up to the oppressive gag.
"Just so you know Janet, if you try to get to your feet I'm just going to shock you until you drop back down. So don't even try" Hillary said mockingly.
Janet sat on her knees and struggled helpless with the strap holding her elbows. Hillary got back to the chest and pulled out a long tapered, black piece of fitted leather. Janet immediately did not like the looks of it. There were straps and buckles up and down the device.
"Janet, this is my favorite method of binding a person. It is called a 'single sleeved armbinder'. You can see it is pretty simple. It is a shaped piece of leather that fits over you arms." Hillary held the armbinder up with one hand while she used her other to point out the various details of the bondage device to the wide eyes of a terrified Janet.
Here at the bottom is where your hands will go. With those hand mittens already on you it won't make much difference having another layer of leather wrapping them up. The width of the sheath makes it so your arms from fingertip to elbow are going to be tightly together, so enjoy flapping those arms around while you can. There are straps that wrap around your arms about every six inches. Again they are not necessary, but they just serve to make sure you are more helpless. The binder goes all the way up to your shoulders. I have been in one and they are completely impossible to escape from even if loosely applied. Of course I am going to strap you into this one as tightly as I physically can."
Janet moaned and tried to get up to run, but Hillary was on her and forced her to her stomach again. Janet felt as the leather sheath was easily slid up her still bound arms. She fought as best as she could but once it was pulled up to her shoulders, Janet knew that Hillary was correct. There was no way she could escape this thing. Then it started to get really bad for Janet. There were laces that ran the entire length of the armbinder. Slowly and deliberately Hilary began to tighten them. It took at least fifteen minutes for Hillary from the tips of the fingers to the top of the shoulders. By the time she was finished, the leather stretched around Janet's arms like a thin leather skin. There was absolutely no slack anywhere along the entire length of the binder.
Janet groaned and cried on the floor underneath Hillary as the binder fused her arms tighter and tighter. Her massive tits were pressed into the ground underneath both her weight but Hillary on her back.
Hillary was finally satisfied that there was no more slack left in the laces and knotted the top off at the space between her arms at the shoulders. She even added a few drops of super glue to the knot to prevent any chance of it coming loose. A flap with a zipper covered up the lacing all the way down her arms. Once this zipped up their was a lock at the top to keep it from going back down. Hillary then wrapped all the straps around the outside of the binder. One at the wrists, one 6 inches higher at the mid forearm, one at the elbows, and one at the biceps. Each of these straps were pulled brutally tight and had a small stainless steel lock on them. . Finally two thicker strap ran from the top of the binder, over each of Janet's shoulders, crossed between Janet's massive, firm tits and then buckled and locked to the other side of the binder right beneath Janet's armpits. Hillary then grabbed Janet's hair and forced her onto her knees. Janet tried to look over her shoulder to see if there was any way to loosen this impossibly tight device. Her shoulder muscles screamed in agony over being placed in this stringent position. Janet could only grunt a drool in protest to her captor.
"Well lets get started on those great legs of yours, shall we." Hillary continued her mocking of Janet.

She once again grabbed Janet's hair and pulled her face straight down to the ground. She dragged her forward until her body laid flat with her legs out behind her. She sat on Janet's ass and reached into the cedar chest. She pilled out what appeared to be a shaped leather stocking. It was obviously designed to fit over a woman's leg.
"Look here Janet, this device is of my own creation. I love the look of a woman in leather stockings, but I also love to see a woman's foot forced to a point. These leather socks do both. They lace on to you all the way to the top of your thigh. They look incredible too. The best part is the foot. On the sole of your feet is the softest thinnest leather. But over the top is a perfectly shaped inflexible piece of metal. It forced your foot to a overextended point. Once I lace your feet into these it is going to be very uncomfortable for you. Now if you look along where your calf and back of your thigh is going to be." Janet strained her aching head around to see the device Hillary was showing off. "You can see all these leather laces. I am going to sew your calf to your thigh, your ankle to your butt. Then thick leather straps will be tightened around your thighs and ankles for a final binding." Hillary reached down and grabbed Janet's shapely left ankle. Janet knew that if she was ever going to fight she would have to do it now. If her legs were going to be treated anything like her arms had been, then she would soon not be moving at all. She tried to pull her leg away, keeping it out of Hillary's expert hands. Hillary, however, did not feel like playing this game. She simple reached up to her control disk around her neck and very lightly touched the choking control on Janet's' collar. Janet felt the device very slightly tighten, but that was enough. Already a bit oxygen deprived by having to get all her air through her nose, Janet was being choked to death very quickly.
Spots started to form in front of her eyes. Even then she could hear Hillary's stern voice.
"Now lift your left leg straight up you back please, or you will soon black out. It is not a pleasant experience."
Janet's' oxygen starved brain complied immediately, and she felt the choker let back up. She coughed and sputtered around the gag, unable to restore her air supply as rapidly as her body demanded, because of the huge gag corking her stretched mouth. Hillary was completely unmindful of Janet's sufferings as she began to pull the legging over her shapely left foot. The bottom of the stocking was just like a boot, and Hillary had to pull and push to get her Janet's foot to push into the unnatural shape the leather and steel demanded. Janet's complete surrender at this point did make it easier however, and within a few seconds her toes were pointed straight out, inside the clever device. With a little effort, Hillary was then able to pull the rest of the stocking up and over Janet's long leg. From about the mid calf on up to the very tops of her thigh, there was lacing to tighten the leather to perfectly fit any woman. Of course Hillary had chosen a size already very snug for Janet's leg, so tightening the leather was a slightly difficult task. It was a task that Hillary relished though. Just like her arms, Hillary took her sweet time pulling each lace as tight as it could physically go, before moving to the next one up. Also like the armbinder, there was a final flap that zipped over these laces to prevent any hands being able to loosen them. When Hillary was done, Janet's leg was covered with a super tight leather skin from the very top of her thigh to the tip of her perfectly pointed toe. Hillary let go of the left leg and very patiently extended her hand for the right. Janet immediately complied wit this unspoken request. Within a few minutes her right leg was encased precisely the same way her left one had been.

Hillary finally got off Janet's ass at this point to enjoy a look at the almost completely helpless girl.
"Tell you what Janet, I'm going to go to the bathroom, and change. If you can get loose, I'll let you go. Have fun."
Janet laid there for a few seconds, unable to believe what was happening to her. She struggled for a few seconds, testing the armbinder to see if there was a miraculous rip in the seams or she suddenly developed the strength of a hundred women like her. After several seconds of straining and pulling, all's she had managed to do was cover her naked body with a sheen of sweat from the exertion. She rolled onto her back at this point and stopped struggling for a moment, exhausted from this simple act. She began to cry in frustration, fear and embarrassment at this point. Screaming as loud as she could into the hateful gag, head arching back and lifting her back off the floor. All the while her shoulders strained with every bit of might she had, panic lending more strength then she thought possible to her trapped limbs. This had no effect on the leather enveloping her so successfully.
Her mind raced frantically for a solution to this impossible situation. Maybe she could find a kitchen in this place, with a knife or sharp edge she could use to cut this crap off her. How could she even hold a knife to cut toughened leather? She screamed and cried into her gag, but knew that it was so effective that no one could hear her more then 10 or 15 feet away. She was in a penthouse suite in a high-class hotel. There was no way her pitiful mews could be heard by anyone.
Then it hit her…a Phone!! If she could get to a phone she could knock it off and get the "O" pushed. Even if she could not talk she could make enough noise to alert the operator that there was something not right in Suite 2213.
She rolled back onto her stomach, (not easy with her arms useless to her) and brought her leather-clad legs underneath her. The super tight leather made bending her legs almost impossible, but her fear-induced panic gave her strength. It was at this point that the invidiousness of Hillary's bindings became clear. Her feet were useless to her in their present position. She could not stand up at all! There was no way to walk with her feet stretched and pointed in the painful position they were in. She tried a half dozen times to get her legs underneath her, but it was simple impossible. If she was going to get to the phone she was going to have to inch along with her half useless legs. The phone was at least 40 feet away on a coffee table. Inch by painful inch, Janet worked her way across the room, knowing that Hillary could return at any moment to continue her sick binding of her form. Amazingly she made it to the phone table with no sign of her attacker returning. Another seemingly impossible problem asserted itself here. The phone was in the center of the table, unreachable by her reduced height. She actually tried to lift herself up enough to knock the phone off a couple of times, before deciding that she could knock over the whole table with a lot less effort. She knew she would have to work fast once the phone hit the ground, because that large a crash would surely bring Hillary back to stop her. She got her shoulder under the table, and flipped it over with a large crash. The phone flew off and thankfully landed only a couple of feet away from her. Janet quickly jabbed her nose a couple of times at the "O" symbol, until she was sure she had hit it enough to make the call. She moved her head over to the receiver laying on the ground and began to make as much grunting and moaning noises as the gag would allow. As she feared she could hear Hillary coming up behind her, but she continued to make as much noise as she could into the receiver. Hillary finally reached her and very casually picked up the receiver.
"Hello," she said with a lot of mocking in her voice. "Is anyone there?"
She put the receiver next to Janet's ear, there was no noise coming from it at all.
"There must be something wrong with the phone, honey, because I don't hear anything" she said condescendingly.
Hillary looked around for a moment, and found the phone's unattached cord laying on the floor.
"Janet, let this be a lesson to you. I do not make mistakes, I am keeping you forever and to do that I have to think of everything. Of course the simplest way of making sure you are helpless is to add a LOT more bondage to your body. I know how much you enjoy the thought of that that.
Janet's only response was a muffled mew of pleading and surrender.






    A Symphonette Sketch.



    "Why are you crying?"
    "I just realized something."
    "...?"
    "I'm fucked. I respect the dead more than the living, just 'cause they're like....static...? No, it's because...they...being dead,,,cannot confound your mythologising of them by arguing, contradicting your idealised, false concept of them"
    "Wha-so you don't respect me, just because I'm alive?"
    "I didn't say I disrespect the living, it's just quantitatively...put it this way...you see a hearse going by, you pause, you observe a brief, silent reverie to death, to the gravity of its passage...the hearse passes....you try and cross the road, there's some hellraising cowboy fuckhead racing you to the pelican crossing, you fucking know you can get to the other side way before his bumper catapults your skinny- ass hipbones into the nearest shopfront. You dash, he gestures wildly atcha, mouths 'asshole', screeches off, smoketrails, distance. People only stop hating other people when they're dead."

    Rufus Wainwright is gagged, shaved and half-buried in a sack, propped against the wall, mewling, in an over-reharsed excessively resonant tenor. George, Carusso-locked cherub, wrestles his way out of a generic Che Guevara T-shirt, idly printed en masse, as an attempt by (insecure and mighty they well be) Western capitalists to commodify and trivialise revolution into a safe, meaningless cypher. He's trim, tanned, firm stomach, warm, inviting mouth, sixteen years old and undernourished. Nick, eighteen, world-weary, soul bandaged by bleak wit, dreary smile, beckons George over to the bed; George scrambles on top of Nick, their mouths dissolve into each other, despite the leaner frame, George's mouth envelopes Nick's, between rich, yoghurt muscles, tongues making out, swapping secrets and secretions, Nick kneading George's tight, Mediterranean buttocks through his jeans, with one hand, the other deftly loosening his fly, freeing up George's thick engorged cock. George wriggles out of his jeans, pants, drags the same off of Nick, who lightly grazing his teeth across George's slim shoulders, murmurs animal incantations, charming the flesh, enchanting the blood, stirring all a repertoire of essences.

    Richard drags her to the wardrobe by her hair, stamps on her breasts and kicks her in the neck, head, a few times, just to ensure she's docile enough to love him.

    Nick fellates George, first drawing his tongue from the base, to the diminutive purple tip, George, whimpering, hands behind his head, buried amongst bronze curls, as the entire length of his cock is swallowed, tip marrying tonsils, sending lightning tarantellas through his marrow, tickling the walls of his every blood vessel with delicate trauma. Nick, lapping away at the tender flesh of his Anne Rice-endorsed Symbolist saint, delighting at George's instinctive squeaks of satisfaction, persists, rigorously dancing his tongue-tip across the smooth tight ball-sac, tracing maps of pleasure, continents of bliss over nubile, fevered flesh. Again, they kiss, the celloist keens in deliberate, sweeping arcs, a funereal legato, calibrated to the mosaic fury of these glistening, entwined lovers, la folie underpinning this carnal solipsism, visible beneath the tropical canvasses of their skin. Nick, having redirected his attention to George's soft, wet balls and cock, reaches up a hand to palpate and caress George's chest with nails, knuckles, pinching, teasing, concisely, stimulating potter's wheel nipples into an erect state.
    George shimmers, saliva webs his torso, glazed lips trembling.

    James, at his desk, writes a succinct treatise on how to fuck up the world: employ all the personnel at the disposal of the anarchist hub, to change as many clocks as practically feasible, to any number of different times, and to commission the acquisition of a magnetic device via which all digital timepieces can be altered remotely, if not utterly shut down. His predisposition for abyssmal wordplay is grimly sated by the fourth sentence which reads "Atomic Clock = Timebomb". He shuts down the word processing program, the Windows wallpaper is a shot of his ex-boyfriend, sleeping, curled up, half under a red duvet. He jerks off; semen barely bypassing the keyboard as he climaxes, instead coating his dead lover's face in a lactic, aqueaous drizzle, obscuring his eyes, compounding James' weepy awareness of time diminishing the memory of dead faces.

    George's slowly fucks Nick, every stroke considered, precise, laboured, but impassioned, Nick's knees rocking by his ears as he's nailed, with increasing vigour by his youthful lover. This is the first time George has entered him, and it excites him, to a tremulous, febrile vibration, his skin as though the subject of five million tiny, amorous drills, every pore shedding sweat; the liquid noise of sated desire. George, gripping Nick's slender calves hammers his shaft into Nick's ass with exponential fervour, thunderous lashes, he's wanted to penetrate Nick since they both got hard-ons during the 'He's a Rebel' segment of 'Scorpio Rising' early this month. Nick told him he'd only agree to being fucked if George would wear his grandfather's leather jacket for the two weeks preceding the sex, every time they went out. He agreed. It drove Nick totally fucking wild with desire, apexed today in this culmination of concrete promises, George explodes in a series of semtex shudders, blasting rivulets of angry boy milk into Nick's ready asshole, an action reciprocated by Nick, who jets an arc of cum across George's hairless stomach.

    Rufus Wainwright combusts in a petrol-drenched sack of envy, his whiny vibrato lingering in the smoke as his corpus, consumed by ravenous licks of flame, expires in the dark.

    She dies midway through being fucked, the various head contusions sustained from the love administered by his jackboots proving too severe for the brain to process oxygen.

    James, after wiping the screen clear of cum with his sleeve, has just concluded his suicide note. He clicks 'Save', closes down 'Word', plants a valedictory kiss on the screen, pixels ghosting with the lightest brush of steam, opens his window, and jumps.






"yahoo chat roleplay w/ a 19 yr. old boy."







me: hey
blane: whats up?
me: just lookin for fun cams before bed
blane: u like submissive boys?
me: mmm yes
me: you like older?
blane: sure
blane: i can be ur lil boy and u tell me exactely what u want ok daddy?
me: i can dig it
blane: u gotta be mean with me though, dont be afraid to call me names, i like to be talked down to, it turns me on sooooo much
me: ok
blane: am i cute?
me: first we need to talk about that hair
me: you like looking like a little sissy boy?
blane: whats wrong with my hair daddy?
blane: but i like my hair daddy, its fun when the boys at school pull on it
me: im sure u deserve it too
blane: o i do daddy
me: ill give you something to put in your mouth!
blane: o daddy
me: wish i could slap that pouty look off your face
blane: o wow daddy, u sure are being mean tonight...am i being punished?
me: maybe
me: have u been bad today?
blane: ......yes
me: i knew it
me: what did u do?
blane: i looked at the other boys penises today in gym class, some of them made me touch them in the showers
me: you're such a little slut
blane: im sorry daddy
me: you should be
me: did u like seeing those penises?
blane: ....yes
me: oh boy
me: what am i gonna do with u?
blane: i think ur gonna have to punish me daddy
me: if youre not careful...
me: one of those boys is gonna try to stick it up your ass
blane: one of the boys already did daddy, he said he would beat me up if i didnt let him
blane: he stuck it in and out until he squirted boy juice on me
me: oh im really disappointed now
blane: ...im sorry daddy
me: cuz you know daddy wanted to be the first
blane: im sorry daddy...
me: do you want to see a pic of what daddy would stick in you?
blane: yes daddy
blane: i wanna see if ur as big as the boy at school
blane: ooo daddy
me: you came out of that fat cock dont u forget it
blane: it looks real nice daddy
me: did u fuck a boy too?
blane: no..i only got the penis stuck in me
me: you like that dont u?
blane it does feel real good daddy
me: now your ass is used, i wanted it fresh
blane: im so sorry daddy....are u gonna punish me?
me: i think i have to
blane: oh no
blane: what are u gonna make me do daddy?
me: let me think for a minute
blane: daddy are u there?
me: yes
me: im just very angry
blane: im sorry daddy, what can i do to make u not angry
me i think you need to show me your little ass, i need to see if its ok
blane: yes sir
me: spread em
me: now turn around
me: oh you're hard you little whore
blane: yes i am daddy
me: your dick has grown nicely
blane: thank you daddy
me: i made u hard didnt i?
blane .....yes daddy
me: lift your shirt i want to see it all
me: very nice
me: but youre still a bad boy
blane: im sorry daddy...
me: wish i was there to spank you
blane: mmmm daddy
me: you boy cock is very hard
blane: yes it is daddy...ur cock made me this way
blane: what do i do with it since its hard?
me: i think you know very well you little slut
me: what i know you do in your room all the time
blane: is that my punishment daddy?
me: yes i think you need to cum so you wont have so many dirty thoughts
blane: will u help me cum daddy?
me: yes
me: i hate to punish you cuz you turned out so beautiful
blane: hang on sec daddy, im gonna move the cam so i can sit down ok?
me: ok
blane: what do you want me to do daddy? ill do anything u want
me show me you cam cum like a man
me: how big is that boy cock now?
blane: 7 inches
me: very good
blane: will u talk dirty to me, tell me what u would do to me if u were here with me?
me: you want another pic of daddy's cock?
blane: yes
me: my big head might hurt you going in
blane: mmmmm daddy
me: and ill show you what it looks like when dad cums
blane: mmmm daddy
me: thats it
me: have u had it sucked?
blane: no daddy
me: i would love to be first
blane: mmmm daddy, help me cum please, talk dirty and mean to me please daddy
me: jack that boy cock
me: i want to see cum all over that little tummy
me: you'll make daddy happy
me): think of daddy in your little ass
blane: mmmm daddy
me: you would love it
me: such a sexy boy
me: cum for me baby
blane: tell me what u would do if u were here daddy
me: i would help u
me: jack you
me: suck it all the way down
me: lick that hole
blane: mmmm more daddy
me: suck you and stick a finger in your ass
me: then 2
me: maybe 3
me: you could take it you little whore
blane: mmm daddy
blane: thats what i like...more more
me: i'd lick that head
me: lick up your precum
me: and then kiss u and make u taste it
me: show me that cock head up close
me: my tongue in that pisshole
me: you holding my head as i suck
me: drain those big balls for dad
me: you're doing good i'm happy with you
me: squirt for dad
blane: cummin
me mmmm
me: will u taste it for me?
me: ok boy get to bed
me: you did good
me: (hug)






Scab and The Virgin (Part 1)


The rain was solid for three days until the streets were rainforest-thick with it. The water filled gutters and washed over roads. It fell in thick dribbles from every high corner and ledge; it beat mad drums on bins and bus shelters. Breathing was like drinking and it was so hot!

I say it was three days but only because it’s more impressive to use a significant number. I don’t really remember but I know it wasn’t seven or forty.

On the Third Day (maybe), it stopped raining and the sky was all white glare. The roof of the multi-storey was a shallow, painfully bright mirror of water. Steam rose across the concrete pan, unearthly. Everything was light and rising.

Scab – who is almost my half-brother – and I’ll tell you later why I call him Scab because it’s disgusting but not very interesting – he was struggling to get a heavy bag off his back. When it came free of bony shoulders, he unzipped it and tipped it. The heads of twelve beautiful women fell out and made cracking noises as they hit the ground.

“Shit,” I said, “what’ve we done?”

Scab grinned…

Three days before, just as the rain started, dark at 2p.m., Scab skipped out. He’s got blond hair that looks bottled but isn’t and there’s a bald patch just off centre on his crown – worms I guess – scabby too, hence the name. He’s got this shiny face which most often is cracked up with a mad smile like he’s high all the time (he’s not). Sometimes, instead, when he’s upset his face crinkles up like foil off a chocolate bar – still shiny. He said he’d met a guy down the docks the night before, got fifty quid for a blow job. That’s more than we normally get; I thought it was some business-type passing through the ferry-port. Scab said not, but didn’t tell me more right then because I was watching The Simpsons and he could tell I wasn’t that interested. Just as the rain started, Scab was going out for more.

“If he wants to fuck you: get more,” I yelled after him.

Scab grinned…

Later – the rain’s been falling twelve hours now – Scab introduced me: all three of us huddled on a metre of pavement outside the QuikStop, the hoarding keeps the rain off. The guy’s called Dominic, ‘Dom’ for short, which he tells you with a kind of half-wink which I thought was pretty gross. Still, Dom seems to get Scab, so I was polite.

In the yellow of the streetlights, Dom looked ill, I guess we all did. He was in his forties maybe, thick black eyebrows dripping rain over a wet and pock-marked face. Not unhandsome, not good looking but attractive in a dangerous kind of way. Scab’s type definitely! There were several awkward, silent seconds when Scab introduced me: scuffing feet.

Sometimes when we meet up with new guys, we tell them we’re brothers, which we almost are. You have to judge it right though. Some guys get off on that, others are turned off.

“Oh come on.” Said Scab eventually, “it’s too fucking wet to be shy, let’s get it on yeah?”

“Where d’you wanna go?” I asked, looking into the bright, blank interior of the shop then across the road spitting like cooking fat under fast tyres. Dom shrugged but Scab took off round the corner. Dom and I looked at each other.

“Fifty each?” I said. He snorted, wiped rain off his face.

“Seventy-five between you.”

“Fuck, whatever,” I said. Water was draining down the ridge of my spine. I just wanted to get home.

There was an alley. It wasn’t covered, but being narrow it made the rain seem lighter. Along one wall was a strip of dry ground. Scab backed Dom to the wall. Dom’s long coat pressed the brick, misshaping him. Grit and rubbish scratched as Dom’s feet and Scab’s knees found a position.

The cock, flopping out, was thick and knarled like dockside rope and uncut, a dark circle of head already squeezing out from the hood. In Scab’s thin fingers it pumped up, got thick. Skin slipped back and Scab took it between wet lips. Dom’s head sunk forward so he could see Scab’s pink mouth stretch. I stood a way back. I watched the rain pour off plastered strands of Scab’s hair, roll his nose and run down Dom’s cock.

