Archive for September, 2006

In Beijing, China a 44 year-old man was the first ever to get a penis transplant. He had severly injured his penis during an “accident,” you can use your imagination on what exact kind of accident it was, which resulted in him being unable to urinate or have sex. Thankfully there was an extra penis laying around in the lap of a 22 year-old brain-dead man
who checked off the “donor” box on his drivers license form.

The transplant was quite successful. After 10 days there was sufficient blood flow and he was able to urinate normally, making any golden shower fan jump onto craigslist to make up for lost time. However, on the 14th day him and his wife requested that the dead penis be removed, preferring no penis to another mans’ penis. This was largely due to psychological issues rather than biological. Medically speaking, the penis was successfully transplanted. Apparently the man and his wife had a “severe psychological problem” with the new and improved penis, one can only assume that this was largely due to the fact that the penis once belonged to another man.

In all honesty I do not know how I would feel about having another mans’ penis used for a transplant. I can only wonder if there was any preemptive counseling with the transplant recipient and his wife in order to make sure that they knew exactly what they were in for. Perhaps the wife was looking forward to a 22 year-old cock to play with. Men, how do you think you’d react to such a transplant? People who like men sexually, if you were with such a man and he had this transplant surgery, how do you think you’d react?

Sorry, but I had to use such a sensational primetime tv news magazine title like that. How could I steer clear from hilarious fear tactics?

Perhaps I am about to “square” kinky sex with this article. But I find this to be an interesting topic and one I have thought about for quite some time. That is, the subject of S/m themed nights at clubs where alcohol is served.

You might have heard of these clubs from your midwestern secretary blushing over details about the “crazy” club she was at the night before, or perhaps you have visited one yourself (you tawdry devil, you). These are the clubs where each night of the week has a different theme and one night is BDSM (Bondage/Discipline Sadism/masochism) related. The type of night where folks exhibit their recent outfit of non-faded black and may even show off a chain or two. The type of night where in the corner is a roped off area with a few seemingly intimidating pieces of black wooden equipment lay un-used waiting for the next tourist or thrill-seeker to jump on. Wherein after being strapped up they are treated to a sordid array of activities sure enough to fulfill their submissive interests. Want to be tied up? Want to be flogged or spanked? Want to get certain naughty bits clothespinned? Don’t know how to broach this topic with a lover? Well here is a relatively safe place to go to fill up on tastey endorphins.

The people who stand behind the rope and next to the tall, looming black kinky furniture were for some reason or another chosen to be the “Dungeon Master.” I thoroughly hate this term because its reminiscent of Dungeons and Dragons. However, these people are usually skilled folks who know a thing or two about restraining and making your ass cherry red. They give you a proper safe word for the play. A word that is rarely uttered in normal context that means, “All right, I’ve had enough! For the love of God seriously seriously, ouchie ouchie boo boo”…or something to that extent. This is all fun under the strobe lights and fog machines, right? Sure it is.

I am definitely not arguing against bringing kink out in the public, but my argument is primarily about alcohol being served at such a function. S/m folks are all about being “safe, sane and consensual.” Safe to ensure no one gets physically hurt. Sane to ensure no one gets emotionally hurt. Consensual to ensure everyone is agreeing that this is indeed a good time. However, how can one be safe, sane and consensual when they are entirely blottoed? How can one make such a decision when their inhibitions are thoroughly lowered? They have all the liquid courage in the world and they believe that they can take more of the flogger, the paddle or the clothespin. Only to wake up the next morning feeling incredibly bruised and sometimes emotionally vulnerable.

Am I saying that alcohol or any drugs should NEVER be mixed with S/m? God no, don’t you know me well enough? Blimey, who do you think I am, a Southern Baptist? I have no problem with some type of recreational drug being taken while engaging in S/m…but under two conditions:
(1) It’s in moderation.
(2) The parties involved not only know eachother, but also trust one another.
For example, Suzie Q and Miss Molly have enjoyed an amazing relationship together for quite some time. They know each other inside and out (get your mind out of the gutter) and they completely trust one another. They have a few glasses of wine or a few shots of everclear (depending on if they’re from the South or not) and they want to get a little kinky. Miss Q begins to tie up Miss Molly using delicious Shibari techniques and brings out her wooden paddle. If Miss Molly is feeling like she’s had enough, she will most likely feel comfortable enough to use her safe word. If she is too drunk to know where her boundaries are, then Miss Q most likely knows Miss Molly enough, and knows exactly where her boundaries are and how far she can push them.

When you’re three sheets to the wind and getting sexually beaten by someone you barely know, chances are you might be too embaressed to use your safe word or the Dom doesn’t know you well enough to know your boundaries.

By no means am I beating up Doms, although its a fantasy of mine for different reasons. I am not suggesting that all Doms that work at such clubs are incompetent or unjustly sadistic. I am just arguing that there is too much room for error when it comes to an activity that is so heavily emotionally loaded as S/m.