Big hands with thick knuckles crunched up some wet blond and pulled Scab’s head deeper onto Dom’s cock. Twice it slipped out, sprang up and Dom smacked Scab’s face with its full weight. Scab had that look in his eyes, he gets it sometimes, like praying. The boy scares me but he was grinning…

Scab had one hand in Dom’s fly, mauling the sack. With his free hand he beckoned. I shrugged and went over, knelt down. Something sharp bit my knee. Scab’s eyes met mine as his cheeks bulged and rain and spittle mixed on his lips: bright, pale eyes like a saint in an old picture.

A heavy hand came to rest on my head too but didn’t try to grab hair. Scab let the slick, dark knob-end escape and it bounced between us. We spent a while on either side mashing lips and tongues up and down the length. It was like playing the mouth organ Mary (that’s mum) bought us once. The only sound was grunting and the hiss of rain. Every now and again Scab’s lips touched mine around the springy meat; that was a freaky feeling, weird.

I had to close my eyes after a while because Scab was freaking me out with that mad smile, even round a mouthful of penis. He was staring right at me.

The grunting stopped and some of the tension in Dom’s cock sagged away.

“I want to fuck you both,” he said. We stopped and stared up. Scab looking madly happy, me I guess thinking the world was going mad.

“Not here” I said, perhaps a bit too strongly, “and it’ll cost you more.”


Part 2

Part 3






"Love Fantasy Bonus Explosion" (2007)





1. Reon / Human Cat Encounter

She squats in the late afternoon sunlight, just in front of the window. Her deep black eyes call me to her. Her lips so big and open, I want to go inside her mouth and I want to be on top of her. Her breasts bursting like the white glorious bosoms they are, held back and displayed by a shiny black bikini top. Her legs are folded in, her beaming knees of hotness out. Her gorgeous feet stand proudly in high heels that she uses to flaunt herself at this precise angle. Running my eyes up her ankles and legs, her golden white thighs that I have to grab, up to her crotch where she's total toe in little black underwear that probably cost a fortune. Her whole poise says, I want to take you and fuck.

It's a light but shady afternoon back here in the garden. Little purple cat ears peek out from behind a dark leafy hedge. She peeks out, I can see her big sexy eyes beneath her smooth black hair that curves across her forehead, her eyes like a deer's in headlights. It's cute as all fuck. She crawls out, like a cat. She's wearing a light purple cat ear headband with furry white seams, the right ear has a magenta bow on it, a tiny cream broach in the center. The only other thing she's wearing is matching bra and underwear, both with furry seams too. And, a tail curving out over her nice round ass. Her bare body, with its curves and white creamy skin fills up my senses like inhaling some magic drug from a flower. And, I'm already getting intoxicated.

She crawls forward a little, pawing forward and pushing her chest towards the ground to stretch like a cat, which makes this hot curve of her back with her ass on top. She peers out from behind a tree. She pretends to sleep, curling her legs into this awesome pile of her that makes her ass even more perfect. I want to kiss her lips, I want to kiss her neck. I place my hand on her ass, for starters. It feels absolutely like I hoped it would. I pet her hair, it's soft and makes me swoon. She licks her arms and breasts. Her face would be unbelievable gorgeous if I wasn't here with her now. I set out a dish of water that she laps at, she looks up at me with cautiously curious eyes. She crunches up like a spring, bares her teeth in an expression that is both happy and aggressively sexy. She jumps up into the air and pounces on me, knocking me over flat. Now on top of me, and holding me down, she laughs. She rubs my chest and straddles me, licks my face with her soft warm tongue that makes me tremble. I'm already warm marble, surely a little autolubed too. She tears my shirt off, literally, and scratches my chest. It burns and feels awesome. She undoes my pants and bites my cock. I'm starting to get a little scared but hotter at the same time. She kneels over my face, grasping the soft furry seams I slide her underwear down to her thighs, she scrunches her legs tight around the sides of my chest so I can fit them down over her knees and off to just hanging on her left ankle. Pushing her hips down, she rubs her cunt over my face, her luscious lips taking me exactly where I want to be. Her little black pubes are gifts from heaven. She fucks my face, my tongue cravingly licking her labia. She bends in closer and rubs her clitoris over my big fat tongue over and over, faster and faster. She pumps my mouth, my head increasingly existing between her legs. I feel like I could come at any second. Using only the muscles in my own crotch, I pump my dick over and over in rhythm with her. She coos these strange sounds, high pitched and sharp. They're but music to my ears. She comes.

a) Across a room hidden away in the back of our apartment she's standing naked. I throw little darts with pastel plastic grips into her breasts. Their little needle-like metal tips fly right into her skin. I throw them into the soft cheeks of her ass.






2. Shin / Voyeur Observation Experiment

In an outdoor high school parking lot packed with empty stationary cars you can see her, towards the back, close to the school. The chain link fence in front of you doesn't get in the way at all, you just lean in. She's a year older then you, and it's really her, the one you've been obsessing about. She's wearing a thin red dress with some sort of fancy print, it really captures her foxy form. She's in black nylons, her legs blow your mind and make you hurt for some reason. She gets to her car, it's an old beige Volvo stationwagon. She opens the rear hatch and leans in. The curve of her back to her ass has you nearly lycanthropic. She begins to undress. Pulling out your binoculars you focus in on her arms as she pulls her dress over her head, her shiny white bra over her small breasts a striking contrast to her black pantyhose engulfed legs. You imagine you're there with her, behind her. Putting your arms around her you peck at her neck. She turns to look at you and you freeze. Her little face in the binoculars looks expressionless as she rubs lipstick off onto a little paper towel. She pulls on a t-shirt, and pulls down her nylons, takes off her shoes and her feet in the stockings are the best thing you've seen all year. She pulls the nylons off, and puts on a pair of jeans. A car pulls up and a guy gets out, she leans up against the passenger side of the idling car and the guy takes her hips, undoes her zipper, and jams his hand in her panties. She arches back a little. She unzips him and take his cock out, he's already hard and he goes right ahead and penetrates her little pussy. The have slow sex on the side of that idling car, you come in your pants.

b) It's the middle of the night, I find her hanging out at a closed cafe. A man comes over and they start to make out.






3. Annie / Pizza Girl

She stands behind the counter in a dark pizza parlor. In the overly large deep blue polo shirt her breasts look formless. It's part of her uniform. Her hips fade into the matching black pants. Her face peers out from behind a black cap, blonde hair flowing out at the sides. Her bright blue eyes twinkling. There are a number of cooks at work behind her. One of them feel her up from behind. She smiles. She goes to the bathroom, it's a squalid one. A single toilet with a sink to the side. She pees. As she's at the mirror a guy comes in and kisses her. He turns her around and licks her eyes. He unzips his pants and takes out his penis, she kneels down and takes it into her mouth. Another guy comes in with a box of pizza. He takes the topping and covers her face with it. The guy getting a blowjob holds her head and pumps her mouth hard. She makes all these great sucking sounds. The guy comes and the girl lays on her back. Another guy comes in, sets down a few boxes of pizza and fucks the girl's mouth flat on the bathroom floor. The other two guys take her clothes off and cover her body in the hot toppings from the pizza. They rub the saucy pizza bread over her body, covering her in the red tomato sauce. The guys lick it off her, and spread more on at the same time. They push cheesy pizza topping up her vagina and then wiggle it back out. Then one of them fucks her. He comes, and the other two come on her tits and her face, she leans up and puts all the pizza toppings and pizzas back into the boxes, rubbing the sauce back in too. She washes her self off with the tap at the sink and gets dressed. The guys leave. She takes the pizza boxes out to the counter and calls the order.

c) Annie's out delivering a pizza to a sexually starved young man.






4. Akane / Romantic Butt Lover

Her butt. Young guy comes over kneels behind her, spreads the girl's cheeks wide and rims her. Pressing his tongue onto the warm, wonderful, almost tasteless soft skin, and down into the magical black hole. Squeezing her butt while with his hips he fucks the air between her legs. The girl makes sounds that are so fantastic he can't explain them, they seem like shapes. His erection gets harder and harder, lust overwhelming his senses in a beautifully maddening way. He also feels this deep release just by rimming her. There is no right or wrong at this moment, just translucent crashes of sex.

d) Akane is trying on swimsuits, she gets totally naked and tries a dozen different ones on.


5. Risa / Cartoon Enema Bonanza

We're outside and the world keeps changing colors. Red, blue, yellow. Her name's Risa, she's this tall lascivious bunny woman. It's just me and her, standing at the edge of this canyon. And, she's got my prick so big the veins look like they're each suffering a major case of thrombosis. I bury my face in her hot smelly pussy and that's my form of prayer. We take giant needles and shoot huge doses of liquid fuck into each other's butts, eyeballs, tongues. I take a long tube and stick it up her ass. Ooh, she calls out. I jack my cock off into this plastic bag, shooting a gallon load. Ooh, I groan. I flip the drooping bag onto the tip of the tube and squeeze it up into her butt. Then I swing her around and cram my still hard and monstrous dick up her so far into her it comes out her mouth and she throws up on me. I take the bag and tube from her ass and she starts to boil like a kettle. She moans louder and louder until she erupts into an ear shattering scream and out from her ass explodes a stream of white poopie come and fluids (with poop) that just shoots out and out and out. She fills up the whole canyon, and we go for a swim.

e) Ghost of young woman floats in a subway car at night, she sits in a seat alone.






6. Maki / Killer Subway Sex

I met her on a subway car. Her skin was so white that her lush black hair made me go all mush. She was in a red and white polka dot summer dress, with a colorful bra poking out at top. She stood at the hand rail and I just couldn't imagine living another second without touching her ass. I slowly got up and walked over to her, but the train shook and I feel over. I landed beneath her, between her feet. Looking up her dress was fantastic, her legs made my day and her little magenta and deep red underwear blew my mind. I scrunched out and stood. She laughed a little and I said I was sorry. I put my palm to her ass. She straddled the pole, slowly fucking it. I couldn't believe it, was this really happening? The train stops and we both get out. I push her into the train's crevice and she just lays there. I masturbate to her down there. The subway train approaches her and she can't seem to get back up.

The train stops just in front of her, the rush of air and noise has her all washed out, like a ghost. Crowds of people pour out from the subway cars. They gather around the ledge above Maki. She looks up at them, dazed, sad, lost. She leans back into the train and pulls up her dress. She pushes her hand into her underwear and begins to rub herself. Closing her eyes she inhales deeply and bares her teeth as she masturbates to an absolute release.

f) In heaven all of the girls are in colorful bathing suits going into exhibitionary positions that I love, and I can't help but teleport there. As they encircle me we all smile with pure joy.






Panty Boy


From the arcade of a super center sex store, from the secluded trails of Lost Lake where I watched you behind pine trees getting your dick sucked while dressed to the nine in garter belts and panties, is where I know you from. You dressed in all those girlish things. Your dick was bigger than I remember when you showed it to me in a booth that was no bigger than a porta-potty crapper defaced with sexual favors and cell numbers attached. I can’t do shit with a little dick, but I wasn’t always a size queen not until I met Chris. But don’t concern yourself with him; he has nothing to do with you. He’s mine and if I catch you with him, I’ll kick your ass; I’ll cut off a limb. But I ain’t worried. He would never give someone like you the time of day: boys that prance around in panties, pulling stockings over hairy legs, low hanging balls tight under all that nylon. I’m so horny, but that doesn’t make it different from any other day. It’s no secret that I don’t get enough ass, enough steady dick in my life. Jack off so much these days, my dick has started to chafe. Chris doesn’t want me as much as he used to. He says I give good head, but says there’s nothing sweeter than pussy. Funny because when I think of pussy, sweet doesn’t come to mind. He promised his girl he wouldn’t cheat. He doesn’t give a shit about me, but I love him anyway.
    There’s no one in the bathroom. The stalls are cold and silent. Messages left in search of blow jobs are old and fading. I cannot tell you how many men have worshipped at my altar of dick. If the walls could talk they would testify.
    Check my e-mail and it’s filled with horny housewives and how I can lower my mortgage rate on a home I don’t own. I send them all to the trashcan. I type silverdaddies.com into the search engine. Photos of naked men appear. Geezers from Key West to Kansas in their birthday suits with blushing stiff dicks held firmly in steel and leather. A crop of chest hair, all that furrowed skin. I got a thing for older men. They don’t play games like the twinks I have grown so sick of. I click onto the hottest pic of the day: Luc of Paris dressed in black hose and stilettos. Says he and his partner like threesomes, but I’m a spoiled brat who doesn’t like to share his goodies with anyone. His dick he says is 9.5 inches and is looking to bottom for a dominant top. That is what you all want isn’t it, to be dominated, to be told what to do like naughty little school boys? You’re no different. I’ve seen what you can do. I know what you’re into. Normally I wouldn’t give you the time of day, but it’s summer and all the college age trade are on vacation. Eating collegiate ass is usually where you’ll find me. I click on that hot daddy pic, the Parisian with approximately 9.5 inches of dick. I turn to you and smile. I got your attention. You’re so easy. Other than the two of us, there’s a cute Asian dude sitting at the table behind you, but I ain’t worried about him. He hasn’t taken his nose out of his that chemistry book since I’ve been here. I roll out of the way to give you a better view. You see that? Do you like it? Jesus, in a college library of all places. We are shameless sluts, you and I. I see that you approve as I watch you fondle your dick under the table of flat- screen computers. I click on other pics of silver daddy dick, and it’s enough to make us both randy. I click out of the website, grab my bag and saunter over next to you to a vacant computer. I revisit those dirty studs to show you more. I watch as you caress your tint, groping it under a tunnel of white ceiling lights.
    “Follow me,” I whisper.
    There’s a bathroom around the corner, down from a room of Xerox machines. This floor can’t get any quieter. My thoughts might be too hot for this tea room. We take the biggest stall, the one with the rose-colored walls. I leave the door slightly ajar for you. This toilet is cleaner than those Bellamy Building shitters. I’ve been in this one before. The stall with the sink and mirror whose reflection I have come in more times than I can remember. Sit upon the toilet to let you know that I want to blow you. Got a feeling you wouldn’t have it any other way. You pull down your jeans exposing the same panties you wore the night I ravished you in an arcade booth. Dick had been twitching in my jeans all day. Couldn’t wait to get to where the boys were. There weren’t too many cars in the lot: A Cadillac, a beat up old mini van, a vintage Mercedes. Trolls and du rag wearing b-boys lined the walls with their razor sharp attitudes, thinking they were God’s gift to gay boys. The arcade reeked of poppers and ass, tufts of paper towels littered the floor of the booths. Silver porno glow seeped from beneath doors that held in men beating off to fake screams and unreal orgasms. You had been after me all night, grabbing my dick in the dark, eying me in the corridor’s light as you caressed the tint of your dick. After hours of cat and mouse, after men left to rush home to their clueless wives, there was only you and I. We ducked into a booth with bite sized glory holes. You wasted no time shoving your bucks in the mouth of the machine, undoing jeans, exposing hose with runs, skin tight panties under 501’s, but I didn’t give a damn, ‘cause all I cared about was what swung between your legs. The way it hung over your unmentionables. Your skin was so smooth and taut for a man’s.

    “Closing for cleaning in fifteen minutes,” Kim yelled. She’s the only one in the store that’s cool with what we do, who turns the lights down just so.
We were well into it: dicks being sucked, your ass getting fucked. When all the dirty words were said, you came on my jeans.
    “Sorry,” you said, all embarrassed, but you were not the first or the last dude to come on my clothes.
    Now here we are again with your dick erect and just as ready. I hook my fingers in elastic and free it from a cocoon of femininity. It’s thick and pink, God-like even. I fondle it. I grab your ass and press. My glasses graze and smudge against your stomach. I take them off, laying them on top of the tissue dispenser. I suck you like I haven’t had a dick in decades. My mouth collapses onto your love, pallet tightens wet under your shaft as my lips sink into you.
    “You want me to come in your mouth,” you ask.
    I only do that with Chris. You don’t know me like that to earn that privilege, bitch. I tare away at the stockings, force the girlish garments down around you. The flesh of your butt fills the grooves between my fingers. I watch our actions from the mirror behind us, my lips around your hard on, my fingers traipsing along the ditch of your ass. I move in slow. Like to take my time and you don’t seem to mind. You whisper under your breath of onions ‘bout how you want me to be your boy that you’re looking for a steady fuck buddy. You squirm a bit when I shove a finger up your pansy ass. Your muscles tense to my touch as I explore you like a cave. Your dick strains in my mouth. I don’t want you to come yet, whore.
    “Do you suck?” I ask.
    You tell me no but I’ve seen you through the cracks of doors, in the darkest corners giving head to mysterious men. All punks suck dick, even my Chris. So what if he’s not that good at it? You tell me you want to get fucked. Figure as much. I can look at you and tell. You’re a bottomless pit who can take an L.A. gang of dicks. I’ll be lucky to get my cock back fucking with you. We switch hits. You bend and grip the pipes of the toilet. We keep quiet when the occasional breeder enters. You ask me if I have a rubber as if you’re worthy enough to be fucked without one, slut. I fork a French Tickler out of the pocket of my shirt and tear it from cellophane. I roll the latex on my dick. It’s a little cold going on over the head, over veins. I pull your hips forcefully instead of tenderly like Chris’s. You are good and loose due to my fingers. My dick’s the perfect fit. I hold onto your shoulders like reigns. You grab on tight to the pipes. You feel warm on me. I stand on the tips of my Saucony’s ‘cause I want to get in you completely. There’s nothing like a seasoned piece of ass to devour. The buckle of my belt clanks against the floor as I fuck. I tug and jerk at your hips, slapping your ass.
    “Fuck me this and fuck me that!” you shout. What would your mother say if she heard you talking this way? I warn you to keep it down. Tell you that I almost got busted last week for this same shit. My gluteus muscles are on fire, but there’s no better work out than a good fuck. I reach up to tweak your nipples. You tell me that I’m too rough, but rough is the way two men oughta fuck with sweat trickling down our backs into the cracks of our asses. If only you could witness the sheer beauty of my dick going in and out of you. You’re a nice piece of ass, but you don’t hold a candle to Chris. His dick is a monkey wrench he throws into my butt twice a week when his girl ain’t around. I can feel myself flowing up into the gas mart rubber. I hook my arm under your waist and take you further into me. Your insides couldn’t get any hotter on my cock. I imagine that your ass is Chris’s as I come inside you. I pull out slow, careful not to hurt or bruise. I unfurl some tissue and use it to take off the latex. I normally zip up and take off, leaving horn dogs like you to your own devices, but I ‘m not the one to leave ends loose. I take you back into my mouth.
    “Suck my balls.”
    I pull your panties further below and bring your perfumed balls to my mouth. My tongue slides along your cock, along the slit of the head. A few hard sucks is all it takes for you to bust a nut, soiling my shirt with your juices. We tuck in our dicks and exit the toilet quick, walking back to our tables with spent dicks.
    “Not bad for a white guy, huh?” you tell me. You scribble your number on a piece of paper. I promise to drop you a line, but I’m lying, and toss it into the trash much like the last time you slipped it to me. I know I will see you again, panties down around your ass in a nasty little booth of a super center sex store where cell numbers are sprawled on glory hole walls by those seeking a good time.

THE END






for five years i wrote porn on a pay-per-word basis until my stuff got too non consensual for the company. this one was for a digest called Urge. i think it was a reject.


Endless Gang Bang Fantasy

I don't know if you want to call me crazy or odd. I guess I'm looking to live out in my fantasies what I'm too scared to get in my reality. My name is Deb and I'm five foot seven, smallish breasted, with brown curly hair and hazel eyes. People think I'm attractive but I feel kind of insecure about my looks. I wish I had bigger breasts, I guess, and I wish that my ass was curvier. I guess some girls have all the luck in the body department.

I don't know why but I've never really enjoyed being fucked, except for one time, and that was by what I can only call a "friendly rape". This guy wasn't out to hurt me, I think he was just really horny and I happened to be in my nightie and sleeping in a bed. He felt like it was his right to take my pussy.

What happened that one time was that my roomates and I threw a really wild party and by about three in the morning everyone was just crashed out in different places. I guess that this guy stumbled into my room and eased himself in beside me. When I woke up, I found that he was on top of me and that he was breathing heavy. I didn't know if it was a dream or what, but my nightie was lifted and the guy was gripping at my panties trying to pull them down.

I lay there like a baby, kind of scared to move, or even to let him know that I was truly awake. Besides, I felt a hot steam start up between my legs, something I'd never really got with such intensity before. Then he pressed on my thigh as he eased my panties off without me moving. Like I said, I kind of was playing dead. But I still thought that it was his arm on my thigh until I realized that I could still feel it and the guy was massaging both my titties with his palms.

I was trying not to breathe too hard as the guy pinched my nipples over and over. I realized his dick was really hot and pretty big. Then, 'cause he felt some of my cunt juice leak out onto the head of his pecker, he just eased the head of it right into my lips and slid it straight up my cunt. He thrust so hard and so fast right away that I thought his cock was going to come out the top of my head. He wasn't gentle and he kept fucking and fucking my limp body, but somehow I felt it was right.

I felt a jolt and the guy pulled out of my orgasm and ejaculated all over my titties and tummy. I could feel the head of his massive cock on my nipples as he sprayed his sperm all over me. Some got on my chin but I still didn't move. I hadn't opened my eyes once the whole time. To tell you the truth, I never even knew who this guy was and if I'd met him at the party or if he was a friend or what.

I found myself masturbating at least two times a day after my mock rape pleasure, thinking about being forcibly fucked like that. So this is my gang-banging fantasy and I hope it comes true one day. I think its the only way I'm gonna ever enjoy sex again.

I am at a bar, drinking like I have no end. There's about two dozen men there. I'm wearing a slutty little number and totally made-up. My nipples are erect and my hips are swaying. I'm dancing, moving around so fast and I'm so fucking drunk that eventually I fall over exhausted, from the alcohol and the spinning.

At that point, a large guy who's a lot older than me comes over and picks mem up in his arms, taking me over to his friend's table as they all laugh and point at my undies that are showing in between my spreading thighs. I'm coming to and the first thing I feel is hot beats in my pussy. The guy who's carrying me is fondling my breasts and pinching my bum. "I hope you're up for a bit of fun tonight, girl," he whispers, "you sure are drunk enough..."

The next thing I know, the lights go down in the bar and I'm in a booth surrounded by about six or seven men who are inspecting me like I'm their property. "Now there's two ways we can go about this," the guy who brought me over said, "either you can be an obedient little girl and do as you are told and the worst you'll get out of this will be a very sore pussy or you can run on home to Daddy and wake up with a great big fat hangover... Now what do you say dollface, you up for the fun?"

The guys all started to laugh at me. I don't think they knew that I was totally wet in my cunt. I swear it felt like my vagina was going to explode. All they needed to do was test the waters and in a way, I'd be figured out. The idea of getting pummeled by a group of horny strangers was turning me on beyond belief. I felt so ashamed of myself in a way. But I was waiting to get fucked and I couldn't get rid of my fear.

"I'll be a good girl," I said as I turned my head to the side so that the men couldn't see my face.

The next thing I knew I was getting pawed at from all angles. I was put on the table, stripped, and my legs were spread open in a wide-angled 'V'. I had guys blocking my view and all I could see as I looked up towards the ceiling of the dark bar was a row of hot rigid dicks encircling me.

I was trembling as the first prick rammed up my pussy. There were men all around me and I knew that they were gonna fuck my pussy in a train. It was a weird kind of state I got in as cock after cock stormed my sperm-drenched cunt. I screamed but the men laughed and stuffed their fingers in my mouth. They pinched my titties and doubled their speed all over my used up body.

Then, after I don't know how many cocks entered my system while I lay there like a little rag doll, the guy who had picked me up came to take his turn. "You slut," he hissed in my ear before raging up my broken-in cunt, "you love the feeling of so many of my friends' cocks up your pussy don't you? Answer me, slut."

I closed my eyes and a smile sat on my lips. This guy gave me the best fuck treatment and I let my hips rock in time with his thrusts. It felt so fucking good. His pelvic bone was rubbing against my clit and the top of his cock was really ramming up my raw insides. I was in heaven. I orgasmed over and over as the guy let out his hot white load at the top of my cervix. He kept calling me a horny slut and it was making me cum even harder. My cunt was clutching around his bone, I never wanted to let him go.

"You liked that, didn't you?" the guy laughed as he skewered his satiated cock out of my pussy and took a deep swig of beer.

In my fantasy, I lie there on the table exhausted and naked and leaking while the guys drink and smoke and laugh at me. The bar closes down and I get gang-banged again and again and again.






Gordon climbed on a ledge and pissed on Eric's shoulders. Cassie said she liked the way Gordon handled his cock. Eric said Cassie had to show them her cunt now. Cassie said she would if they sucked each other off. Gordon leaned against some driftwood and kicked away his shorts.


a) Feel the sun on your ears as the clouds vanish.
b) Look at her left hand move beneath her blue skirt.
c) Hear her say she's saving her virginity for Mister Bird.
d) Nod along with the suggestion to purchase that digital camera.
e) Stop sucking on him when he stops sucking on you.


I asked Cassie if I could fuck her precious ass. She said I could if I fucked the red ground. She had a burnt stick that looked like a dildo. She called the stick prehistoric, rubbing it between her legs. I told her the red ground felt like Miss Coil.


a) Fuck her in the ass while she sucks his cock.
b) Smell that breeze of salt and minerals and dead machinery.
c) Hear him say he photographed Mister Bird fucking Miss Coil.
d) Watch her dance around with the stick between her legs.
e) Look at her poke the stick into Miss Coil's dirt.


Gordon clenched his teeth when he came on Eric's face. Cassie said she liked the way Gordon handled his cock. Eric said Cassie had to let them fuck her now. Cassie said she would need to check her countdown notebook. Gordon stooped through the barbwire fence and ripped his t-shirt.






#1 ---

#2 ---






The most arousing literature I know of is the stuff at Straight to Hell: The Manhattan Review of Unnatural Acts, the legendary and much-imitated compendium of men’s true tales of sex with other men, started by Boyd McDonald in the 1980s, and anthologized in titles such as MEAT, SEX, FLESH, FILTH, WADS, and CUM. Jacking off over S.T.H. got me and thousands of others over the worst of the age of AIDS. I know this isn’t porn writing and S. T. H. isn’t an author, but it bears the same relationship to gay men’s porn that Dennis’ blog to his various subjects and everyone should know about it. On the off chance that you don’t know it already, you should find everything they’ve ever published immediately and read it today. There’s a website at

Straight to Helland Billy Miller, the adorable current editor, says they will soon put up content, including tributes by Dennis, Gore Vidal, and little me--but we’ll see. One of my fantasy projects is a collection of considerations of S.T.H. by smart writers and critics.
I guess I have two favorite writers of gay male porn:

Lars Eighner

wrote a memoir of homelessness called Travels with Lizbeth (his beloved dog), published in 1994, which introduced the term "dumpster diving" into mainstream vocabulary and became a surprise success, appearing on reading lists of many college courses. But he’s also the author of several collections of porn whose theme is usually (as in S.T.H.) hot gay sex among men who don’t identify as gay. Stories often take place in Austin among college students and hippie types. B.M.O.C. takes place in dorms and frat houses, where horny guys listen to their roommates jack off in the dark, or trick members of rival frats into sucking their dicks. Wank: The Tapes has a great premise: several years after graduation, a sort-of straight guy sets out to interview men of varying sexual orientations who used to participate in "shower parties," circle-jerk beer-blasts that took place in an abandoned wing of a dorm, and he finds out what else was going on back in their rooms and lounges. This is from one of the interviews:

CARL: Jerry is the only man I ever fucked. I never sucked a guy, never came close to being fucked. I have an in-law . . . well, maybe once a year there is a guy I let blow me—I really don’t want to go into that—but it means more to him than it does to me. Phil and I never touched each other and Jerry did not want me to touch his dick, so the only time I ever jacked off another guy . . .

STONE: Yes?

CARL: At the last shower party I went to, instead of sticking with the guys in the circle, I let a guy talk me into trading hand jobs. He convinced me that I had come there for a reason, and I might as well have the whole experience.

STONE: So did you have the whole experience?

CARL: He worked so hard on getting me off, I couldn’t refuse to do it back. So I did it back, but it must have been the worst hand job in the world.

STONE: Why do you say that?

CARL: Because you obviously don’t remember it.

Eighner also wrote an unusually readable and entertaining style guide, Elements of Arousal: How To Write and Sell Gay Men’s Erotica. His blog is at

larseighner.com. He’s been writing a lot about truth and lies in memoirs lately, though there hasn’t been a post since October.


R. J. March

is an interesting writer whose observations of disaffected young men—getting their idioms and moods and cultural allegiances down—remind me a lot of Dennis, although his emphases are very different. His stories are collected in Hard and Looking for Trouble and some of them are really knock-out depictions of boys who are lusting after each other and not quite sure what’ll happen if they actually make a move. His blog at flagrantdrunk.blogspot.com says he "used to" write "erotica," but I hope he keeps it up (ignore obvious opportunity for dumb joke here). This comes from a story that isn’t his best but it was online and easy to paste, and it shows what his territory is:
Beginning of story:

Cary says the lacrosse player left him, although they weren't ever really together, not that way, anyway. They shared a room, a dorm room in Blake Hall, and not even for very long, but that was it. Granted, the lacrosse player had asked Cary to be his roommate when they met at orientation weekend. That was because they'd shared a room then, too, and Cary hadn't snored, and the lacrosse player hadn't known anyone else— all the other lacrosse players had gone to the first orientation in July. What was he doing in July? Working at Ace Hardware, racking hammers and sorting boxes of screws, almost wishing he was going back to high school in the fall. They'd liked the same kinds of music, though, he and Cary—Dave Matthews, the Chemical Brothers, Stone Temple Pilots, and neither one of them smoked. It hadn't seemed like a bad idea back then, in the middle of August. He could have left it up to the lottery that paired up everyone else, but why tempt fate? He could have gotten that guy in the wheel chair or the fag with the eyeliner and the black and red hair.

"The name alone should have done it for you, man," his lacrosse buddies say. "Like that fucking chick with the pig blood and John Travolta."

"Was I even born when that movie came out—what the fuck do I know? Besides, he spells it different. C-a-r-y."

"Add an s, dude, and you've got scary." . . .

And from near the end:

He unlocked the door of his room. It wasn't yet midnight, and he was expecting to find Cary home with the television on, not unlike his mother really, he realized just then, opening the door, the light behind him sweeping into the room. Cary's bed was empty. He was sleeping in the lacrosse player's bed.

"What are you doing?" the lacrosse player asked, turning on the light. Cary bolted upright, his face wrinkled from the press of the pillow. He didn't say anything, though, offered no explanation. He put his feet on the floor and uncovered himself—he was naked and hard—and walked across the room to his own bed. So big, the lacrosse player thought, seeing the stiff bob of Cary's cock—huge, he was thinking, his hand on the door knob, cold, hearing the radiator knock, Cary settling into his sheets, drifting back into sleep, his cock, the lacrosse player thought, his cock.

It's ruined, the lacrosse player realized. Everything was ruined. Something bad had happened, although he could not say what that badness was, not just then, but it had something to do with Cary's old movies and his mother trading her queen-sized bed for his old twin; it had something to do with the man in the shower, and the wrinkled skin of his own fingertips that day, unable to leave once he was finished, once he was clean. He put down his bag and turned around. He left the room, closing the door, aware that he was leaving home the second time that day. He'd go back later, the next day, when Cary was at the student union where he worked at the information desk, and clear out his things. He'd move in with the other lacrosse players and steer clear of all fine lines. He would become unambiguous, get good grades, prepare for the future. And he would never touch a man with an open hand without thinking of Cary and his long toes, which—if only Cary could have known—would have made Cary the happiest boy in Blake Hall.









Preface 1:
“The mystics and epic poets idealize illicit love as the only true one.”
-Alain Danielou, The Four Aims of Life in the Tradition of Ancient India: Virtue, Success, Pleasure, & Liberation, p.120, 1993

Preface 2:
“According to Shaivite prophecy, humanity’s sole hope of survival resides in the current revolutionary struggle for sexual liberation. Only the worship of the principle of life and its symbol the phallus can draw down heaven’s blessing on humankind, which is threatened by divine wrath at a civilization whose ethic, instead of happiness, joy, and pleasure, pursues war, sexual repression, hypocrisy, and the persecution of love. The Shaivite Puranas tell us that in the Kali Yuga (the era of conflicts in which we are now living), only the “fervent in love”–the adepts of the cult of Shiva-Dionysus who practice the bacchanalia—can save the world from destruction.”
-Alain Danielou, The Hindu Temple, Deification of Eroticism, p. 2

Preface 3:
“We should not wonder at the fact that representations of human love—the search for voluptuous pleasure—recognize none of the limits that social ethics wish to impose. The most different postures of the erotic act are studied in works that form an essential part of sacred literature. The Kama Shastra constitutes a fundamental science connected to the literature of the Rig Veda. The sculptures decorating the temples consequently represent the most complex erotic acts, which are not limited to what we might term, more or less arbitrarily, ‘natural acts.’ All parts of the body seek to be imbued with pleasure. They comprise every possible relation between men and women, as well as various relations between persons of the same sex and between human beings and animals. Indeed, since it is through voluptuousness that we can realize divine nature most directly, such an experience should have no limits.”
-Alain Daniélou, The Hindu Temple, p.108

My favorite sacred Dionysian (or sexual, or pornographic if you like) text:

This story is mostly Hogg's.

But first I have to tell you some about me.

Behind the landing of the stairs that went to the basement, by the blistered radiator, I used to suck off a kid named Pedro. He was a sad-looking thirteen-year-old spic, who wore baggy gray pants with a three-inch rip in the side seam-I don't think he *ever* changed them-and a white short-sleeve shirt he put on Sunday mornings; Saturday nights it was gray. With his shiny hair bumping against the underside of the steps and their hanging drips of dirt, he would grind his sneakers on the gritty boards and rub the heel of his hand on the hard place above his groin where his dad's belt was tied. (The buckle had come off.) His knuckles were red from chewing. "You want it?" He'd dart around scared glances. "Come on, take it now. Go on, take it." His zipper was always half open.

Squatting, I'd nose between the brass teeth to smell his sweat. He would push penis, both testicles, and the two little fingers of his left hand into my mouth. Holding his thin hips, I toweled my tongue inside his foreskin till, leaning and grunting, he would spurt his greasy juice and, quickly limp, a tablespoon of urine.

Once he told me, when I stood up, "You look funny down there. You really look funny."

I was eleven.
-Samuel R. Delany, Hogg, 1969

"I think I ain't never met a normal, I mean normal, man who wasn't crazy! Loon crazy, take 'em off and put 'em away crazy, which is what they would do if there wasn't so many of them. Every normal man -- I mean sexually normal, now -- man I ever met figures the whole thing runs between two points: What he wants, and what he thinks should be. Every thought in his head is directed to fixing a rule-straight line between them, and he calls that line: What Is. [...] On the other hand, every faggot or panty-sucker, or whip jockey, or SM freak, or baby-fucker, or even a motherfucker like me, we know --" and his hands came down like he was pushing something away: "We know, man, that there is what we want, there is what should be, and there is what is: and don't none of them got anything to do with each other unless --" The bartender was shaking his head."-- unless we make it," Hogg went on anyway.

-Samuel R. Delany, Hogg, 1969, p. 121






Delta of Venus: Excerpt from The Basque and Bijou







As a fiction writer, Anais Nin is certainly not a favorite of mine,, but her pornography, written for a wealthy American businessman when she was strapped for cash, is really something unique. There’s a kind of quaint antiquity to the language that she somehow manages to direct into erotic little explosions, making her readers quietly wet between the legs.. The words are never vulgar; their effect is always sensual and dreamy, whether she’s writing about threesomes, masturbation, couples, or gay sex. This is thoroughly a lady pornographer at work, all the way.


...Behind the curtain, the Basque was smiling at Viviane's excellent performance. The man and woman were fascinated. They stood right next to the bed, with dilated eyes. Bijou said to them: "Do you want to see how we make love when we feel lazy?"

"Turn over," she commanded Viviane. Viviane turned on her right side. Bijou laid herself against her, entangling their feet. Viviane closed her eyes. Then, with her two hands Bijou made room for her entrance, spreading the dark-brown flesh of Viviane's buttocks so she could slip the penis in, and she began to push. Viviane did not move. She let her push, thump. Then unexpectedly she gave a jerk like that of a horse kicking. Bijou, as if to punish her, withdrew. But the Basque saw the rubber penis glistening now, almost like a real one, still triumphantly erect.

Bijou began teasing again. She touched Viviane's mouth with the tip of the penis, her ears, her neck, she rested it between her breasts. Viviane pressed her breasts together to hold it. She moved to join Bijou's body, to rub herself against her, but Bijou was evasive now that Viviane was becoming a little wild. The man, bending over them, began to grow restless. He wanted to fall on the women. His companion would not let him, though her face was flushed.

The Basque suddenly opened the door. He bowed and said, "You wanted a man and here I am." He threw off his clothes. Viviane looked at him gratefully. The Basque realized she was in heat. Two virilities would satisfy her more than that teasing, elusive one. He threw himself between the women. Everywhere the foreign man and woman looked something was happening that enthralled them. A hand was opening someone's buttocks and slipping in an inquisitive finger. A mouth was closing upon a leaping, charging penis. Another mouth was enclosing a nipple. Faces were covered by breasts or buried in pubic hair. Legs were closing over a burrowing hand. A glistening wet penis would appear and plunge again into flesh. The ivory skin and the gypsy skin were tangled with the man's muscular body.

Then a strange thing happened. Bijou lay full length under the Basque. Viviane was abandoned for a moment. The Basque was crouching over this woman who bloomed under him like some hothouse flower, odorous, moist, with erotic eyes and wet lips, a full-blown woman, ripe and voluptuous; yet her rubber penis stood erect between them, and the Basque was overtaken with an odd feeling. The penis touched his own and defended the opening of the woman like a lance. He commanded almost angrily: "Take it off." She slid her hands under her back, unfastened the belt and pulled the rubber penis off. Then he threw himself on her, and she, still holding the penis, held it over the buttocks of the man who was now buried inside of her. When he raised himself to thump into her again, she pushed the rubber penis inside of his buttocks. He leaped like a wild animal and attacked her only more furiously. Each time he raised himself, he found himself attacked from behind. He felt the breasts of the woman crushed beneath him, rolling under his chest, her ivory-skinned belly heaving under his, her hips against his, her moist vagina engulfing him; and each time she plunged the penis into him, he felt not only his turmoil but hers as well. He thought the doubled sensation would drive him mad. Viviane lay there watching them, panting. The foreign man and woman, still clothed, had fallen over her and were rubbing against her frantically, too confused in wild sensations to seek an opening.

The Basque was sliding back and forth. The bed rocked as they rolled, clutching and folding, all curves filled, the machine of Bijou's voluptuous body yielding honey. Ripples extended from the roots of their hair to the tips of their toes. Their toes sought each other and intertwined. Their tongues projected like pistils. Bijou's cries now mounted in endless spirals, ah, ah, ah, ah, widening, expanding, becoming more savage. The Basque answered every cry with only a deeper plunge. They were oblivious to the twisted bodies near them; he must now possess her to annihilation—Bijou, this whore, with a thousand tentacles on his body, lying first under him and then over him, and seeming to be everywhere inside of him, her fingers everywhere, her breasts in his mouth.

She cried as if he had murdered her.

*
Read the entirety here






here are 2 short found-footage texts for porn writing day.

the friar

Sono un orso e mi piace vestirmi da frate, indossare una cintura di castità e farmi leccare sandali e piedi da uno schiavo per mooolto tempo; poi il gioco continua. . .

Non essendo molto esperto mi piacerebbe avere un "maestro" (padre superiore?) da cui apprendere nuove tecniche.

Top Bear who love to dress up like a Friar, to wear a chastity belt and to have someone who licks His sandals while locked in a chastity belt. Then the chastity belt is off and the game goes on...


the davinci code

we were having a lot of fun in bed as i admired your handsome looks and beautifl physique....i sucked your cock too and your dick was so excited and you came first....all over me....the we ended up having some really red hot steamy sex....you wanted to suck my dick and drink my cum...but you could see i still had much more to give...so you raised your legs and i entered you....it was hard at first....but soon i was inside....and in ym dream i remember you felt so nice and tight...i started gently and was soon deep inside you...it felt like i was in heaven...and i could see your eyes sparkle and you urged me to go deeper and faster....i fucked you as hard as i could...and i was going really fast and it was so exciting as i exploded inside you and i filled you with my hot sperms....it was a beautiful dream....and we were both very very happy....i would love you to come into my dreams any time...and i hope my dick and i appear in your dreams too....if you are happy....then i am happy!!









DON'T TELL MUM THE BABYSITTER FUCKED ME

It was raining again, it seemed like it would rain forever. Most of the time it was fun living on a farm, there was so much to do– help with the farmwork, play with the animals, ride bikes, play soccer in the paddocks, build huts… but rainy days like that day were no fun.
    “Mum, I’m bored…”
    “Simon, I’m just gonna get you some lunch and you’ll have someone to play with soon when the babysitter gets here.”
    “Who?” I asked nervously “I don’t wanna new babysitter, I don’t even need one.” I was always wary of new people, nothing made me more nervous than meeting strangers for the first time. Mum always described me to her friends as ‘deathly shy’, I always found that phrase kind of strange, just so dramatic.
    “Oh yes you do! I’m not leaving a 12 year old at home alone.”
    “Whatever.” I replied flatly.
    “His name is Mark Williamson and his family have just moved onto the farm down the road. I met his Mum the other day and she mentioned he was looking for work… I offered that he could look after you sometimes for extra money. ”
    “Oh” I replied flatly.
    “Look I’m sure he’s a nice boy, not too much older than you, he’s 16. I’m sure you’ll have fun playing Masters of the Universe or Lego or something.”
    “Will he even like Masters of the Universe?”
    “Sure he will! Every boy loves Masters of the Universe.” She smiled. A blue car raced down the gravel driveway. I ran to the window in my room and peered carefully through the net curtains as to not make it obvious I was looking. A woman got out of the car, she was younger than my Mum, not prettier but probably the same– just younger. Next a boy, who I guessed was Mark , hopped out of the passenger seat. Oh boy, he seemed so sure of himself the way he bounded down our path looking around, no matter that it was raining, he didn’t care. Not only was he older, but he was taller and far more athletic and tan than me. I didn’t spend nearly as much time outdoors as other boys my age did, and I was fair and skinny to prove that. I crept up behind my Mother as she beckoned for them to come in. Seeing Mark up-close he was really handsome, tall like I had noticed before with dark brown hair and matching dark brown eyes. He wore pale blue jeans and a thin white Reebok t-shirt, which was patchy with rain and sticking to his chest and stomach.
    “Lorraine I can’t stay I’m running late already for my appointment…”
    “That’s fine, you just get going” Mum smiled, “actually I’ll come with you I have to go out on the farm now anyway. I’ve got some lunch ready for the boys, and afterwards Simon and Mark can play until I get back.”
    “Nice to meet you Simon, don’t let Mark boss you around too much.”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Hey little Simon, you ready to have some fun?” Mark smiled at me.
    “Ahh, yup I guess so.” I said quietly.
    “OK then” Mark’s Mum interrupted, “us girls will get out of here and leave you to it.”
    “You be good Simon, do what you’re told.” The same thing she always says, even though Mum knows that I’m always well-behaved.
    “Bye” Me and Mark said in unison as they went out the door. After getting wet in the rain Mark was drying off in the bathroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, for some reason I found him completely fascinating. I went down the hall to the bathroom where the door was slightly ajar. I tip-toed closer so I could see in, and there
he was drying his hair with a towel. He finished and then let the towel drop to the floor.
    “You can borrow a tshirt if you need one.” I stood in the doorway.
    “Oh hey buddy…” Mark looked at my reflection in the mirror, a bit surprised.
    “Umm, I mean if yours is too wet.” I suddenly felt embarrassed for intruding.
    “Yeah that’d be great.”
    “OK, cool I hope I have something that’s good enough for you. I’ve got a new Billabong one that’s really cool. I got it for Christmas from my Nana. It’s green…” I trailed off realising I was babbling. Mark suddenly peeled off his shirt. I looked down in embarrassment. God what was wrong with me? I was so nervous and felt so funny. The blood drained from my face as I realised that I had an erection. I just stood there my penis obviously hard under my flimsy basketball shorts. He took a step toward me, I thought maybe he was going to leave the room or at least ask me to leave. But instead he started rubbing my cock through my basketball shorts. I had never felt a guys hand on my groin, it had me harder than I could have imagined.
    “Is this what you want?” he asked.I opened my mouth to answer, but all I could do was shake my head yes in response. Still grinning from ear to ear he peeled off my tshirt. He was so close to me, I could feel his body heat and I could smell his slight underarm scent.
    “God you’re beautiful.” He whispered.
    I couldn’t believe what was happening, I was totally helpless as I stood there not moving.
    I was still in a bit of a shock. With a smile he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down his boxers. His cock was out and cupped in his hands. It was tan and smooth like the rest of him and he had very little pubic hair. He had such a nice penis, he had no foreskin and the head was dark too, not purple like mine. It was also a lot thicker and bigger. He took my hand in his and placed it on his dick. It was the most amazing feeling having another man’s dick in my hand. As I stroked it, a little bit of liquid oozed from the tip. I could smell it, I knew it was like when I masturbated, but I had never fully came like boys at school talked about. I boldly took some of his pre-cum on my finger and put it to my lips. It was salty. Stroking his dick felt so good and he was getting so much pleasure from it, but I wanted to know more. I wanted to taste it, and he was definitely leading me to do that. Before I could back out he forced me onto my knees, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. He guided his cock between my lips. I could feel every inch of it sliding into my throat. It was quite big, and I had to struggle a bit to contain it all, I could feel the mushroom shaped head hit the back of my throat causing me to gag and choke a little. It took me a second to get adjusted, but once I did I closed my mouth on it, wrapping my lips tightly around the base of his cock. With my tongue I felt up and down his shaft. I started sucking on him, and licking it from root to tip, it was just automatic like I was possessed. His moans grew louder in approval, so I kept sucking. He ran his fingers through my hair and grabbed my hair roughly and forced my head down harder onto his cock. His thrusts came at me faster, I gagged a couple of times, he didn’t care, he just kept pounding into my mouth. Before I realised what was happening, he let out a loud moan.
    “Fuck, fuck, fuck…yeah” and his thrusts nearly stopped, then I felt this rush of hot liquid flood my mouth. Every time he thrust into me he unloaded another mouthful of cum. I had no idea what to do so I just swallowed, every last drop of it. I didn’t even notice the taste I was so turned on. When he had finished exploding in my mouth he pulled out, his dick still very hard. He pulled me up and kissed me really hard, his tongue exploring my mouth. I always wondered what it would be like to kiss another boy, I never imagined it would be like this. As we kissed his hands explored my body, stripping me of what clothes I had on. It wasn’t much longer before I was completely naked, my dick was hard and rubbed against his still erect cock.
    “God you are so sexy, so innocent.” He muttered. “I can totally keep
going.”
    I pressed my body to his, wrapping my arms around him as we kissed. Pulling away he roughly directed me to the shower and pushed me inside. The cool water felt so good against my burning skin. He soaped our hands and we explored each other’s bodies. His nipples were quite dark, his chest was really toned and stomach flat and hard. I worked my way down his stomach, to the base of his cock, which was still very hard. He suddenly whipped my hands away. He flipped me around and pushed my face against the glass. He reached around and started stroking my cock, with his other hand he lathered up my balls and massaged and squeezed them. He started quickly rubbing his soapy fingers against my asshole while he kept wanking my cock. Oh man his fingers felt so good against my hole, just teasing slightly, his fingertips going into the entrance quickly and then pulling out. It sent electric shocks through my body. Mark got down on his knees. I kept my face and hands against the glass, my ass sticking out, water rushing down my back. I was convinced I was paralysed. He spread my ass cheeks apart and started poking his index finger in and out of my hole quickly. He slowly forced it in deep, then another one until two fingers were inside me. I could feel my ass was very tight around his fingers, the stretching hurt but that was overcome by the immense pleasure. He fingered me hard and deep with two fingers as I cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain. He curled and flexed his fingers upwards to feeling around the inside of my ass. He put his hands around my waist, now I could feel his cock against my asshole. He kissed my neck as his hands travelled up and down the side of my body then stopped on my hips. I could feel the head of his cock pressing hard against my hole, seeking a way in, I knew I was very tight. He pulled my hips backwards and guided my ass down onto him. His cock slipped in. He pulled my hips back harder until his big cock was all the way in. I also pushed back into him, opening myself up to him. It was almost unbearable as he forced his thick cock in and out of me. I turned my face sideways towards his, and his tongue licked frantically at mine. Loosening up for him, I allowed him to enter more of me.
    When he was totally inside it took me a minute to get adjusted, I had another man’s cock inside of me, it was something I couldn’t get a hold of in my mind. He had total control over me. I had a firm grasp on him with my ass and there was no feeling like him sliding in and out of me. Suddenly he pulled out. He reached out of the shower as I watched paralysed and confused. He grabbed a plastic mop and violently snapped off the mop end so he was left with a long pole. He turned off the shower and pulled me out, pushing me down on to all fours. I had no idea what was happening, but was still turned on. Suddenly he forced the rounded end of the handle into my ass. It was colder and harder than his cock, and pushed a lot deeper. It hurt at first, but he moved it around and around like he was churning the inside of my ass. I could feel my ass ring stretching and giving into his forcing. After about five minutes of fucking me with the pole he discarded it and then pushed me down, pinning me to the ground. My face was squashed against the cold, wet tiles as he pushed has hands on my back. He slipped his cock back into my gaping hole, not being gentle at all. He rammed it in and out quickly, his body slapping against my ass cheeks. It wasn’t long before I was begging him to go harder and faster. He pounded into me, jack-hammering that big cock of his into my tight ass with uncontrollable force. It was an indescribable feeling that overtook my whole body. Before I knew it, my body was shaking and I was whimpering as wave after wave of sticky cum shot out of me onto the tiles.
    As I shot my last drop of cum, his fingernails clawed into my ass cheeks and I could feel his cock throbbing as he shot his load. My insides were flooded with his warm liquid. While cumming he slipped his cock out, wanking it in one hand and fingering my wet, sticky asshole with the other. Cum was dripping out of my ass running down my legs, as he shot more of his load over my cheeks. We collapsed together on the floor. He held me tightly from behind. Neither of us cared that the floor was hard and cold.
    “Have I been good?” I whispered after a long silence.
    “So good.” He whispered back in my ear. “You’re been a very good boy.”