In the next article I will talk about “Play Parties” and why I believe they can be a far safer and funnererer place for engaging in debaucherous pleasure/pain play.

Now feel free to tell me how square I am and how I’m taking all the fun out of kink…fuckers.

Last week researchers at the University of Leicester, England released their results of a study comparing music tastes
and relationships (along with other factors). This just goes to show that your musical tastes not only makes you transparent
in regards to your horrible fashion sense and deliquent personality traits, but also your methods in the sack.

Apparently, those who are avid fans of dance/house and/or hip hop/rap have a higher rate of promiscuousness. Stands to reason
with all that ecstasy they take. To top it off, their dance style is one of deliciously rubbing each others bodies
against one another mimicking sex. Which I’m sure some believe is sex in of itself, depending on their definition. So do they count their
dance partners as sexual partners?

To top it off, fans of opera, country, classical, musicals and 1960′s pop had either been monogamous or had no sexual partners in the last
5 years. Which proves my point even further, none of the above musical stylings lends itself to the debaucherous, tawdry act of dry humping.
So how the fuck are you supposed to bring someone home if you can’t rub your clothed genitalia against them beforehand?

Fans of opera and musicals were more likely to be widowers, however blues fans were at the top of most likely to be married. Do you get the
blues from being married? I’d say yes.

Important Points:

- House/Dance and Hip Hop/Rap music MAKES you want to fuck.

- House/Dance and Hip Hop/Rap music MAKES you want to fuck a lot of different people.

- Opera, country, classical, musicals and 1960′s pop RESULTS IN auditorally castrating listeners.

- Opera and musicals MAKES married people kill their spouses.

Music Study if you want to read the report for yourself.

“Cool people don’t dance. dancing is an audition for sex acts to take place later. Now, if you’re already a big star, you don’t have to go to auditions.” – Andy Horne

I was asked to write an autobiography for my “Images in Eroticism” class. I was told it will not be graded, so I decided to be totally honest. Well, have fun with it.

_______________________________________

September, 1980. The first rain in six months hit Los Angeles and my parents planned a romantic evening for themselves. A few hours later they had finished the perfect recipe for making love, a bottle of fifteen year old Glen Livet scotch and a passionate argument leaving their studio apartment scattered with broken dishes. The look in my mothers’ eyes told my father that he had a good ten mintes before her dry heaves started. My father mounted her from behind as she brushed her teeth trying not to gag from the toothbrush. Eight minutes later they had enough time to share a cigarette. While my mother was sprawled in the bathtub engaging in gutteral convulsions my father sat on the shut toilet, “If it’s a girl, let’s name her Christina. If it’s a boy, let’s name him David. We really ought to give our child a more American name, he doesn’t always have to be known as the child of two working class immigrants.” My mother nodded, tears rolling out of her eyes and grunted, “yea,” as she held back another dry heave.

That’s actually not true at all. I was a mistake. My parents have never admitted to this fact, even after my numerous attempts to bring up the subject. My mother, being a proper Austrian Catholic, never believed in contraception. For ten years after my sister was brought in to this world my parents’ lucked out on the withdrawal method. However on that rainy September evening, luck was not on their side. One more child was the last thing my working class parents had the time or money to spend on. After I was born, my mother counted down the days until it was safe for her to get her tubes tied.

June, 1981, at the hospital time of 13:13 I escaped out of my mothers womb with a scar on my head that acted as a reminder of the botched abortion. They say that fetuses have no memories. But on my nineteenth birthday, after my tenth shot of bourbon I shaved my head rid myself of the memory of my recent ex-girlfriend. When I shaved off the last bit of hair I saw my scar and instantly remembered the pain and the pressure of the coat hanger scraping against my soft skull. While this was a long supressed memory, I had always had a certain feeling that my existence was not worth while.

This carried through in to my relationships. I spent the first week of my first relationship constantly convincing my girlfriend that the world was numb and that the point in life was to suffer. I made it very clear that she was going to be the catalyst of my suffering. She spent the next week crying on my shoulder every night feably promising that she would introduce “rainbows and hope” in to my life. By the sixth month of our relationship she cheated on me with her English teacher who had once failed me in his poetry class. I had won my first battle.

Before I’ll allow a girl to kiss me I must tie her up, leaving her completely immobile. With the help of a blindfold and earmuffs I then deprive her of the major comfortable senses. This is the only way she can be fully exposed to her thoughts, making her realize how empty life is. Then and only then will she be able to connect with me on an emotional level. However this connection is only superficial.

In fact, the only person I have ever loved was my 65 year-old Polish neighbor during my sophomore year in high school. He took me under his wing and put me to work on his small farm. As I would pull the weeds from the ground, would tell me stories of when he was kidnapped and sent to Cambodia as slave labor. I still remember his tears being captured in the deep wrinkles on his face.

In five years I see myself living in a two-story duplex in Madison, Wisconsin with my Mid-Western wife and three children. I will have obtained a job at the local microbrewery that her father owns. Inevitably, I will get fired from this position and my wife will file for a divorce citing that she is bored by me.