This is from a story called ‘Tripping’, published in ‘Eros Ex Machina’, edited by M. Christian (the anthology also includes a very cool story by Kevin Killian). I was daft for JG Ballard’s ‘Crash’. at the time and fascinated by America’s love-affair with the automobile, so ‘Tripping’ is a sort of porn-y take on the idea of being turned on by things car-ish.


In the security lights' blind-spot, Mac stood up and scanned the recent-arrivals' area, searching for the caved-in roof of a Peugot 260.
    And found it. The metal skeleton had been crumpled further by the wreckers' claws. Mac hoped the inside would be intact.
    He laughed aloud.
    The dogs barked once, then fell silent.
    His own detachment surprised him. Two years ago he'd been unable to pass a parking-lot without getting hard. These days, he was driving one of the things, ten times a week, no sweat...
    ...once a tripper, always a tripper?
    Oily mud squelched under his feet. He walked over to the vehicle. The engine had been removed - Mac knew that. But if his instinct was right, there was life inside. He stuck his head though a jagged space, groping in the darkness. Fingers contacted with metal.
    Cold metal.
    Cold, hard metal.
    The denuded hand-brake was at an almost ninety-degree angle. Mac's balls tightened as he fumbled towards the shattered dashboard.
    Dry. Crystaline. He raised shaking fingers to his lips and tasted...
    ...saltiness. Not blood-saltiness, though he could smell there was plenty of that around. Another more intimate, equally vital body-fluid.
    Mac's guts turned over. Licking dried spunk from his fingers, he closed his eyes.
    Skinned metal rubbed his thigh.
    His cock started to stretch inside his pants. Mac groaned, leaning back further. He inhaled the smell of two spent life-forces.
    One drilled from deep in the ground.
    The other fucked from deep in a man's balls.
    Before he knew what he was doing, his pants were down and cold metal was pressing against his hole. Mac gripped the edge of the roof-frame and began to gyrate. His fingers slipped a couple of times as he circled the hand-brake, teasing himself. Re-adjusting his hold, he swung back, raising his legs and planting his feet on the dashboard. Crushed safety-glass crunched under his boots. He hung there, suspended, then began to bear down.
    His thighs spasmed uncontrollably. Mac stared through the shattered windscreen into darkness as the hand-brake pushed past his sphincter.
    He hovered there, the first inch of hard, solid steel inside his ass. Mac savoured the invasion, the way the muscle clenched around the cold shaft. He could feel the bevelled finger-indentations, feel his sphincter tighten around the first...
    ...then second..third...
    ...at the fourth finger-grip, Mac's right hand released the roof-frame and grabbed his cock.
    He was out of condition. The muscles in his left arm screamed as he used his feet to lever himself back up the hand-brake...
    ...then down again. He closed his eyes, inhaling the freeway smell of blood and gas and sweat and spunk. Mac fucked himself harder and faster, jacking his cock as the steel shaft buried and reburied itself in his ass.
    The car moved beneath him, grating and grinding. Mac blinked back another saltiness as the pain in his left arm became almost unbearable. His cock was agony, his balls knitting together...
    ...he howled when he came, splattering the dashboard with another layer of milky liquid. And the wreckers' dogs howled with him.






    An old dude--he was maybe 65--once asked me if I’d like to have lunch with him. It was a sunny day and I was too hot from walking. I took his offer because he was paying attention to me, telling me I was special. We ate at a café up the coast. He watched me as I ate a salmon sandwich. I loved him watching me. He snuck me two glasses of wine and I let him watch me drink those, too. After lunch, we walked out to his car. It started raining. He asked me to jerk off for him so I did. He just sat there, the windshield wipers squeaking across the windshield, as I unzipped my pants and got hard.

----When I came, he looked happy, like my coming was a miracle, like it was special. I remember I could smell my balls, that I needed a shower bad. I got out of his car after that and walked on the beach in the rain. I felt so good about myself for the first time in forever.


(This is a very short excerpt from an unpublished novel I'm writing called Scrappy Soldier.)






I have always loved porn, but it never seems to fit in my writing, as much as I'd like it to do some tricks for me.

Porn, for me, is image-bound. Meaning, I don't want to read something that conjures an image that then might excite me. I've written about sex, but with a degree of separation that prevents it from being what it should. I guess I'm blaming that on my father's Penthouse Forums and the faggot equivalents I managed to buy. I always liked the pix better. I'd rather see Danny Sommers bend and "grit" than I would read about it.

Therefore, this is Cooper's most challenging day for me.

I was feeding on my boyfriend's stupidly hung wang, and then letting him pretty much chew my asshole off, then fuck me, when I was thinking "so how do I represent this?" It was great. It was a sperm throwing contest. I think I came three times before he even started to plow.

I took to the challenge Weavie gave me: get on that thing now or just take a fucking bus home.

That was pleasant, but my head went compute-compute-compute. I managed to come in his nostrils (still sneezing three days later), but I wasn't getting words from it.

Words: grab me under my balls and give yourself a little whap with my cock; whap me more with yours, it has the smell of the only sort of syrup I'd eat, so at least try; everything inside of my ass has been conspicuously removed by me, so at least try to suffocate for effect's sake; when you fit that in and ignore me enough to ram a little, think I'm whoever you need to. Right now, I'm thinking you're Hot Older Man Big Dick I've Known For Two Decades. Right now, you're thinking, shut the fuck up, you whiny bottom, and let my I- know- it's- bigger- than- your- grimace do you properly in. All they think is "in." Ok, go in.

Played.




*

p.s. Hey. Do any of you longer timers remember this post? It's a biggie, and I'm thinking it should more than occupy whatever time you want to spend here this weekend. Big retroactive thanks to everybody who contributed to this originally.

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The American author Lydia Davis first came to prominence as an English translator of great if 'difficult' French authors like Maurice Blanchot, Michel Leiris, Michel Foucault, Pierre Jean Jouvet, and others. Her own fiction was initially less well known, published in small editions by independent literary presses. But in one of those rare victories that befall serious American writers, Davis's work nonetheless found powerful admirers, and eventually her books were being widely published to acclaim if tiny audiences thanks to a devoted editor at perhaps America's most respected major press, Farrar Straus Giroux. In a very lucky break, a young Dave Eggars found and fell in love with her work, and two years ago he issued Davis's latest book, Samuel Johnson is Indignant, through his hip and influential press McSweeneys, whereupon Davis, as tough and excellent a fiction writer as contemporary American fiction has produced, found a most unlikely commercial success. Not only is this a story of just rewards for a superb writer, it's also a story that should inspire real, uncompromising young fiction writers everywhere to hold their ground and ignore the bullshit idea that if their first books don't wind up in the window of every Barnes and Noble, their work's future is stunted. Partly in honor of the news that a new book by Davis, Varieties of Disturbance: Stories, will be published by FSG next spring, and partly because she's one of the current American writers I most admire, I'd like to use today to celebrate and urge those of you who haven't to read the great Lydia Davis.


____________




BORING FRIENDS

We know only four boring people. The rest of our friends we find very interesting. However, most of the friends we find interesting find us boring: the most interesting find us the most boring. The few who are somewhere in the middle, with whom there is reciprocal interest, we distrust: at any moment, we feel, they may become too interesting for us, or we too interesting for them.



WHAT I FEEL

These days I try to tell myself that what I feel is not very important. I've read this in several books now: that what I feel is important but not the center of everything. Maybe I do believe this, but not enough to act on it. I would like to believe it more deeply.
----What a relief that would be. I wouldn't have to think about what I felt all the time, and try to control it, with all its complications and all its consequences. I wouldn't have to try to feel better all the time. In fact, if I didn't believe what I felt was so important, I probably wouldn't even feel so bad, and it wouldn't be so hard to feel better. I wouldn't have to say, Oh I feel so awful, this is like the end for me here, in this dark living-room late at night, with the dark street outside under the streetlamps, I am so very alone, everyone else in the house asleep, there is no comfort anywhere, just me alone down here, I will never calm myself enough to sleep, never sleep, never be able to go on to the next day, I can't possibly go on, I can't live, even through the next minute.
----If I didn't believe what I felt was the center of everything, then it wouldn't be the center of everything, but just something off to the side, one of many things, and I would be able to see and pay attention to those other things that are equally important, and in this way I would have some relief.
----But it is curious how you can believe an idea is absolutely true and correct and yet not believe it deeply enough to act on it. So I still act as though my feelings were the center of everything, and they still cause me to end up alone by the living-room window late at night. What is different now is that I have this idea: I have the idea that soon I will no longer believe that my feelings are the center of everything. This is a comfort to me, because if you despair of going on, but at the same time tell yourself that what you feel may not be very important, then either you may no longer despair of going on, or you may still despair of going on but not quite believe it anymore.



FEAR

Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, "Emergency, emergency," and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved at some time to do just what she has done, and every time, it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families too, to quiet us.



THE MICE

Mice live in our walls but do not trouble our kitchen. We are pleased but cannot understand why they do not come into our kitchen where we have traps set, as they come into the kitchens of our neighbors. Although we are pleased, we are also upset, because the mice behave as though there were something wrong with our kitchen. What makes this even more puzzling is that our house is much less tidy than the houses of our neighbors. There is more food lying about in our kitchen, more crumbs on the counters and filthy scraps of onion kicked against the base of the cabinets. In fact, there is so much loose food in the kitchen I can only think the mice themselves are defeated by it. In a tidy kitchen, it is a challenge for them to find enough food night after night to survive until spring. They patiently hunt and nibble hour after hour until they are satisfied. In our kitchen, however, they are faced with something so out of proportion to their experience that they cannot deal with it. They might venture out a few steps, but soon the overwhelming sights and smells drive them back into their holes, uncomfortable and embarrassed at not being able to scavenge as they should.



THE PROFESSOR

A few years ago, I used to tell myself I wanted to marry a cowboy. Why shouldn't I say this to myself -- living alone, excited by the brown landscape, sometimes noticing a cowboy in a pickup truck in my rearview mirror, as I drove on the broad highways of the West Coast? In fact, I realize I would still like to marry a cowboy, though by now I'm living in the East and married already to someone who is not a cowboy.

But what would a cowboy want with a woman like me -- an English professor, the daughter of another English professor, not very easygoing? If I have a drink or two, I'm more easygoing, but I still speak correctly and don't know how to joke with people unless I know them well, and often these are university people or the people they live with, who also speak correctly. Although I don't mind them, I feel cut off from all the other people in this country -- to mention only this country.

I told myself I liked the way cowboys dressed, starting with the hat, and how comfortable they were in their clothes, so practical, having to do with their work. Many professors seem to dress the way they think a professor should dress, without any real interest or love. Their clothes are too tight or else a few years out of style and just add to the awkwardness of their bodies.

After I was hired to teach for the first time, I bought a briefcase, and then after I started teaching I carried it through the halls like the other professors. I could see that the older professors, mostly men but also some women, were no longer aware of the importance of their briefcases, and that the younger women pretended they weren't aware of it, but the younger men carried their briefcases like trophies.

At that same time, my father began sending me thick envelopes containing material he thought would help me in my classes, including exercises to assign and quotes to use. I didn't read more than a few pages sometimes when I was feeling strong. How could an old professor try to teach a young professor? Didn't he know I wouldn't be able to carry my briefcase through the halls and say hello to my colleagues and students and then go home and read the instructions of the old professor?

In fact, I liked teaching because I liked telling other people what to do. In those days it seemed clearer to me than it does now that if I did something a certain way, it had to be right for other people, too. I was so convinced of it that my students were convinced, too. Still, though I was a teacher outside, I was something else inside. Some of the old professors were also old professors inside, but inside, I wasn't even a young professor. I looked like a woman in glasses, but I had dreams of leading a very different kind of life, the life of a woman who would not wear glasses, the kind of woman I saw from a distance now and then in a bar.

More important than the clothes a cowboy wore, and the way he wore them, was the fact that a cowboy probably wouldn't know much more than he had to. He would think about his work, and about his family, if he had one, and about having a good time, and not much else. I was tired of so much thinking, which was what I did most in those days. I did other things, but I went on thinking while I did them. I might feel something, but I would think about what I was feeling at the same time. I even had to think about what I was thinking and wonder why I was thinking it. When I had the idea of marrying a cowboy I imagined that maybe a cowboy would help me stop thinking so much.

I also imagined, though I was probably wrong about this, too, that a cowboy wouldn't be like anyone I knew -- like an old Communist, or a member of a steering committee, a writer of letters to the newspaper, a faculty wife serving tea at a student tea, a professor reading proofs with a sharp pencil and asking everyone to be quiet. I thought that when my mind, always so busy, always going around in circles, always having an idea and then an idea about an idea, reaching out to his mind, it would meet something quieter, that there would be more blanks, more open spaces, that some of what he had in his mind might be the sky, clouds, hilltops, and then other concrete things like ropes, saddles, horsehair, the smell of horses and cattle, motor oil, calluses, grease, fences, gullies, dry streambeds, lame cows, stillborn calves, freak calves, veterinarians' visits, treatments, inoculations. I imagined this even though I knew that some of the things I liked that might be in his mind, like the saddles, the saddle sores, the horsehair, and the horses themselves, weren't often a part of the life of a cowboy anymore. As for what I would do in my life with this cowboy, I sometimes imagined myself reading quietly in clean clothes in a nice study, but at other times I imagined myself oiling tack or cooking large quantities of plain food or helping out in the barn in the early morning while the cowboy had both arms inside a cow to turn a calf so it would present properly. Problems and chores like these would be clear and I would be able to handle them in a clear way. I wouldn't stop reading and thinking, but I wouldn't know very many people who did a lot of that, so I would have more privacy in it, because the cowboy, though so close to me all the time, wouldn't try to understand but would leave me alone with it. It would not be an embarrassment anymore.

I thought if I married a cowboy, I wouldn't have to leave the West. I liked the West for its difficulties. First I liked the difficulty of telling when one season was over and another had begun, and then I liked the difficulty of finding any beauty in the landscape where I was. To begin with, I had gotten used to its own kind of ugliness, all those broad highways laid down in the valleys and the new constructions placed up on the bare hillsides. Then I began to find beauty in it, and liked the bareness and the plain brown of the hills in the dry season, and the way the folds in the hills where some dampness tended to linger would fill up with grasses and shrubs and other flowering plants. I liked the plainness of the ocean and the emptiness when I looked out over it. And then, especially since it had been so hard for me to find this beauty, I didn't want to leave it.

I might have gotten the idea of marrying a cowboy from a movie I saw one night in the springtime with a friend of mine who was also a professor -- a handsome and intelligent man kinder than I am, but even more awkward around people, forgetting even the names of old friends in his sudden attacks of shyness. He seemed to enjoy the movie, though I have no idea what was going through is mind. Maybe he was imagining a life with the woman in the movie, who was so different from his thin, nervous, and beautiful wife. As we drove away from the movie theater, on one of those broad highways with nothing ahead or behind but taillights and headlights and nothing on either side but darkness, all I wanted to do was go out into the middle of the desert, as far away as possible from everything I had known all my life, and from the university where I was teaching and the towns and the city near it with all the intelligent people who lived and worked in them, writing down their ideas in notebooks and on computers in their offices and their studies at home and taking notes form difficult books. I wanted to leave all this and go out into the middle of the desert and run a motel by myself with a little boy, and have a worn-out cowboy come along, a worn-out middle-aged cowboy, alcoholic if necessary, and marry him. I thought I knew of a little boy I could take with me. Then all I would need would be the aging cowboy and the motel. I would make it a good motel, I would look after it and I would solve any problems sensibly and right away as they came along. I thought I could be a good, tough businesswoman just because I had seen this movie showing this good, tough businesswoman. This woman also had a loving heart and a capacity to understand another fallible human being. The fact is that if an alcoholic cowboy came into my life in any important way I would probably criticize him to death for his drinking until he walked out on me. But at the time I had that strange confidence, born of watching a good movie, that I could be something different from what I was, and I started listening to country Western music on the car radio, though I knew it wasn't written for me.

At that point I met a man in one of my classes who seemed reasonably close to my idea of a cowboy, though now I can't tell why I thought so. He wasn't really like a cowboy, or what I thought a cowboy might be like, so what I wanted must have been something else, and the idea of a cowboy just came up in my mind for the sake of convenience. The facts weren't right. He didn't work as a cowboy but at some kind of job where he glued the bones of chimpanzees together. He played jazz trombone, and on the days when he had a lesson he wore a dark suit to class and carried a black case. He just missed being good-looking, with his square, fleshy, pale face, his dark hair, mustache, dark eyes; just missed being good-looking, not because of his rough cheeks, which were scarred from shrapnel, but because of a loose or wild look about him, his eyes wide open all the time, even when he smiled, and his body very still, only his eyes moving, watching everything, missing nothing. Wary, he was ready to defend himself as though every conversation might also be something of a fight.

One day when a group of us were having a beer together after class, he was quiet, seemed very low, and finally said to us, without raising his eyes, that he thought he might be going to move in with his father and send his little girl back to her mother. He said he didn't think it was fair to keep her because sometimes he would just sit in a chair without speaking -- she would try to talk to him and he wouldn't be able to open his mouth, she would keep on trying and he would sit there knowing he had to answer her but unable to.

His rudeness and wildness were comfortable to me at that point, and because he would tease me now and then, I thought he liked me enough so that I could ask him to go out to dinner with me, and finally I did, just to see what would happen. He seemed startled, then pleased to accept, sobered and flattered at this attention from his professor.

The date didn't turn out to be something that would change the direction of my life, though that's not what I was expecting then, only what I thought about afterwards. He was very late coming to pick me up at the graduate-student housing compound where I was staying. Just when I had decided he wasn't coming, after I had spent an hour pacing more and more hopelessly out onto my tiny tree-shaded balcony, which overlooked a playground and the parking lot, and back into my tiny living room, which was crowded with the things of some young couple I didn't know, he came in wearing an old work shirt with the sleeves rolled up and brown corduroys with the cord worn off on the thighs. He stopped and looked around as though he were about to get to work on something, then spotted the piano and bent over it for a moment and played a fast, pretty tune just long enough to make me happy again, then broke it off in the middle.

I was very curious about him, as though everything that added itself to what I knew already would be a revelation. When we got into the car he reached across me and unlocked the glove compartment and when we prepared to get out he reached across me and locked it again. I asked him why he did that, and he lifted up a bundle of papers in the glove compartment and showed me the wooded butt of a gun. He told me a couple of men were after him, and that it had something to do with his little girl.

We parked near a restaurant, he took a gray jacket off a hanger in the car and put it over his arm, and as we walked along he tucked in his shirt and then put on the jacket. I thought to myself this was how a cowboy might do it -- carry his gray suit in the car on a hanger, and when he neatened up to go into some place with a woman he would also touch his hair gently.

He drank milk with his Chinese diner. He talked about his job, offering me pieces of scientific information, and then told some bad jokes. We didn't either of us eat very much, embarrassed, I think, to be alone together like this. He told me that he had married his wife right after he got back from the war. She was half Chinese and half Mexican. He told me his hearing had been damaged in the war and I noticed that he watched my lips as I talked. He told me his balance had been affected, too, and outside the restaurant I noticed how he would veer toward the curb when he walked. He drank milk in the restaurant but beer in the bar where we went to play pool. He put his arm around me outside the bar, but back in the car he said he had to get home to his babysitter. Then he changed his mind and took me to a spot on a cliff that looked out over the ocean and kissed me. Other cars were parked around us, and a pickup truck.

He kissed me a number of times there in his old maroon Ford with the radio on, so that I could have imagined I was a teenager again except that when I was a teenager I had never done anything like that. Then we got out of the car and went to the edge of the cliff to look down at the ocean, the black water of the bay, and the strings of lights that reached out into the water from the town where we had been playing pool. We sat down on the sand not far from the edge of the cliff and he told me a little more about how hard it had been with his wife, how he had tried to get back together with her, how he had done his best to charm her and she wouldn't be charmed. He told me he had been alone with his little girl for six months now, and his wife was coming home in a few days to try living with him again, even though nothing he did had ever worked. He said he wouldn't be able to see me again. I told him I wasn't expecting that anyway, because I was leaving the West soon. It wasn't quite true that I hadn't expected to see him again, but it was true that I was leaving soon. Finally he took me home and kissed me good night.

As far as I could tell, I didn't mind the way the date turned out, though I started crying the next day in my car on my way to the drive-in bank. I thought I was crying for him, his fears, his difficulties, the mysterious men he thought were after him and his daughter, but I was probably crying for myself, out of disappointment, though exactly what I wanted I'm not sure. Months later, after I was living in the East again, I called him long-distance one night after having a couple of beers by myself in my apartment, and when he answered there was noise in the background of people talking and laughing, either his family or a party, I can't remember which, and he sounded just as pleased to hear from me, and flattered, as he had sounded when I asked him out on the date.

I still imagine marrying a cowboy, though less often, and the dream has changed a little. I'm so used to the companionship of my husband by now that if I were to marry a cowboy I would want him with me, though he would object strongly to any move in the direction of the West, which he dislikes. So if we went, it would not be as it was in my daydream a few years ago, with me cooking plain food or helping the cowboy with a difficult calf. It would end, or begin, with my husband and me standing awkwardly there in front of the ranch house, waiting while the cowboy prepared our rooms.






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5 books


Lydia Davis Samuel Johnson is Indignant

'The 56 stories paragraph-long meditations, stories in sections and humorous one-liners showcase the wordplay and distillation of meaning that have become her stylistic hallmarks, offering up crisp twists on familiar themes.'
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Lydia Davis The End of the Story

'The narrative is comprised of the unnamed narrator's memories of and reflections upon her ended love affair with a nameless man 13 years her junior; its history infiltrates the books she reads and translates, as well as the novel she is struggling to write, which is this novel. As she probes the moments and minutiae of their relationship, the man's identity fades, and he becomes material for her fiction: like a backward-spiraling track into memory, a labyrinthine sentence mimes the diminishing roar of his car when he leaves her.'
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Lydia Davis Almost No Memory

'Lydia Davis's latest collection of short stories fascinates in the same way that miniature portraits do. The closer one looks, the more details emerge--and the more impressed one becomes with the skill it takes to fit so much into such a tiny space. [Davis writes] in compressed prose that is frequently poetic and, without question, memorable.'
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Marcel Proust Swanns Way (translated by Lydia Davis)

'There's no question that Davis's American English is thinner and more literal than C.K. Scott Montcrieff's archaically inflected turns of phrase and idioms, at least as revised by Terence Kilmartin and later by D.J. Enright. The removal of some of the familiar layers of the past in this all-new translation gives one a feeling similar to that of encountering an old master painting that has just been cleaned: the colors seem sharper and momentarily disorienting.'
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Maurice Blanchot Death Sentence (translated by Lydia Davis)

'Perhaps the supreme study of the impossibility of fidelity, let alone true love, in a world where death hangs in the air as the possibility of total absence or, more frighteningly, as the cipher of a total presence condemned to repeat its secret to deaf ears.'




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Upon publishing her most recent book Samuel Johnson is Indignant, McSweeneys hosted a special Lydia Davis Week featuring seven days' worth of work by and about her, tributes, and a plethora of links to the LD-related.

Lydia Davis interviewed by Francine Prose

Aurelie Sheehan:'Acknowledging, let alone creating, new perspectives from which to view life and literature is liberating, yes, but also morally imperative. Hailed in 1999 by Vince Passaro of Harper's Magazine as one of this generation's masters of the short story, Lydia Davis is, ironically, at work refuting or at very least reinventing that form, as well as sawing off at knee height any signposts that might tell us a book of a certain length, breadth and symmetry is indeed what we are used to calling a "novel." An accomplished translator and the author of six works of fiction, Davis demands that we take another look at our process of thinking, particularly as it corresponds to the act of writing and its semi-inevitable outcome: story.' (Read the rest)


Lydia Davis on the Web


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p.s. Hey. This Lydia Davis overview is a little out of date seven-plus years later, but it means well. She's great. Enjoy it. One more rerun post tomorrow, and then I'll be back in Paris and speaking with you live again.

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"I am angry, I am ill and I'm as ugly as sin
My irritability keeps me alive and kicking
I know the meaning of life, it doesn't help me a bit
I know beauty and I know a good thing when I see it

This is a song from under the floorboards
this is a song from where the wall is cracked
by force of habit, I am an insect
I have to confess I'm proud as hell of that fact

I know the highest and the best
I accord them all due respect
but the brightest jewel inside of me
glows with pleasure at my own stupidity

I used to make phantoms I could later chase
images of all that could be desired
then I got tired of counting all of these blessings
and then I just got tired"

-- 'Song from Under the Floorboards'



'The major characteristic of Howard Devoto's work has been integrity and an avoidance of formula. His aims as the original singer with Buzzcocks were exhausted after one record -- their Spiral Scratch EP is replete with wit and wisdom about the dynamics of the then burgeoning punk trend, and indeed the first to acknowledge it as a gimmick. What else was there to say? Punk's chief aim was to spark a new beginning, fresh sounds and boundless opportunities. It had nothing to do with a career. Howard knew this and jumped ship, leaving cohorts Pete Shelley, Steve Diggle and John Maher to become perhaps the most joyous pop group of the late-Seventies.






Buzzcocks 'Breakdown'



Buzzcocks 'I Can't Control Myself'



Magazine 'Shot by Both Sides'



Magazine 'Touch and Go'







1977: Howard Devoto interviewed by Jon Savage

Jon Savage: Do you think we live in insane times ? Howard Devoto: Some of us do - some of us don't. Do you want to do something new with punk ? Nobody invents new colours or new feelings. The first snowfall is fresh and in some sense new. But it isn't different necessarily from last year's snow. Nor is it old goods in a new wrapper. What do you want to do with Magazine? Improve people's memories. Do you want to be popular at a mass level ? I can take it or leave it. Your music seems to deliberately want to leave gaps. It's a matter of not trying to tell the whole story about something - when you can't. Not trying to make up the bits that are going to fit... Like writing about something and giving the impression you know everything about it... I guess so. But I feel really concerned about mistaken impressions - mishearing - and ambiguous experience. Just on straight sense things - when you think you've seen something - and it doesn't turn out to be what you've seen; I think there's always a way of learning that as well - it doesn't always happen by accident. You seem to be stating complex ideas in simple language in your range... Yes - but they're not worked out. I leave a lot of loose ends for me and everybody. Just taking certain phrases out of context and putting them together...




'Where The Buzzcocks were obtainable, Devoto was obscure. He had quickly formed Magazine, who went on to produce four albums of bombastic introspection between 1978 and 1981. Their early work dealt with weighty and perpetual imbalance -- political unrest ('Shot By Both Sides'), the powerless American president who dies at the hands of an assassin ('Motorcade') and prostitution ('Touch and Go'). To the casual listener they were just brilliant rock songs, with lyrical whimsy that held up to close scrutiny. Later work became more ambiguous and on The Correct Use Of Soap (1980) the group made their most complete work. There you can find 'A Song From Under The Floorboards' and 'Sweetheart Contract', which exist amongst a string of great singles.






Magazine 'The Light Pours Out of Me'



Magazine 'Give Me Everything'



Magazine 'Motorcade'



Magazine 'Cut Out Shapes'



Magazine 'Model Worker'





(l. to r.) Bob Dickinson, John McGeogh, Dave Formula, Devoto, Barry Adamson


The rest of Magazine:

John McGeogh (guitarist): McGeogh left Magazine after The Correct Use of Soap album to become the guitarist for Siouxie and the Banshees during their most creative period. He quit the Banshees to join PiL, playing on their seminal Flowers of Romance album, a.o. He was later a member of The Armoury Show, a short lived band fronted by Richard Jobson of The Skids, and of Steve Strange's supergroup Visage, as well as playing guitar on a number of other artists' albums, including Peter Murphy, Generation X, Ultravox, Matthew Sweet, and others. He died in his sleep in 2004.

Bob Dickinson (guitarist): After departing Magazine, Dickinson gave up rock music for world sacred music, writing the book 'Music and the Earth Spirit.' With composer Steven Dennison, he mans the music website Text Music

Barry Adamson (bass): After the demise of Magazine, Adamson become one of the founding members of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, recording and performing with them for the majority of their existence. In addition, he became a respected composer of scores for independent films and has released a number of highly acclaimed solo albums. A collection of his solo and film music, The Murky World of Barry Adamson, was released in 2000.

John Doyle (drummer): After Magazine, Doyle was briefly a member of The Armoury Show with John McGeogh. He became a widely used session musician working mostly in the traditional and contemporary Irish music field. He's also a character actor who has appeared in a number of films, including Babe and Bliss.

Dave Formula (keyboards): Post-Magazine, Formula became the keyboardist for Ultravox during their most commercially successful period fronted by Midge Ure in the early to late 80s, and was also a member of Steve Strange's Visage. He's currently keyboardist for post-funk band The Finks.



'By the time of The Correct Use of Soap, Magazine had reached an internal impasse. John McGeoch, their guitarist, left because of a frustration with Magazine's lack of commercial success. One more album followed, the patchy Magic, Murder and the Weather. Devoto continued solo with his Jerky Versions Of The Dream album which he has since disowned and, honourably, retired from music after a clear sense that he had produced a poor record. Only Noko (now of Apollo Four Forty) persuaded him to record subsequent to this, with their commercially unsuccessful but nonetheless valuable Luxuria group. Other than a few guest appearances with This Mortal Coil, Mansun, and Apollo Four Forty, Howard didn't record again until his unexpected reunion with The Buzzcocks' Pete Shelley three years ago for the one-off project Buzzkunst. Since then he has returned to his real name, Howard Trafford, and currently works as a supervisor in a photo library somewhere in London.'-- Ian Greaves, 3 AM Magazine






Howard Devoto 'Rainy Season'



Luxuria 'Red Neck'



Luxuria 'Beastbox'



Buzzkunst 'Going Off'






Shotbybothsides.com is as close to an official Howard Devoto website as exists. Its concentration is on his work with Magazine, but The Buzzocks, Luxuria, Buzzkunst, and Devoto's solo work are well covered. The site includes a complete discography and a thorough database of Devoto -related press and facts, as well as a decent if not quite up -to -the -minute news section.






Jess Harvel, Rhythm of Cruelty: Howard Devoto and the Post-Punk Revival: 'Even with the new respect/admiration/costume play/lip-service paid to artists previously thought consigned to the dustbin of pop history, where does this new round of myth raiding leave them in the cold actual glare of 2002? Ask Afrikaa Bambaataa, playing an MTV dance show to a couple hundred (and a couple hundred thousand around the world) kids asking who the fuck these old guys in fringe vests were and where is Paul Oakenfold already? Ask ESG who have been coaxed out of a long-suffering silence wherein they witnessed their earliest JB’s- as- proto- house records being sampled almost as much as JB himself only to end in dwindling returns for both sampler and sampled. Ask The Human League, who’s Secrets was one of the best records of 2001, proving they were still most adept at the world they had so completely changed, even as they were eclipsed by their sad, ugly children. Ask Howard Devoto.'(Read the rest here)





Read another excellent, comprehensive piece entitled Clarity Has Reared It's Ugly Head Again... The Music of Howard Devoto by Stewart Osborne






Quite a wide rangle of contemporary music artists cite Howard Devoto as a major influence, from Jarvis Cocker and Xiu Xiu's Jamie Stewart to Ministry's Al Jourgensen, who's stated that collaborating with Devoto is one of his biggest dreams. Another Devoto devotee is Momus, who wrote a great song about him entitled 'The Most Important Man Alive.' You can read the lyrics here.
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p.s. Hey. This is it. The last rerun post for a while. I'm on long jet ride from Tokyo to Paris today, and tomorrow I'll be back with a full-fledged p.s. and a new post and my usual post-trip whining about my bad jet lag probably. For now, until then, please examine and appreciate the stylings of the great Howard Devoto.

'The marvellously playful and difficult novelist Christine Brooke-Rose, who has died aged 88, was fond of the device of omission. In her 1968 novel Between, she left out the verb "to be" throughout, to stress the narrator's disoriented sense of personal identity – the year before George Perec's novel La Disparition omitted the letter "e". She left out the word "I" from her autobiographical novels Remake (1996) and Life, End Of (2006), instead describing the narrator as "the old lady". In her 1998 novel Next, which had 26 narrators, each of whose names began with a different letter of the alphabet, she omitted the verb "to have" to emphasise the deprivation of the homeless Londoners in the book.

'As if to continue the theme of erasure, Britain has all but airbrushed one of its most radical exponents of experimental fiction. When Brooke-Rose published a volume of criticism in 2002, it was not, perhaps, entirely devotion to Roland Barthes' death of the author thesis that led to her to call it Invisible Author.

'Many critics hailed her fiction, for all that it was sometimes scarcely comprehensible or pleasurable to those ignorant of the underpinning theory. Ellen G Friedman put Brooke-Rose among those 20th-century experimental female writers – Dorothy Richardson, Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein – whose novels "explode the fixed architecture of the master narrative". Brooke-Rose wrote 16 novels, five collections of criticism and several collections of short stories and poems. Frank Kermode considered that her originality and skills deserved "a greater measure of admiration and respect than we have so far chosen to accord them".

'In 1974, Brooke-Rose began writing her first novel, The Languages of Love, much of which was set in the Reading Room of the British Museum. The Sycamore Tree (1958) similarly involved London intellectuals, but her third novel, The Dear Deceit (1960), saw the first stirrings of narrative experiment. In it, a man traces the life of his deceased father backwards from death to birth. Throughout this period, she worked as a reviewer and freelance journalist for the New Statesman, Observer, Sunday Times and Times Literary Supplement.

'In 1962 she underwent kidney surgery. One result of this was her first truly experimental novel, Out (1964), which was compared to Alain Robbe-Grillet's formally adventurous La Jalousie (1957). Brooke-Rose was becoming a nouveau romancier: later she scorned that description while conceding the influence of Robbe-Grillet, whose novels she translated, on her reinvention as a writer. Out was narrated by a white character facing racial discrimination in the aftermath of a nuclear war, with pale skin now indicating radiation poisoning and dark skin health.

'Increasingly invisible in Britain, Brooke-Rose crossed the Channel in 1968 and flourished. She had already that year separated from her second husband; a third marriage, to Claude Brooke, was to be brief. She taught linguistics and English literature at the newly founded University of Paris (Vincennes), a bastion of counter-cultural thought where, in 1975, she became professor of English and American literature and literary theory. After retiring from teaching in 1988, she settled in a village near Avignon on the grounds that French public healthcare is superior to Britain's.

'Her critical works included A Structural Analysis of Pound's Usura Canto: Jakobson's Method Extended and Applied to Free Verse (1976), A Rhetoric of the Unreal: Studies in Narrative and Structure, Especially of the Fantastic (1981) and the relatively jaunty A ZBC of Ezra Pound (1971), produced alongside wildly inventive fiction.

'It was the conceit of Thru (1975) that the students on a university creative writing course collectively construct the narrative. The resulting text included student essays with handwritten changes to typed text, musical notations, mathematical formulas, diagrams, and CVs. In an interview she conceded that this self-conscious deconstruction of narrativity was written tongue in cheek "for a few narratologist friends". Textermination (1991) was set at a conference in San Francisco, attended by characters from Austen, Flaubert, Eliot, Pynchon, Roth and Rushdie, who petition potential readers with the help of literary critics who "interpret" them for the masses.

'In Life, End Of, her final novel, the 80-something narrator finds that the world has grown dull, even those parts of it that were supposed to be ring-fenced from stupefaction. As the narrator writes: "Montaigne says life's purpose is to teach us to die. However, the standard of teaching is now so low that the task is getting tougher and tougher …" The pleasures of writing now become mere palliatives: in a mock-technical lecture from a character to an uninterested author, the author comes to accept that her experiments in narrative are like pain-killers, and that, like life, they no longer matter.

'Decay is ubiquitous: the old lady disintegrates physically as meaning, too, falls apart. Her legs "flinch wince jerk shirk lapse collapse give way stagger like language when it can't present the exact word needed, the exact spot where to put the foot". Never mind: she has Samuel Beckett's gallows humour and can still pun bilingually. She recalls that Descartes thought the pineal gland to be the seat of the soul, "thus putting de cart before dehors".

'Questions remain. Was this last book written to fill a spiritual gap, and to teach us to die? Was the old lady's life story, ultimately, the author's? Did the author see her fictional experiments as finally unimportant? Brooke-Rose omitted, surely programmatically, to give us answers.'-- collaged



___
Her









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Further

Christine Brooke-Rose @ Wikipedia
'Christine Brooke-Rose: the great British experimentalist you've never heard of'
Christine Brooke-Rose: An Inventory of Her Papers
'Celebrating Christine Brooke-Rose' @ TLS
'R.I.P. Christine Brooke-Rose' @ HTMLGIANT
'The life and work of the late, great experimental writer, Christine Brooke-Rose'
Christine Brooke-Rose © Orlando Project
Christine Brooke-Rose's 'The Lunatic Fringe'
'The Criticism of Christine Brooke-Rose' @ Waggish
'Hello Christine Brooke-Rose, R.I.P.'
Podcast: Christine Brooke-Rose and A. S. Byatt, in conversation
Excerpts from CB-R's 'Amalgamemnon'
Interview with Christine Brooke-Rose
Anna Aslanyan on the Christine Brooke-Rose symposium
Buy Textermination



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Interview
from The Review of Contemporary Fiction




What does the phrase “utterly other discourse” from your novel Amalgamemnon mean for you? Do you feel that you are writing “utterly other discourses”?

CBR: In Amalgamemnon, it doesn’t actually mean that. It doesn’t refer to the writing, it refers to the woman reading and thinking quite other things until she has to switch back to talking to the man. In fact, though, I do feel that my writing is different. I haven’t actually seen other writing quite like mine, but it is very difficult for me to say how “other” it is, or even whether it’s any good. I can’t really judge it, so I can’t really answer that questions. I do what I want to do.

But you did make a conscious decision at one point in your career to write the indeterminate novel, rather than something realistic?

CBR: What a strange opposition. The realistic novel has its own indeterminacies. But anyway, it didn’t happen that way at all. It was much more negative than that. I was simply dissatisfied with what I was doing. I had written four novels, which are really quite traditional, satirical, comic novels. I did experiment with time in one of them, which was written backwards, for instance, so that in each chapter the hero gets younger and younger. But that was still classical irony. They were basically traditional modern novels, if I can use such a phrase, in that the main concern was, like most novels, epistemological, concerned with reality and illusion. But I felt it was too easy. It was great fun, but it wasn’t what I wanted. Originally, when I was very young, I used to write poetry every day, but I soon discovered that I was not a poet; but that urge to write poetry . . .

But you are a poet.

CBR: Perhaps, but I had to get around to it in a very different way. I then thought I had found myself as a novelist, but after those four early novels I realized it still wasn’t what I wanted. So eventually—yes, I do now write very poetic novels, more deeply poetic at any rate than the poems I was writing every day. At the time of this dissatisfaction, I suppose it was Nathalie Sarraute’s The Age of Suspicion, and her putting the modern novel in question, which was the first turning point for me, much more so than her novels, for although I like them very much, I can’t say there’s a direct influence of Nathalie Sarraute on what I write. Whereas Robbe-Grillet did have a direct influence, at least on Out. But I soon got out of it. So it wasn’t a decision to write indeterminate novels as such. It was simply a decision not to go on writing as I used to write. But the other thing that happened was much more important. I had a very serious illness, lost a kidney and had a very long convalescence. I fell into a semi-trancelike state for a long time. I was very much thinking of death as the meaning of life. And I began to write Out, which is a very “sick” novel. I think one can feel that. I imagine a time when the whites are discriminated against; the whole color bar is reversed. But the reason the whites are discriminated against is because they are sick, dying from this mysterious radiation disease to which the colored people are more immune. My protagonist is a sick old man who cannot get a job and cannot remember his previous status. This exactly reproduced the state of illness that I was in, so in that sense of protection it was still a very mimetic novel. But I wasn’t consciously trying to do anything different. I started writing a sentence and fell back on the pillow exhausted. I didn’t really know where I was going, and it took me a long time to write it. I was groping. So I don’t think it was a conscious decision. But then with Such I really took off on my own. I don’t think there’s any more influence of Robbe-Grillet on Such. I would say that Such is my first really “Me” novel, where I don’t owe anything to anyone else.

Can you characterize that “Me-ness”?

CBR: I think Such is more imaginative, for one thing. It’s still, of course, concerned with death since the man dies and is brought back to life. Again, I don’t explain why. I get much more interested, in fact, in the impact of language on the imagination. I suppose it’s really with Between that I discovered what I could do with language. With Such it’s still a fairly straightforward use of language, but very much in another world with this slow return to reality as the man comes back to life, but he then sees the stars as radiation. And having hit on that idea but not really knowing where I was going, I then had to do a lot of work, learn something about astrophysics, for example, since I was using it as a metaphor for the world. It’s in Such that I discovered that jargon, of whatever kind, has great poetry. For instance if you take a scientific law and use it literally, it becomes a metaphor. Of course, this is a schoolboy joke. If the teacher says, “Weight consists of the attraction between two bodies, ” everybody giggles. But if you take it further and use more complicated astrophysical laws about bouncing signals on the moon, for instance, to express the distance between people, then it becomes a very active metaphor. Yet it’s treated as ontological in the world of the fiction, like a sunset or a tree. So this sort of thing, you see, isn’t a conscious decision, it’s a discovery.

Is that how you would define the experimental novel?

CBR: Yes, in a way. People often use the term “experimental novel” to mean just something peculiar, or as a genre in itself (on the same level as “realistic” or “fantastic” or “romantic” or “science” fiction). But to experiment is really not knowing where you’re going and discovering. Experimenting with language, experimenting with form and discovering things, and sometimes you might get it wrong and it just doesn’t come off. When I discovered that there is great beauty in technical language (and this comes into its own in Thru where I actually use critical jargon as poetry), I also discovered that there’s beauty and humor in confronting different discourses, jostling them together, including, for instance, computer language. In Such it’s astrophysics and in Between it’s all the languages, the lunatic, empty speech-making of different congresses, political, sociological, literary and so on, and of course, actual languages, different languages, all jostled together, since my protagonist, who’s a simultaneous interpreter, is always in different countries. Discourse became my subject matter. So discovery is one meaning of “experimental,” and this would be, to answer your earlier question, my “utterly other discourse,” where the actual language is different from the language you and I are using now, or that I find in other books. The second meaning is to see how far I can go with language, with vocabulary and syntax, and this is much more conscious.



____
Book

Christine Brooke-Rose Textermination
New Directions

'In Textermination, the eminent British novelist/critic Christine Brooke-Rose pulls a wide array of characters out of the great works of literature and drops them into the middle of the San Francisco Hilton. Emma Bovary, Emma Woodhouse, Captain Ahab, Odysseus, Huck Finn... all are gathered to meet, to discuss, to pray for their continued existence in the mind of the modern reader. But what begins as a grand enterprise erupts into total pandemonium: with characters from different times, places, and genres all battling for respect and asserting their own hard-won fame and reputations. Dealing with such topical literary issues as deconstruction, multiculturalism, and the Salman Rushdie affair, this wild and humorous satire pokes fun at the academy and ultimately brings into question the value of determining a literary canon at all.'-- New Directions

_____
Excerpt
















*

p.s. Hey. So, I'm back. The Japan trip was amazing, and I'll be doing some kind of post about it early next week. I'm going to go right into the p.s. proper now since there's a lot to catch up on, and I'll be quick-ish, sorry, so I can get us caught up, and ... yeah, great to see everyone, and let's go ... January 6 ** David Ehrenstein, I did. Thank you very much! And for the guest-post you sent while I was away. I'll have a launch date for you tomorrow. ** Adrienne White, Hi, Adrienne! Oh, I didn't know there's an all-female Mardi Gras parade. That's so cool. I'll google for pix and info on it. I saw Hello Kitty everywhere I looked in every size and form imaginable, and I didn't hug her (?) but I gave her/him numerous strokes, and I assign them telegraphic status from you retroactively. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh! I'll give that 'Bunny Monroe' book a gander next time I see it somewhere. The Peter Green Fleetwood Mac is incredible! I got to see them live one time, at the Shrine Exposition Hall back in, I don't know, '68 maybe? Were you there? ** Steevee, Hi, man. Worth noting indeed. I'm guessing you're well used to that new remote control's touch requirements by now. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi! I hope you've had an excellent two weeks! ** Misanthrope, Hi, George! Well, I tried my best to find a Squirtle for Little Show, checked a bunch of stores and asked around, but, alas, I never found one. I'm sorry. I do have a Japanese money bill for him. ** Bill, Hi, Bill! I liked long novels when I was younger too, now that you mention it. Strange. They say patience comes with age or something, but I think that's maybe a falsehood. ** Paul Curran, Hi, Paul! It was so great to get to see you in Japan! It was wonderful in every way! Zac was really happy to meet you, and he sends a very warm hello. ** Torn porter, Hey! Has England improved since your early ennui about being there? Maybe you said so later in the comments pile. I'll find out. Did you come to Paris? Ditto. ** January 7 ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben! Ah, The Fall, yes! You good? ** David Ehrenstein, Hi, D! *** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Hey! Hanging with Mark E. Smith sounds cool, maybe especially via a time machine. Or maybe not. I mean that maybe sans time machine would be okay too. Or something. (Jet lag). ** January 8 ** David Ehrenstein, Absolutely, about Roussel! ** Torn porter, Whoa! I don't know! (re: Mountain Dew Cheetos.) But ... hey, maybe. I don't know. Whoa! ** Tosh Berman, A Huge favorite of mine too: Roussel. ** January 9 ** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Hi! ** David Ehrenstein, Ha! ** Sypha, Oh, my pleasure supreme about rerunning your 'AP' post. ** Rewritedept, Hey, buddy! Oh, and thank you a ton for the guest-post. I'm launching it here ... whoa, tomorrow!  ** _Black_Acrylic, Morning! ** Pilgarlic, Awesome stuff about 'American Psycho', man, and lovely to see you! ** Misanthrope, Rawr! ** Etc etc etc, Hey there! How is or did the DFW research going/go? ** Steevee, Hi, People sure seem to like that Beyonce album. I don't get it, but maybe someday. ** Keaton, Hi there, sir! How's it been? ** January 10 ** Empty Frame, Thank you, albeit it very, very late, for the b'day wishes! ** GboiAlways69, Hi, welcome, and thank you a lot! Who are you? Come back and hang out again, if you like. ** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Thank you, b-day-wise, buddy. ** Sleater, Hey! Awesome to see you! Thank you for the b'day kindness. Missing random FB meets too. I'm more in and out of there fast now than ever for some reason. Take care! ** Christian Vagt, Hi, welcome to here! Thank you so very kindly for the b'day regards and for the look at that poster. Yeah, I like the Japanese Bresson posters a lot too. Please one back sometime. ** David Ehrenstein, Thank you, Mr. E. ** Tosh Berman, Gracias. ** Steevee, Thanks! ** Rudyd, Thanks, Mr. d! How are you? ** Torn porter, Thanks, hugs. ** Tosh Berman, Wow! That's so incredible. Thank you so much, Tosh! Wow! Everyone, the very great Tosh Berman is doing these completely marvelous diary entry-like texts/posts on his blog, and he did one on my birthday, and it's a major corker and an honor, and you should go read it maybe, or, wait, no maybes! Here. So great! I'm so honored, Tosh, thank you so much! ** David Estornell, Thank you very much, David! ** Grant Scicluna, Hi, Grant! Really nice to see you, sir! What you did on my birthday totally did my birthday proud, to say the least! Great news, man! I'll go look at those FB production photos as soon as I get out of here! Thank you! ** Grant maierhofer, Thank you, my friend! ** Toniok, Hi! Aw, thank you tremendously, pal! ** les mots dans le nom, Hi! Well, yeah, a birthday Bresson post was a rare instance of me thinking I deserved the best. I must have been in a very confident mood or something, ha ha. Aw, thank you so kindly! ** Bollo, Hi, J! Thank you a lot! ** Etc etc etc, Thank you! ** Keaton, Much love back to ya! ** Postitbreakup, Hi, Josh! Sweet to see you! Yes, write that novel! Listen, I had no fucking idea how to write a novel when wrote my first one, and, in fact, I still have no idea how to do that. Listen only to your heart/words. ** Rigby, Hey! New computer thing. Means you can be here a lot? Yes, right? You want a award for flounceyness? Consider it done. Love, me. ** Hound, Hi, excellent to meet you, and thank you a lot for your kind words. Please come back and hang out. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben! Oh, awesome, re: your Bresson post! Great thanks! Everyone, back when I had that Bresson post up for my birthday, _B_A announced that he had done a post on his own blog not long before about Bresson's great film 'The Trial of Joan of Arc', and I'm just about to finally get to see it now, and please join me. ** GAYUMBOS E-ZINE, Hi! Awesome to see you, and thank you very much! Cool, I'll go see those gifs shortly. Thank you a lot, Antonio. I hope you're doing great! ** Tcim, Hi. Welcome to my blog. Thank you so much, and I hope you'll come back sometime so we can talk/meet properly, if you like. ** January 11 ** Brendan, Hi, buddy! How's LA treating you and vice versa? ** Jax, Jax! Aw, man, it's so sweet to see you! How are you? How are your projects? Thanks a bunch for the b'day wishes! All my love back to you! ** David Ehrenstein, Thank you for your great Gaddis thoughts and input. ** Mclusky, Hi! Welcome to the internal workings of the blog. Yes, I so agree about Gaddis. A real pleasure to have you here, and thanks much for your kind words. I hope you'll come back, if you feel like it, so we can interact, etc. Take care. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G. My birthday was great, yes, very! Uh, what happened ... let's see. Well, I burned the holy shit out of my right hand the first morning we were in Tokyo with scalding hot coffee, so it was a huge bandaged mess at that point, but c'est la vie. We went and looked at a bunch of art houses, which are these projects on Naoshima where artists are given abandoned houses in the very small village on the island to remake into artworks. We went to probably my favorite museum in the world, Chichu, and saw a "light performance" by James Turrell at dusk. We had an unbelievable Japanese dinner. Zac gave me a gift as well as the gift of his just being there. We stayed in this insane hotel, Oval. (I'll put photos of most of this in the post I'm doing on the trip). Anyway, it was a dreamy b'day. I think I'll be here in late May. I don't see why not, so that'll be a boon to see you, and, gosh, thanks about the gift, gee, man. The gym, wow, that's very good. Tell me more. ** Thomas Moronic, Thanks, T! How are you, my friend? ** L@rstonovich, Hi, Larst! I almost changed the attribution name to your new one, but then I thought, nah, go pure. Thanks years later for such a great post. Oh, 'Ada', very nice. I should reread that. Nice. Big love to you, big guy! ** January 13 ** David Ehrenstein, Totally! ** Gary gray, Hi, man. Belatedness was definitely relative in my birthday wishes' case. Cool, I'll go check out that ghost/bot transcript. Thanks! Oh, shit, if I I'd known about that anime you wanted, I probably could have gotten it for you. We were in this anime/manga store a few days ago in Shibuya that was as big as Macys or something. Take care. See you soon, I hope. ** Grant maierhofer, Hi, Grant! Wait, you found the sigil in 'Guide'? If so, I think you're the only person ever who has found it. Markson is so great! I don't think I know of David Simon. I'll go find him. Romance, very, very sweet! Huge congrats! I'll go find that HTMLG review. Nice, man. All the world's love back to you. ** Keaton, Hi, bud. Santa Monica, cool, weird. I used to live kind of not so far inland from there for a while (Palms). ** January 14 ** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Hi, man. 'Negrophobia' is so great! Cool you sprung for it, and I hope you like it. ** David Ehrenstein, Oh, yes, I know the Trow book. It's a great, great book. I should do a post on it, in fact. Hm. ** Steevee, Darius has been living in Berlin for a long time. I think he has written some things, but I haven't been able to find them. There was a German theater piece based on 'Negrophobia' that I heard was very good. He's on Facebook and reports on his goings on there, if you want to friend him. Look forward to reading your review. Everyone, please go read Steevee's review of Hirokazu Kore-eda's LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON here. ** Bill, Hi, Bill. Yakushima was totally gorgeous. Photos next week. Is Installation #2 up now? Is there any documentation of #1 or #2? ** January 15 ** David Ehrenstein, The dancer was a funny, nice score, yeah. ** Steevee, I'm glad somebody found the source of the quoted lyrics. Actually, someone sent me an email while I was away and both noted the source and said that, in his version, the escort changed the lyrics so that when Rick Ross originally said 'nigger', the escort changed it to 'faggot'. Oh, based on my escort-seeking searches, I think there must a lot of potential clients who like being called faggots because it's a very common come-on. ** White tiger, Hey, pal! How are you? ** _Black_Acrylic, Very, very cool that the ART101 project is a go! Whoa, sweet! What has happened since? How did your interview go? Is it up and viewable? ** Misanthrope, I don't why he looks like that Helix guy. There are at least two possible explanations. Make that three. I'll wait and spread my trip news early next week. It was continually great. ** Bill, Cool, thanks, Bill. There was something 'Sluts'-ish about them, wasn't there? I mean maybe more than usual, ha ha. ** White tiger, Hi! Oh, cool, you announced that Rick Ross edit. What's going on, WT? ** January 16 ** David Ehrenstein, Here's your 'daily" hello, sir. ** SwAmPeX, Hey! Awesome to see you, man! How are you? What's going on? ** Bill, Hi. The trip wound up quite well. We even got to see Paul Curran for a too brief but awesome coffee and visit. Instahell still? I mean, still? ** _Black_Acrylic, So glad to hear that interview went well! Very excited to see it! ** Rewritedept, Hi. Japan was being incredibly wonderful, yes. I missed the FB thing. My internet was super limited. Didn't go to that zoo, but I think we went there last time, although we didn't shake hands with otters. I did read the Gordon/Pettibon interview, strangely. It's swell. Mm, no, I didn't read on my vacation. Too much outside fun going on to read, I guess. ** Etc etc etc, Hi. I'll do the trip as proud as I can next week. I would have guessed at least twenty drafts. I would have guessed many more, actually. Aw, sweet, thanks about the new of that bookstore having my Cycle. That's so nice. I've seen clips of that Lewis movie. It looked like a WWII version of 'The Room' kind of. ** Grant maierhofer, Hi, Grant. Ooh, Public Enemy live in '87! The only time I saw them live was maybe on that very tour in Amsterdam or else the year before, I can't remember. Thanks a lot, man. ** Randomwater, Hi! How are you? Mm, no, we didn't see the Parasite Museum. Shit, is that in Tokyo? We seem to have somehow not found it in our many searches for things to do. Next time. From House of Pies to a juice bar. Sounds like a good, upwardly mobile move. It's not that great little one just east of Vermont, is it? Near the newsstand? Lovely to see you, Matthew! ** January 17 ** David Ehrenstein, I'll do my best on a trip report very soon. ** Misanthrope, Richard actually dropped in here very briefly, like six months ago maybe? I was hoping he'd stick around, but alas. Manchester that day/night was insane. I wish I'd seen your tip about the Bourdain Tokyo thing while I was there, damn, but I'll go catch up. Thanks, man. ** Bill, The Tokyo lighting expo was pretty mind-blowing. No, it wasn't for a project, or not literally. Zac is extremely into lighting design and tech, and he's gotten me really interested as well. No doubt it'll feed into one of his and my projects in some way. I too really like Venetian Snares, and I too haven't heard anything new by him in ages. ** January 18 ** David Ehrenstein, Ha ha, hi! ** Chris Dankland, Hi, Chris! Yes, I got your great guest-post, thank you so much! It'll launch on this coming Saturday. So kind of you. How are you? What's up? ** Allesfliesst, Hey, Kai! We did our best to add a few degrees to the Japanese temperature index. It wasn't very cold, though. ** White tiger, Ha ha, I know, right? Big love to you! ** January 20 ** David Ehrenstein, I second your 'indeed'! ** Steevee, Hi. 'Natan'. Okay, I'll for sure see if I can find a way to see it. Thanks a whole lot for the tip. ** Cap'm , Hi, Cap! She does, right? How's the employment search going? ** January 21 ** Jax, Hi, Jax! It felt like the world record longest flight ever, but it was safe. ** Empty Frame, Hi. Good to be back. It was completely great every second except when I burned my hand to hell! Glad all's well in your neck. ** David Ehrenstein, Ha ha, nice. ** Tosh Berman, He is a superb lyricist. One of the very best. No surprise to you, I'm sure, that Tokyo and Japan in general were a dream. ** Torn porter, Hi! I'll read that Baldwin in Paris thing as soon as I can, and I'll let you know my thoughts. Thanks! Naoshima 2 ruled. And we went to the other art islands, Teshima and Inijuma (sp?) this time, both of which were incredible, especially the latter. I'm in love with Japan. I think Zac and I intend to go back there are as often as we realistically can. Oh, I think I'll be here in Paris when you are. Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Wow, let's meet up for damned sure. Give me your coordinates, etc. when the time is right. ** Etc etc etc, Ha ha, it's funny what ends up defining countries from the outside. Like France: rude people, baguettes, romance, etc. The Japanese are very big on dolls and robots, though. Sexual and otherwise, I guess, but for all the hype about the sexual perversion there, it's not an especially sexual atmosphere in Tokyo at all. Almost the opposite, really. ** Rewritedept, Yeah, I was having too much fun to do the p.s. while I was there, basically. No, when you fly from Tokyo to Paris or vice versa, you go north and fly over the middle/top of Russia. Nice playlist, obviously. Gimme the link whenever it's easy, thank you. ** Misanthrope, We're getting a totally snow-free winter here, it looks like. Sucks. We did get a bit of snow in Japan when we were at the top of a mountain. ** Steevee, Hi, Steve. Your take on the Tony Pipolo book rings true with me, yeah. Sorry about the intense cold. Yeah, it's even big news over here. ** Chilly Jay Chill, Hi, Jeff! Great to see you! Plane movies ... gosh, let me see if I can remember all of them. Uh, 'Elysium' (not as bad as I'd heard), 'Pacific Rim' (not as good as I'd heard), 'Wolverine' (whatever), 'The Lone Ranger' (yeah, pretty awful), 'The Last Quartet' (nice framing device, kind of stately character study for the first part then way too soap-operish), 'Jobs' (whatever, but always nice to see Lukas Haas getting work), 'The Fifth Estate' (really pretty blah and bad, but Cumberbatch or whatever his name is was good), ... I think that was it. 'The Weaklings (XL)' is finally out? It would nice if the publisher told me that and sent me a copy, but that's good news. ** Bill, 'Correct Use of Soap' is so great. So many great songs. 'Because You're Frightened'! You're still in hell? That's a long hell, Bill. I'm glad it's almost over. Great luck on the imminent opening. ** Okay. Wow, we're caught up, and my fingers are very tired. Let's see ... Oh, I only started read Brooke-Rose really recently due to urgings from d.l. Alan and, I think, someone else here, and I can't fathom why it took me song. She's amazing. Enjoy the post. See you tomorrow.

--

i don't have a 'the first time i heard sonic youth' story, as, being a white kid who grew up in american suburbia during the early days of that now much maligned hype explosion known as 'alternative rock,' i can't remember a time in which they weren't fairly ubiquitous. i do remember that the first SY album i owned was 'goo,' which is maybe not my favorite of their records, but contains a couple of my all-time favorite sonic youth songs, like 'mote,' (probably my number one favorite SY track)





and 'titanium expose'





and 'kool thing.'




--



i had the pleasure of seeing sonic youth live twice, once in 2004 on the 'sonic nurse' tour with jim o'rourke playing additonal guitar and bass (wolf eyes and xbxrx opened. it was pretty kick ass), and then in october 2010 at the matador 21 festival at the palms hotel and casino in las vegas (which ended up being one of their last ten concerts played in the US). i still have a setlist somewhere around from the 2004 gig. they did 'bull in the heather' and 'PCH,' but the setlist was mostly newer material. if i remember correctly, that paticular show found them playing for almost two hours, though. their set at matador was much shorter, but consisted entirely of stone classics, opening with the triple attack of 'tom violence,''schizophrenia,' and 'bull in the heather.' they played 'mote,' during which i thought i had never been so happy, but then they ended with 'shadow of a doubt' and 'death valley '69,' which is a song i NEVER in all my life thought i would see them perform live.



here is the full set, thought it doesn't start until 14.30.

--



sonic youth were, for the longest time, one of those bands that people name-checked without their influence seeming too overt. sure, nirvana and mudhoney loved sonic youth and sonic youth, in turn, loved nirvana and mudhoney, but the influence (in both directions) was more subtle, sonic youth's music being more... i hesitate to say 'intellectual,' as it undermines the serious force their music was capable of delivering, but a band with as obvious and overt connections to both the new york-high art world and the lowbrow messiness of the american punk rock scene is something that doesn't come around too frequently. better to say that sonic youth were the band that people could cite as an influence if they wanted to be seen as being on the vanguard of guitar-based, 'experimental' rock'n'roll, without all the messy indie-ideological implications of admitting a love for fugazi. sonic youth were the band that lesser bands cited as an influence while knowing all along that their moves (the lesser bands') were too obviously careerist to ever have a successful career being weirdos, as SY did so wonderfully. i remember in the book our band could be yr life by michael azerrad, kim gordon sums up sonic youth's existence (particularly their first ten years) by saying 'we were influential by showing everybody that you could do whatever you wanted and still be successful' (that may not be an exact quote), which was true, but didn't hold as true for nirvana, for exapmple, whose 'nevermind,' while still being a great record, was most definitely not the punks-taking-over-the-asylum-with-raised-middle-finger statement everyone liked to say it was. instead, it was an exercise in compromise, something that sonic youth, in a similar position, would and could have never delivered. they sacrificed platinum level sales in favor of being the coolest band in the world.



sonic youth - touch me i'm sick (mudhoney cover).


mudhoney - halloween (SY cover)


these two songs were originally released together on a split 7" for the sub pop singles club.

--



in late 2011, i recall, my friend tami (one of the few people i know who's as head-over-heels in love with a particular strain of music from america and england in the 80's and early-mid 90's, especially, as i am) asked me what i was going to do now that thurston moore and kim gordon had separated. at first, i didn't want to believe it, thinking that they would get back together, their relationship would persevere as so many lesser ones had. as it became more and more apparent that their marriage was over, and as my questions mounted as to what this would mean for the future of one of my favorite bands, i found myself becoming a bit frenzied. it sounds stupid and cliched, but a part of me that wanted to believe in the everlasting greatness of love died when i heard they were through.

--



thurston moore was the first to release a post-SY album, 2011's 'demolished thoughts,' though i'm pretty sure it came before word leaked of his and gordon's separation. it's an acoustic album, produced by beck (which always makes me think of that part in the 'disconnection notice' video where thurston's writing 'i am NOT beck' in sharpie on a white t-shirt, presumably to wear during a performance). hearing it, one can almost be surprised to hear songs this pretty coming from thurston moore, especially as he always had the reputation of being the punk rock wild child of sonic youth.



thurston moore - benediction.

--



lee was next to release a solo album, the most excellent 'between the times and the tides.' originally conceived as an acoustic record, it expanded to include steve shelley on drums (if kim and thurston's divorce was like breaking up a family, lee and steve are the kids who decided to skip custody battles and just run away from home), nels cline and alan licht on guitars and john medeski on keys. another sonic youth alum, bob bert (who played drums on a couple of their albums in the 80's), even makes an appearance, playing percussion on 'hammer blows' and 'shouts.' perhaps most surprisingly of all the post sonic youth musical activity, lee's work has found him to be a true master of pop song craft.



lee ranaldo - off the wall.


lee ranaldo - angles.

--



in the immediate aftermath of sonic youth's breakup, kim gordon busied herself with visual art, hosting several exhibits and showing her own work. but eventually, she too got the itch to play music again, starting with ikue mori from DNA and eventually adding renowned experimental guitarist bill nace, with whom she eventually started a duo called BODY/HEAD. BODY/HEAD traffic in dual guitar pyrotechnics and heavy improvisation, but that's about all they share in common with sonic youth. of all the SY members' new groups, they are by far the most experimental, and as such, the one that casual sonic youth fans may have the hardest time getting into, especially those who feel that kim's songs are already an acquired taste. they're known for playing live in front of film projections, often of films by catherine breillat. excellent, challenging stuff.



BODY/HEAD - last mistress.

--



thurston was next to get a band together. chelsea light moving released their debut self-titled album in march 2013. chelsea light moving are, of all the new projects, the most similar to sonic youth, though much closer to their mid-80's SST-era output than DGC-era 90's sonic youth. more dissonant and punky, i guess you could say. the tributes and shout-outs on this album are plentiful, from the band name (referring to steve reich and phillip glass' short-lived moving company) to songs about darby crash, william s. burroughs and frank o'hara. there's even a pretty awesome cover of the germs''communism eyes' to close the album out. it ranges from punky barn-burners like 'burroughs' to placid reveries like 'heaven metal.'



chelsea light moving - groovy and linda.


chelsea light moving - heavenmetal.

--



i broke with chronological order above to mention BODY/HEAD, who actually released an EP in 2012, but their debut album, 'coming apart,' was released in september 2013 to high acclaim. i really can't say enough good things about the BODY/HEAD album. if you love kim's songs and you haven't listened to it yet, check it out. it's amazing.



BODY/HEAD - frontal.

--



the most recent of the post-sonic projects to be released was lee ranaldo's latest album, 'last night on earth,' which finds him backed by new group the dust, comprised of alan licht on guitar, steve shelley on drums and tim l¸ntzel on bass. john medeski shows up again on keys and lee's sons sage and cody helped out with, respectively, backup vocals and photography/design. it continues in much the same vein as 'between the tides...,' with lots of pop melodicism which, though not completely absent in sonic youth (check out 'incinerate,' off 2006's 'rather ripped' or 'antenna,' from 2009's 'the eternal'), doesn't nearly prepare one for the beautiful bridge present in 'ambulancer,' for example. of all the post-SY material to be released, 'last night on earth' is the most immediately pleasing and satisfying, and holds up wonderfully to reapeat listens.



lee ranaldo/the dust - ambulancer.


lee ranaldo/the dust - home chds (live on KDHX).

--



steve still hasn't fronted a band, which would be interesting to see, but otherwise, the bands formed from the dissolution have all been pretty excellent. and i find myself agreeing with something kim said in an interview about how when a band has been together for that long, one always wonders as a member of that band if it's pointless to keep putting out albums, knowing they'll be scrutinized against previous triumphs, which for sonic youth are plentiful, and how it's liberating to be in a new group because people's expectations are, if not lowered, than directed differently.

sonic youth is dead. long live sonic youth.




*

p.s. Hey. So, writer/musician/artist and d.l. Rewritedept has a lovely and passionate Sonic Youth after-glowing post for you today complete with a very bold title, and I ask you to check it out as thoroughly as your time and interest level allow then say something about SY or whatever else to your guest-host. Thank you. And he has capped off the Day with a fantastic looking mixtape for you, which you will find embedded at the bottom of the p.s. It's a veritable feast, iow. Thank you, o kind and generous R! ** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Hey. Nice to be back, thanks. I'm making an exhaustive overload of a Japan trip post, so soon everyone will know more than they surely care to know about our time there. I think Darius writes some fiction, but I don't think he's written another novel, yet anyway. He's slow and careful, I think. Authors like Darius? That's hard 'cos he's pretty singular. You might read the early books of Ishmael Reed, if you want, as he was a big influence on Darius. Reed's first two novels are really great: 'The Free-Lance Pallbearers' and 'Mumbo Jumbo'. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. No, I don't think you need to know the source material to get/like that novel at all. In general, her later novels look to be pretty fantastic. I'm beginning my CB-R experience now, and I'll let you know what I find. If I got the YnY goodie bag, it must be in a pile of mail that Yury accumulated for me, and which he has yet to hand over. I'll ask him later. Hopefully, it's long since here. Exciting! I'll check out that teaser trailer, thanks. Next week? Excellent. I'm sure you'll look and come off suave as hell, B. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. I think I read that New Yorker piece, hm, I'll check to make sure. Oh, and your fine guest-post will be launching here next Wednesday, the 29th. Thanks so much again! ** Rudyd, Hi, man. Yesterday, I thought I might have evaded jet lag this time, but last night it knocked me over, and it feels like it's gonna a bad case. I tend to get very bad jet lag, although I've been lucky of late. Not now it seems. Grr. Oh, jet leg for me just gradually turns me into a zombie. Bad sleep, bad days, terrible. Your version sounds hugely preferable. ** Steevee, Thanks for the jet lag luck. I think I'm going to need it. Nice review yesterday, and now I look forward to your interview. Cool. Everyone, why don't you click this and go read Steevee's interview with Alain Guiraudie, director of the very well-liked and admired film 'Stranger By the Lake', which many are saying is the best LGBTQ-themed film in ages. ** Chilly Jay Chill, Hi, Jeff. Ah, you were one of my CB-R nudgers, yes, I remember now. Thank you a lot for that. She's quite a discovery. Me too re: the jet lag vanishing, thanks. Oh, very cool about the Spotify mixtape. I'll go get myself a deep ear swallow. Everyone, if you have yet to hear the mixtape that Chilly Jay Chill made for the Electric Literature site recently, it's partly inspired by his superb novel 'Mira Corpora', and it's called HOW TO CONJURE AN ENDLESS NIGHT, and it's right here. ** Rewritedept, Hey! You're up, buddy. Thank you so much. It's very sweet. And I look forward to the mixtape too. The mock-up looks good, man. Funny too. If you don't mind setting that copy aside, I would be a grateful guy. ** Kyler, Hi, Kyler. Yeah, I was very happy to see that FB announcement while I was away. It's gonna be your year, man. Re: literature and maybe even re: your family. I hope you got some sleep. I've been up since 4 am, and it feels like 10:17 PM right now instead of AM. ** Martin Bladh, Hi, Martin! Oh, 'Gone', yeah, that's a good title, actually. Sure, that's fine and makes sense. Yeah, good call. I like that title. Thanks! I'm seeing Michael Salerno today, so I'll ask him if the scans have survived or not. You take care too. ** Paul Curran, Hey, Paul! It was so great to see you, not to mention to see you in fucking Tokyo. I'll give Zac your hi, and I'm sure he'll jet one right back to you. Yeah, as I was walking toward the subway, I thought, Oh fuck, I didn't take a selfie of us at Shibuya, so I certainly understand Len's disappointment. Cool, I'll go read that MS thing on Atticus, and that's very cool that Brad Listi interviewed him. Good guy, that Michael. Man, you take care! Love, me. ** Lee, Hi, Lee. I did have a total blast, thank you. I saw your email, so no need to resend it. I'll try to get to it today, jet lag-allowing. Yeah, I'm always trying to get what Pollard can do into novel form. 'Guide' was kind of a first big attempt, and I'll keep trying. I bet you can nail it. Lovely to see you, buddy. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi! That's okay about the posts, I totally understand, no problem, and thank you. Two weeks is short? Is it? Anytime in Japan feels too short, I guess, and if I were a rich man, it would have been longer. I guess it's short compared to the upcoming blog vacation re: the Patagonia/ Antarctica trip, which will put the blog into a rerun/silence-induced coma for a record setting month. Oh, that's okay about the Ken Price book. It was nice of you to even consider giving it to me. ** Adrienne White, Hi, Adrienne! Thanks for the welcome back, pal. Your kiddo is a Brownie? That's cool. I think my sister was one. Or maybe she was a Bluebird. Do Bluebirds still exist? Muses sounds great. I saw a few pix yesterday, and it looks great too. I liked 'Pacific Rim' okay, but I guess there so much hype on it, and, anyway, I saw it in very non-condusive circumstances, i.e. a tiny screen on a jet. I don't think I've ever read Lovecraft. Weird, right? Hm, a strange/unique Japan experience. I think I'm too jet lagged this morning to remember. I'm always blown away by how organized and polite people are there. Like ... Tokyo is the most populated city on earth, they say, and it is very packed, but it never feels oppressive at all because everyone treats each other so respectfully every second. They have this law there that you can't walk down the street smoking a cigarette, for instance. And Paul Curran explained to me that that's not because of health reasons, it's so that people won't burn holes in each others' clothes. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh. You get to stay in Tokyo for a month or more? You're so, so lucky. You'll be staying in Meguro, right? That's where we stayed, again at Hotel Claska. Oh, Dickon Edwards! He was a long-standing, regular d.l. of this blog in its early years, but I haven't seen him here or elsewhere in quite a while. Great, great guy. ** Misanthrope, I'm trying not to envy that snow and cold. And I'm almost successful in that envy crushing. Dude, sweet about the gym. I've never heard of Planet Fitness. It's like the McDonalds of gyms or something? Whatever works. ** Sypha, Hi, James! Feel much, much, much better, please! ** Gary gray, Hi, Gary. You can imagine that 'baroque disappearing act' is music to my ears. Or to my eyes, I guess. That sounds great. Dedicated and sometimes severe word removal is at the very center of my practice, so I offer my encouragement, naturally. I didn't get to the bot transcript yet. My jet lag interfered, but I will. And I'll use those new links too, you can bet. I just need a lot, and I mean a lot more coffee first. Thanks much for the welcome back! ** Okay. Go get with the Sonic Youth veterans and with the Sonic Youth-loving Rewritedept now, thank you. And give the latter's mixtape a listen too, why don't you? See you tomorrow.

'Over the past thirty-five years James Benning (b. 1942) has played a central role in the history of American independent cinema by offering his rigorously structured yet wonderfully graceful films as extended meditations on the American landscape and its social and environmental histories. Benning’s life and work have been shaped by his passionate wanderlust—born in Milwaukee, he lived for intervals in Colorado, the Missouri Ozarks, Illinois and Oklahoma before settling in Val Verde, California in 1987, with car and motorcycle journeys around the country generating such films as I-94 (1975) and Four Corners (1997). His career has been equally restless, ranging from his early experimentation with an avant-garde aesthetic to his embrace, during the 1980s and 90s, of explicitly autobiographical elements and increased human content. With his “California Trilogy” (2000-2001) Benning entered a new phase, refining his formalist style and political concerns while distilling his abiding interest in place and exacting organizational structures. The different phases of Benning’s career inform his more recent work, presented in this program, which looks at and listens to the world with an acuity grounded in Benning’s firm convictions that duration and a rigorous formal aesthetic can give way to films that allow us to see differently and to read the inscription of the political into the places that surround us.'-- Harvard Film Archive



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Stills






























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Further

James Benning @ IMDb
Cabin Project
James Benning inteviewed @ Senses of Cinema
'James Benning’s Art of Landscape: Ontological, Pedagogical, Sacrilegious'
'First Look: James Benning
'Life in Film: James Benning' @ Frieze
'Decoding the Unabomber: Stemple Pass by James Benning'
'James Benning: 500 Words' @ Artforum
'FilmBuff to Release Richard Linklater and James Benning Doc Next Year'
Book: 'James Benning'
“I am very impatient. That’s why I make these patient films.”
'Smoking a Cigarette, Making a Film'



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Extras


James Benning interviewed by Richard Linklater


James Benning: Nightfall Post Screening Q and A


Twenty Cigarettes. Introduction and Q&A with James Benning


Table ronde James Benning au Jeu de Paume



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Interview
from Smells Like Screen Spirit




You love trains and empty roads, don’t you? According to Erik Erikson, the American psychoanalyst, the most important events in life take place in between two certain points.

James Benning: My obsession with trains and roads comes from my childhood. By the time I made the film RR in 2008, what interested me the most about trains was the way they cut through the landscape. I like the concept of scenery defined by the trains. Trains and lands develop sort of symbiotic relationship. One needs the other. While shooting film I found myself having the similar kind of relationship with trains. They were actually collaborating with me. The shoot had to be as long as the train was. Its dynamics was dependent on trains’ speed. Yet, what I found most curious after I had finished the film, for which I had been standing around the railroads for over two years, was the weight of over-consumption and amounts of the commodity transported back and forth. It made me feel the false sense of need we have nowadays. Transport is like a cog in the machine that makes capitalism work. My relationship with trains has been evolving ever since. As I got older, I have learned more about trains and the politics of lands. I found out to what extent corruption was involved in transport and what kind of money certain families in America have made. The basics for my romance with trains became very down-to-earth.

What is hidden in between your movies’ frames? What could be lost when we try to translate the language of images and emotions into words?

JB: It is interesting, because if you ask what’s hidden in between frames, you need to remember that my movies are shot on 16mm — which means you have 24 frames for each second, that gives you 23 gaps between those frames! That, what is missing, blurs in the blackness… What is this? It’s a mystery of all films; perhaps my films in particular, because I allow audience to fill in those blank spots with their own memories, fantasies and doubts, bring their own lives into it. Therefore, I hope what my films do is engage the audience to be more proactive. I like when they search around the frames. Some films allow you to wander within your own mind. To be focused directly for one hundred and fifty minutes is difficult, so I do not mind if sometimes, during the screening, you think about the laundry you should do in the evening [laughs]. While doing that kind of stuff the viewers hopefully come to some conclusions, they become focused on their own history. What you carry with you is the collection of the prejudices that were formed from what you have experienced; yet, I use the word “prejudice” not necessarily in a bad way. Having lots of experience may be good too, because it makes you think in a particular way; however, you may always reevaluate your value systems while watching my films by judging what you see. Reevaluating one’s position is important part of living. I give my films a lot of credit by believing they could push the viewer to do it; yet, I strongly believe that by giving the viewer a totally different cinematic experience than what they are accustomed to, I can count on unconventional responses.

While speaking about time and space in your movies, you mention two very interesting phrases: the spacialization of time and the temporalization of space.

JB: I have been thinking a lot about the time and its functionality lately. If you draw a timeline, beginning in the past and going towards the future, you see us at that certain middle point which is the present. We are always there. We do not move on the timeline because we cannot go into the future and back into the past. Although people claim that they are able to do that, I do not believe it is possible. Present is just one point, timeless in itself, because it does not have any dimension. It is not any time at all, it is instantaneous. The present appears to us instantaneously and then immediately becomes the past. For that reason everything that we experience can only be a memory. Moreover, any kind of movement lives in the memory only. There is no movement in the present. All is nothing more than a frozen frame… Where am I in time, then?

You seem to be a man who is in love with places that he has never been to and people he has never met…

JB: What sort of a romantic am I, is that what you are asking? [laughs] I like to wander with my eyes wide open, I like to look and listen and learn from my experiences. That is actually a good definition of love. It excites me to see new things and to check what is under the surface.



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9 films


Stemple Pass (2012)
'Since switching from celluloid to digital, noted avant-gardist James Benning has been as prolific as ever, and Stemple Pass may mark his highest achievement as of yet with the medium. Composed of four identical static shots of a cabin nestled in the forest that are distinguishable only by which season they were shot in, the film’s compelling power may surprise. Accompanying these lengthy takes are narrated diary entries and letters written by Ted Kaczynski (otherwise known as the “Unabomber”) while he lived in isolation in the woods—in fact, the aforementioned cabin is a replica of Kaczynski’s own, built by Benning. What ensues is a complex meditation on a disturbed yet brilliant man’s state of mind while living a life completely alienated from other people. The texts are all spoken aloud by Benning himself, who imbues his voice with calm, allowing the words to breathe without judgment. Kaczynski’s thoughts are alternately confounding and insightful, and both of these sides are allowed to come through without bias.

'More provocative and stimulating than any sort of conventional approach to portraying Kaczynski could be, Stemple Pass looks to the spaces in between drama, trapping the viewer in a simulated state of this isolation, suspended and left to confront ideas that may have more relevance to how we live our own lives than we’d like to admit.'-- viff.org




Watch the film here.




Easy Rider (2012)
'After doing a re-make of John cassevetes’ FACES (1968), I decided to re-make another American classic, Dennis Hopper’s EASY RIDER (1969). EASY RIDER interests me in two ways: its portrayal of 60’s counterculture – unlike FACES which for me is more about the 50’s – and its search for place. I divided the original film into scenes (like I did with FACES) and then replaced each scene with one shot filmed at the original location (unlike FACES where shots were gleaned from the original film itself.) my EASY RIDER tries to find today’s counter-culture (if one exists) by replacing the 60’s music with music that I listen to today.'-- James Benning




Watch the film here.




small roads (2011)
'As modest and self-explanatory as its lower-case title suggests, small roads is James Benning's latest contemplation of American landscape as an awesome man-made sculpture. In contrast to RR, which was focused on moving railway vehicles, small roads examines the ways in which paths—firmly asserted in asphalt and only occasionally traversed—shape the visible world.

'Shot with digital camera over the course of two years (even as Benning was working on other projects), the movie arrives barely annotated, so that you need the director himself to point out its underlying geographical journey—starting in California and headed first to the South, then to the Midwest. What we see are 47 immobile shots of roads in a roughly organized order that follows the succession of the seasons. At first, the structuring principle seems to be that each shot has one moving car in it before the image peters out. It comes as a minor shock, then, when shot number eight ends with no vehicle appearance whatsoever. From then on, all bets are off—in a manner of speaking.' -- Slant Magazine




Watch the film here.




Two Cabins (2011)
'What makes society herald one cabin-bound hermit as a genius and cast out another as demonic scum? A nearly 20-year-long string of pipe bombings seems to do the trick. But James Benning halts such reductionist thinking in Two Cabins, 2011, pitting the aforementioned duo—Henry David Thoreau and Theodore Kaczynski (better known as the Unabomber)—against each other. The installation includes a two-channel video documenting the views from the windows of models of those cabins and a couple of ready-mades—an antique desk with a pencil and a Corona typewriter—placed on spotlit pedestals.

'From 2007 to ’08, Benning endeavored to build replicas of the two men’s refuges in the woods near his home in California. The videos on view consist merely of stationary shots looking out of the cabins’ windows. One window is a portrait-oriented glass of American hardware-store variety, whereas the other is a square wooden cutout, more medieval than modern. A meditative quality pervades the work, tying it squarely to Benning’s other films. Yet the work is saturated with ambiguity. Modern noises (never mind modern fixtures) emanate from Thoreau’s cabin, while Kaczynski’s view and soundscape suggest a Walden-like calm.'-- BLOUIN Art Info




Watch the film here.




Nightfall (2011)
'Nightfall (2011, digital, color, sound, 98 min.) consists of a single 98-minute shot made at a high elevation in the woods in the west Sierras that begins in late afternoon as the sun is going down and ends in near blackness. Widely acclaimed for his great 16mm durational films about the American landscape, James Benning has been making new work in digital HD since 2009. One of the possibilities of digital filming that Benning has reveled in is the extreme duration possible, an extension of his earlier film work in which shots were one minute or ten minutes long. Now With Nightfall, he invites the audience to slow down and observe the most basic elements of nature in a way that very few of us do.

'Benning's use of duration reflects his accord with Henry David Thoreau's passage from Walden, "No method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history, or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking at what is to be seen?"'-- Brown Paper Tickets




Watch the film here




Twenty Cigarettes (2011)
'Twenty Cigarettes is a game with its own rules and a game with film history: In Benning’s “Screentests” we watch 20 individuals, each of them smoking a cigarette. Some of them are familiar, like Sharon Lockhart. Others we’ve never seen before. But they all give us time to read their body language. We embark on a journey across foreign facial landscapes, through long inhalations into the inside of their bodies, and into the invisible world of their thoughts as we imagine them to be. James Benning is well-known as the structuralist and documentarist who introduced the dimension of cinematic time into the landscape. One take lasts exactly three minutes, or the time it takes for a train to pass through a Californian landscape. This time round it’s people who determine the length of the takes by smoking a cigarette. They stand among walls and shelves and only their movements, which they try to control, and the movement of the smoke, which they can’t control, stipulate the coordinates of the filmic space. Benning makes a screenplay out of this and surprises us by once again creating something entirely new out of little more than smoke.'-- Stefanie Schulte Strathaus




Watch the film here.




Faces (2010)
'James Benning's "remake" of John Cassavetes's Faces (1968) will see its world premiere at the Film Museum in Vienna on November 19. In its notes on the series James Benning: New Work, the Museum calls his Faces an "unexpected venture into the world of 'found footage' filmmaking." As Benning explains, albeit in German at the Museum's site, he's reconstructed Cassavetes's Faces in such a way that 1) it's comprised entirely of shots of single faces, 2) each actor and actress is on screen as long as he or she is in the original and 3) each scene is exactly as long as it is in the original. So, to take Benning's example, if a scene lasts half an hour and Gena Rowlands is in that scene half the time, then we will see Rowlands for 15 minutes and then the other two characters in that scene. This reconstruction, he notes, remains steadfastly true to its title.'-- mubi




Watch the film here.




casting a glance (2007)
'In 1970 Robert Smithson built his iconic Spiral Jetty, a 1,500-foot long sculpture of mud, salt crystals, and rocks jutting into Utah's Great Salt Lake, embodying elemental and philosophical principles essential to the artist's aesthetic. Smithson's film of the same name intercuts footage documenting the Jetty's construction with sequences in a natural history museum and his own poetic voiceover, the camerawork recapitulating the Jetty’s form in swirling aerial shots, dazzled by the sun’s reflections in the water. Benning first focused his camera on the Jetty when he searched for its remains during the cross-country motorcycle journey at the heart of his 1991 film North on Evers. At the time Benning supposed that "in a way [his] trip [had] ended there at the end of the spiral," however the coil's pull persisted – as an important reference in his 1995 film Deseret and then as the subject of casting a glance. Simulating the Jetty's thirty-seven year history, casting a glance records the shifting ecology of the Great Salt Lake's north-eastern shore, finding the earthwork "a barometer for a variety of cycles." Benning has created a work "that [Smithson's] film begs for, which pays attention to the Jetty over time."– James Benning




Watch the film here.




Ten Skies (2004)
'After such intent peering eventually the actual angle of the camera becomes discernible, but for the most part a large degree of Ten Skies’ abstraction is the visual discombobulation; without spatial points of reference one often has the almost dizzying effect of being unable to account for the position from which we are looking at the sky. Some shots seem pointed obliquely upwards while others seem level with the horizon (as if shot horizontally from a mountain or hill), and some of the later shots, including the gorgeous centerpiece shot #5, seem as if the camera were pointed down at the sky, looking from above. Benning includes direct sound recorded during the shoot, including passing airplanes both visible and off-screen, as well as Spanish and English voices, traffic, and in shot #8, which was one of the rare segments I actually thought I saw a discernable shape in the clouds (a massive one looked like an old Spanish galleon or warship), features what sounds like gun shots fired sporadically through the duration. These sounds help link the shots to the earthly, if only to suggest that the camera is resting on the ground in the real world rather than floating abstractly through space.

'In fact, one of the greatest ironies of the film, for this viewer at least, is that shot #7, which features an unending gaseous plume of some sort of industrial venting cutting vertically through the frame and therefore not only provides more agitation and movement in the frame than any of the other shots but also firmly grounds the angle of the camera, is almost certainly the least appealing and interesting because it removes the previous lugubrious mysteries of the photographed sky. These natural mysteries and their entwinement with the mechanical cinematic recording, selection, and editing of Benning’s film are what is most intriguing and even sensorially affecting about Ten Skies, the refinement of a view one may take for granted and an appreciation for the metaphysical subtleties of cinema through such a simple focus."'-- mubi




Watch the film here.




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p.s. Hey. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi. Oh, sure, no problem, of course, on the posts. Yeah, we should all be rich, or, rather, no one should be rich, I guess. No problem on mentions of your clothing attachment. I mean, when we were Tokyo, we spent more time seeing out tiny underground experimental fashion design and clothing stores than we did anything else, I think. ** David Ehrenstein, I'm curious to see 'SBTL'. It opened here ages ago, just post-Cannes, so I guess I'll have to wait for the DVD or do something illegal. 'Looking' is that new gay-themed American TV show? I keep seeing all this blah-blah about something called 'Looking' on my FB feed, and I didn't have a clue. Ha ha, see, I think there's everything beyond homosexuality. ** Steevee, Hi. Very interesting interview with Guiraudie. It made me more keen to see the film than I had been. It seems more up my alley than I had thought. ** Tosh, Hi Tosh. Yes, I remembered that you stay in Meguro when you're in Tokyo. In fact, I meant to email you while I was there to ask you where that ... was it a design store or a book store (?) ... was located since I think you said it was nearish the Claska, but I never found the chance. Next time. Oh, if you'd like to have a really good meal when there, there's this tiny but great organic Japanese restaurant right next to the Gagkugei-Daigaku station called Midori. We ate there a bunch. ** Rudyd, Hey. Fantastic thoughts and memory call-ups re: Sonic Youth. Thanks, it was a real pleasure. ** White Tiger, It's Antonio's birthday? Oh, a so very sad and so very great occasion. It's my pal Joel Westendorf's birthday too. Yeah, I'm going to Antarctica, believe it or not, and I can hardly believe it. How did that happen? Well, my dear friend Zac told me that going there has been his lifelong dream. I said, 'Let's see if we can do it.' So, we looked into it, and there are a limited number of ways to get there, but only one way via ship that actually lets you spend a lot of time on Antarctica itself, including "camp" there for a couple of nights, and not just cruise around it looking for penguins and that kind of blah stuff. So, we made the leap, and it's a 14 day trip, leaving from the south of Argentina. And we decided to check out Patagonia beforehand, since we'll be near there and because life is short. It's going to be amazing. I'm kind of really excited and a bit scared too, especially of the voyage to get there since I get really bad seasickness, and the path is through "the roughest seas on earth." Crazy, right? ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. Ah, an SY naysayer. Warm hugs anyway, buddy. ** Martin Bladh, Hi. Michael can't find the scans, so I think we'll have to do the book without them. Advertising, cool. Well, keep me up on everything that's going on, so I can know whas what t'd also do my part. Thanks so much! ** Paul Curran, Hi, Paul! Gravel Samwidge is such a hilarious name. Yeah, wow, that's good. Sweet that the band still exists, not to mention opening for Mudhoney. Do they have albums or whatever out? Do you recommend them? Ha ha, yes, the first meeting of the Shibuya experimental writing collective! Exactly! May there be many more. Cool, thanks for linking me up to the Shinjuku high-speed growth video. That's nice, and the visual brown fuzziness is even kind of charming. Oh, blurb, right. I'll get on that today since I seem to have at least a few more brain cells at my disposal than I did yesterday. ** Chilly Jay Chill, Hi, Jeff. I'm doing your music mix today. Yesterday was a lost cause in my brain pan. The last time I got back from Tokyo, I had unbelievably severe jet lag that lasted for over a month and occasioned my falling onto train tracks at a local metro station. Hopefully, this time will be a ton easier. It's weird because both times I've gone to Tokyo, I've gotten zero jet lag on that end of the trip. Next trip begins on February 11th. To Buenos Aires and then to Patagonia and finally to Antarctica. A month total. Oh, shit, about the Red Chamber thing. Weird about Robert Wilson's project. Hopefully that won't come to fruition for a year or two, right? So, it'll seem like he ripped you off or something. Man, best of luck getting through that spooky bit of news. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G. Naturally, the experimental SY stuff is the hit part for me. What a cornucopia we humans are, right? Okay, that does sound like a most unpleasant cold. You win. I suspect that after my Antarctica trip, I'll be way over my tendency to romanticize things that are bone chilling, 'No gymtimidation', ha ha, who comes up with that stuff? Probably rolling in dough, whoever it is. Stupid and no doubt effective blurb right there, I guess. That alarm thing is ridiculous. How does that place make a profit on $10 a month membership? Do they sell $50 bottles of Evian or smoothies or something? ** Bill, Hi, Bill. Yeah, 'Pacific Rim' was all right, but it just seemed like one of those 'better than usual' blockbuster deals. Still, in a world where high-tech malarky like 'Gravity' is considered to be a great film or something, all bets seem to be off. Both of those projects look incredibly interesting. What is the first one about? I couldn't quite understand, but I was very intrigued. I'm very interested by the description of your piece in 'All Possible Futures'. Huh. Totally different but tangentially, one of the art house projects we saw on Naoshima was this this tiny house on a remote beach created by Christian Boltanski wherein visitors' heartbeats are recorded and put into this system that randomly plays excerpts of the heartbeats of all visitors in this kind of nice long dark hallway/installation through both massive speakers and the filament of a lightbulb, which probably makes no sense. This is a thing about it. Anyway, I'm definitely looking forward to more info on both of those works of yours. ** Gary gray, Hi. I still haven't creased the cleverbot transcripts. Yesterday was too much of a haze. Strange indeed. Definitely will investigate. Imagining what baroque would mean in lit. is kind of why it's so exciting to imagine. I sure do try/go for that, I think. I hear you on the love for that limitation. I'm very simpatico, as you can imagine. Japan was spectacular. There'll be a bunch of pix and stuff to fill in the blank here on Monday. ** Rewritedept, Hey! Oh, yes, I think it went very well, and thank you again gigantically, man. I know that Thurston and Lee have been known to check out my blog, so maybe they've seen it or will. I'm tired today too. Not as zonked as yesterday, though. Small favors and all of that. I can't say that I'm having fun being home due to said jet last, but it's okay, and there've been some moments that have qualified as fun, even if my appreciation of the fun was pretty off-world. I'm off to Antarctica via Buenos Aires and Patagonia on February 11th. Your mix had to wait until today due to my hampered brain, which, trust me, would not have given your mix the going through that it deserves. Barring an unexpected set-back, today's the day. ** Okay. James Benning is one of my very favorite filmmakers ever. His work is very hard to see because he has not wanted his films to be online but, rather, only projected. However, for reasons I do not know, someone has uploaded a trove of his recent films, at least for the moment, and today I direct you to a selection of them, and I recommend that you give one or more of them a watch while you can because I have a feeling this boon of Benning availability will not last very long. See you tomorrow.

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p.s. Hey. This weekend the mighty writer and d.l. and so much more Chris Dankland directs our attention to the uniquely amazing comix artist and cartoonist Michael Deforge, and, hence, consider your imminent blog time's occupation filled to the brim. Scroll, peer, click, contemplate, and enjoy please, and any triggered words you can send Mr. Dankland's way would be most appreciated. Also, in a nice coincidence, this weekend marks the beginning of Chris's new gig as the managing editor of Alt Lit Gossip, almost inarguably the most central site and literary goodies-dispersing fount of the so-called "Alt Lit" writers scene/movement, and a site that, if you're interested in keeping up with the latest turns and twists within some of the most exciting new writing being done today, is or should be a heavily key bookmark. You can go read Chris's introductory editorial by clicking this. So, yeah. Thank you so much for this weekend, and major congrats on the new gig, Chris! ** Kiddiepunk, Cool, yeah, amazingness indeed, right? Great to gaze at you and Oscar across my steaming nachos plate last night, man. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi. Oh, my total pleasure on the Benning post, of course. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Understood about your 'nothing beyond' remark. All respect to you. I'm kind of on the other side of that, I guess, as 'happen to be gay' is a common phrase of mine and way of thinking, etc., but I don't think that thinking about gayness as something that can be transcended via art reduces it to nothing at all. I think the way it can be expanded and how it forms a launching pad for expansiveness speaks to its strength and, given that the sources of a lot of the consensus greatest art throughout history happened to be gay, speaks for itself. I wouldn't trade being a writer who happens to be gay for heterosexual inclusion or for any other possibility. But I don't think my writing or anything else I make is about being gay at all. When I write or make artistic things, I just think of my being gay as one of the important things I'm working with, I guess. ** Steevee, Hi. I'm in agreement with you, I think. Yeah, I also agree it's disappointing that 'The War' isn't in that Benning video trove. I'm extremely interested to see it. Since Benning is very highly regarded in France and shows his work here reasonably often, I hope I'll get the chance. Have you heard anything about his collaborative film with Richard Linklater or what's up with it as far as a release goes? That's something I'm so very curious to see as well. ** _Black_Acrylic Hey, Ben. Hopefully the wait vis-à-vis your interview will be very worth it. I just read a couple of days ago that Alig might be released from prison very soon. Very odd, interesting character. I used to go to his Limelight events fairly often back in the day. ** White tiger, Hey, pal! Oh, right, yes, Antonio's and Joel's b'days were a day apart. The time change between here and the US often confuses me re: when exactly people have commented, i.e. today or yesterday. Really cool about the site you're working on. Let me know when it launches, if you remember and don't mind. Everyone, the great multi-faceted artist/person/d.l. white tiger is, in her words, 'working on a new website that will teach you how to read the tarot'. It's called Crowncutter, and here's a trailer. Check it out, yes? ** Chilly Jay Chill, Best of luck with the connectivity issues. Yeah, crazy about the availability of the Bennings. Mm, favorites ... I really do love everything I've seen by him. Among those available there, maybe I especially loved 'small roads' and the two cabin-oriented ones -- 'Two Cabins' and 'Stemple Pass' -- and maybe 'Ten Skies'. The novel is coming along very well, I think. It's building gradually but intensively. I worked on it a little bit while on the road in the early mornings, yeah, but not a lot since we were really busy. I think maybe the trips are shaping the novel, yeah. I mean, it's a hugely personal novel, and my most personal, life-based novel by a long stretch, so everything I do, see, learn, etc. colors it and could even end up in the novel's content itself. Thanks for asking. How is your new one going? ** Bill, Hi, Bill. The Boltanski was simultaneously really cool and fun and kind of silly in a way. Hard to explain. Maybe not silly but rather awfully romantic or something. But that's Boltanski for you. Your projects just sound ever more exciting the more you explain. Yeah, I hope your collaborators pony up with some online evidence asap. ** Misanthrope, Well, profit-wise, and sticking to the McDonalds comparison, I guess most people who buy shit at McD's probably spend around $10 or so maybe? And they obviously make a heck of profit? So, I don't know. Commerce is not something I understand at all. I need to check the average temperature in Antarctica in late February. It'll be the summer there then, so I guess it'll be as warm as that place gets. I have to buy a ton of warm clothes and a hat and boots and dark glasses and stuff. I've never owned a pair of dark glasses in my life, which I guess is kind of weird. ** Gary gray, Cool, so glad you liked the Benning work. He's a big fave of mine. Seeing his early films when I was younger really shifted my thinking about art and about making stuff. Here's hoping that you get that calm weekend. I think calmness is in my weekend's cards too. Good, cool, about the therapy and that it's working. What's it like? Is it a private one-on-one thing or a group thing or what? Enjoy everything. Love, me. ** Rewritedept, Hi. My lag maybe started easing up today, fingers crossed, gulp, etc. Finches, nice. Richard and Karen, ha ha. Better than Captain and Tennille. Mm, I like hiking pretty well, yeah. Not steep uphill hiking, though. Always have hiked a bit. I think Patagonia will involve a fair amount of hiking, but it's kind of a big mystery. I don't think my weekend will be boring. I almost never get bored. I'm weird that way. I have a bunch of work/writing to do, and that'll probably be the bulk of my goings on. Have the greatest one you can. ** Right. Get yourselves back up into the fray created by the Deforge/Dankland power duo, and I'll see you back here on Monday.

Day 1: Tokyo




Lodgings: Granbell Hotel Shibuya




Burned my right hand with hot coffee. (top) morning damage. (bottom) damage by the evening



Lunch: Vegan Healing Cafe, Shibuya












explored Nakano Broadway





rode Thunder Dolphin Roller Coaster, Tokyo Dome






Dinner: Dhaba India, Chuo




Day 2: Travel (Tokyo -> Naoshima)











Day 3: Naoshima







Lodgings: The Oval Hotel















explored The Art Houses Project














explored Chichu Art Museum








experienced James Turrell 'Open Sky'








Dinner: Restaurant Issen




Day 4: Inujima Island & Naoshima










Lodgings: Benesse House Park Hotel
































Inujima: Seirensho Art Museum& The Art Houses Project




Day 5: Teshima Island & Naoshima



























explored Teshima Museum& The Art Houses Project




Day 6: Travel (Naoshima -> Kagoshima)


















Lodgings: Rembrandt Hotel, Kagoshima




Day 7: Travel (Kagoshima -> Yakushima)
















Lodgings: Sankara Hotel, Yakushima




Day 8: Yakushima






Breakfast: Sankara Osas restaurant






























explored Yakusugi Forest








Dinner: Sankara Osas restaurant







Day 9: Travel (Yakushima -> Tokyo)



















Lodgings: Hotel Claska, Meguro




Day 10: Tokyo



























explored LED/OLED Lighting Technology Expo 2014, Tokyo Big Sight














explored Fake Tokyo (Candy, Sister), Shibuya









Dinner: Salsita, Hiroo




Day 11: Tokyo






lunch & meeting with Fujiko Nakaya, Harajuku


























explored Dog





explored Bedrock






explored Swagger




Day 12: Tokyo


















experienced 2014 January Grand Sumo Tournament



coffee & visit with Paul Curran, Shibuya
















explored Mandarake, Shibuya




Day 13: Tokyo


My burned hand on the last day

















explored Miraikan Museum of Emerging Science and Innovation, Daiba
























explored Kita-Kore (Hayatochi, Nincompoop Capacity, Garter, ilil, Secret Dog), Koenji














explored Itoya, Ginza















explored Dover Street Market, Ginza











Dinner w/ Fujiko Nakaya: Itosho, Minato




*

p.s. Hey. So, that's the trip, or, rather, a selection of stuff we saw and did on the trip that can be represented in pix, and if any of that stuff up there causes you to want more details or whatever, please feel free to ask. ** White tiger, Hi, pal. It was, yes. ** Martin Bladh, Great, thank you, man! ** Lee, Hi, Lee. Shit, your email. I'll write you today. Between my fading lag and catching up, I'm behind, but, yeah. Sweet said thing, me? Cool. The cryptic gets some of my love's vote too, for sure. Best to you, buddy. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi, D. Oh, well, I think I agree with everything you wrote, so, yeah, I was elsewhere in my thinking, I guess. ** Steevee, Hi. I don't think David was saying that being gay automatically cements a critical perspective, was he? I thought he meant that it lends you an inherent, given "in" re: a critical perspective, a leg up or critical step back or whatever, that one can see as a valuable gift to employ or not, I guess depending on one's need for mass acceptance? I don't know. Oh, it's a doc about Benning and Linklater? Then I got that wrong. I thought it was an actual collaborative film for some reason. Well, that sounds interesting, and I'd love to see that, but it's a lot less interesting than imagining their talent meld. You spoke about Serge Daney? Wow, cool. Does the text of your talk exist anywhere? I love Daney. That's worrying and grim news about St. Marks. $200,000 is a lot of money. Oh, man, that doesn't good at all. That's scary. Great that you 'Freelance Pallbearers'! Let me know what you think. I love that novel. ** Gary gray, I'm so glad to hear that the multi-leveled therapy is helping. It sounds great, obviously. Wonderful, man. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G. Yeah, I don't understand that 20% thing either. It's really hard for me to think longterm about money and its preservation and about income growth, etc., although I try. I don't think I ever totally outgrew the magical thinking about money that I had as kid, and even though that's made my life pretty up and down and unstable financially, I think it was ultimately for the best maybe. Yeah, dark glasses, lots of sunblock, ... a bunch of really practical things. There's this street on the Left Bank that's kind of the unofficial "camping gear store" street in Paris that I stumbled across a few months ago, and I guess we'll probably go there and trawl the wares. I need to make a list. ** Marilyn Roxie, Hi, Marilyn! Really great to see you! Thanks a bunch about my poetry book. I look forward to actually seeing a copy of that myself one of these days. Adult cam modeling, interesting. Like via one of those sites/businesses or independently and on your own initiative or ... ? I'll bet, about the ensuing stories. Is it purely a money making thing or for a project you're doing or both or neither? ** Torn porter, Hi, man. Yeah, I'll be here. Menilmontant, cool, that's not so far away from where I am. I'll email you my coordinates and contact stuff, or you can send me your cell # or whatever too, if you like: dcooperweb@gmail.com. Paris rules, but I'm glad you're settling in there to the point of digging England. It's grey here too, at least right now, very grey and mostly wet. Be prepared. Mm, there are sound art things on all three of the islands, I think. Teshima has the Boltanksi house, which is pretty sound-y, but I think that's the only "sound" work there. Yeah, I saw the Turrell retro in LA, and the Guggenheim one in NYC too. Hard to compare. The LA retro was particularly valuable because it included one of his "perpetual cell" pieces, and that was completely mind-blowing. Zac loves Turrell's work a lot, as do I. We're going to try to get get to Roden Crater as soon as it finally opens. ** Unknown, Wow, hi, Terrence! What an honor and pleasure to see you here! Great, thank you! I hope I'll be here in early April. I think so. Sucks that there's no Paris gig, but Brussels is quite and easily doable, so I'll do my best to get up there for that. Any chance you'll pass through Paris personally at any point? Thanks so much again for stopping in here, sir. ** Kyler, Hi. I kind of have a guilty pleasure wish to see 'Saving Mr. Banks' too, being a fellow Disney kid, although Tom Hanks is always the opposite of a spoonful of sugar for me, at least in theory. ** Sypha, Hi, James. Yeah, well, vacationing is the right word, I guess, but sounds weird, at least in theory, 'cos I imagine it being a pretty challenging time, although I guess vacationing and challenging aren't antithetical, so never mind. I hope this "off' week goes as planned and splendidly as planned. ** Jax, Hi, Jack! You have had an interesting year, wow. That's a lot. Cool. The ride is definitely the point, I agree. Or the ride is the end point, I guess. I don't think I know Zinnie Harris's stuff, but I'll go look her up. Huh, very interesting about the challenge of backpedalling dialogue for image. I mean, I know you saw one piece of Gisele's, but working with her is def. about the images being the most important part of the work, with wordage as the images' ghosts and skeletons and knife wounds and stuff. So, yeah, I think it has to be somehow very fruitful to try to work in accordance with Harris's notions of theater. How can it hurt, right? And you'll either get into that approach, or it will only reinforce your sense of the kind of theater you've wanted to make and are maybe best suited to make. Architecture = structure I think, yeah. I guess the only real difference is that architecture is a three-dimensional concept, so it makes sense for it to be used re: theater, although I know I try to think architecturally vis-à-vis the novel so it'll have a sense of internal space or something. The goat in 'Them' ... hm, well, it definitely wasn't my idea, that's for sure. I'm pretty sure that it was Ishmael's idea. Oh, man, about the split with Nicky. That is weird, but you basically sound okay with it, or that you know it was the time for that. I think I know what you mean about 'done my job', yeah. I do think I understand that. Uh, my pal Zac and I go to Patagonia/Antarctica on Feb. 11 for a month. We're going because, uh, well, it's one of Zac's dreams in life to go there, so that's why he's going, and I'm going because it's an intense seeming thing to do and because I really love traveling with Zac, I guess. New novel is happening, yeah. So far so good. Well, ha ha, I don't think I can catch you up on all my recent stuff in one exchange, so stick around, man, and we'll unfold each other's recent histories in detail. ** Thomas Moronic, T! Will you go to China with him at some point? That would really fascinating, no? New Xiu Xiu advance! Sweet. Anxious for it. I don't like his Nina Simone record much at all, but a proper new album, oh boy! ** Chilly Jay Chill, Hi, Jeff. Exciting about the progress you're making on your new novel! Your confidence in that regard is very heartening and promising. Cool. I don't think I have general guidelines about that. I've tried various approaches and timings, and I've never found one plan that worked in a general way. For me, each novel begs for a unique way of doing that or something. I guess I try to get as in touch with my intuition as I can, and then, if there's a question of what modus to adopt, I try out different ones, and I try to feel if I'm going at the work in the wrong way as quickly as I can. I guess I tend to work on novels holistically a lot. I guess I'm really into building structures within the work itself and seeing that as creating a freedom to be much more intuitive in the hands-on work and re: my thinking about when and how to fulfill the structures' needs or something, if that makes any sense. ** _Black_Acrylic, I'm so glad you liked 'Stemple Pass'! That's wonderful! I'm really happy to know that my introduction had that pay off. Thanks, Ben! ** Flit, I goes really well, M8-y. And you/yours? ** Chris Dankland, Hi, Chris! Thank you a huge ton again for the post. Yeah, super exciting about your getting the Alt Lit Gossip steerage. It seems like it would be a lot of work. How that place works has always been so mysterious, sort of like Frank herself, I guess. Hugs and firm, enthusiastic handshakes in return. ** Paul Curran, Hi, Paul! The jet lag hasn't been that awful, but I always give it about a week before I place a value judgement on the version that I've been given. But it's been .. okay. Blurb, yes, pre-voyage, for sure. Wonderful about the Fragments Five Years post! Thank you so much! Right, I remember GS from your post. For some reason, the beauty of that name didn't hit home until now. I'll check the clip of them, cool, thanks! I listened to Michael's Brad Listi interview yesterday. Nice. He sounds amazingly like I have always imagined he would sound. ** MyNeighbourJohnTurtorro, Hi, pal. It goes good, thanks. Yep, setting sail yet again, and then I'll be mostly in Paris after that for quite a while 'cos it's going to be heavy projects/work year. Antarctica is fairly accessible. There are a number of ways to get there by ship, but you need to get to this port in southern Argentina to do them, so that adds time/expense/etc. You can do a flyover from Australia in an old jet, but looking at it through little plane windows doesn't sound like enough. I haven't heard the new Actress album yet, no. Wow, it sounds really good. Makes some kind of sense if he's gone in the Raime/DS direction. I'll see if I can download that today. I'm about to start catching up on new music now. With the traveling, I got kind of behind, so I'll let you know what I find and like a lot soon. Any tips you have would be most, most welcome. ** Okay. You can go back up and look at photos of the Japan that Zac and I saw in person now, if you like. And I will see you back here tomorrow.