Deadly Sin #1: Extravagance II

Ghosts III: #5

     Rattling.  BuzZZzing.  Powerful currents passing through our shaking bodies.  High-pitched frequencies fill the darkened room as our squeals harmonize with the synthesizer coming through the speakers.  We are wired in a myriad of ways.  Vibrating.  Rocking.  Fucking until our teeth bounce off each other.  This is sex screaming from the future.

     Hitachi wands send waves through our tissue.  Trent Reznor's deep bass crushes our molecules.  Driven numb and hypersensitive simultaneously, I want to vomit and cum all over you at the same time!  You can't feel your ass but the entrance of the third finger makes you cry, "Stop! Yes! What are you doing??"  Turning the machine to max power, I can feel the vibration coursing through your body into mine.  It's so good to be inside of you at this moment!

     Disorienting.  Unraveling.  Your legs freeze open as you fire off, "OhHhHhHhHh!"  Cumming so hard, your pistol jams in your hands; backfiring.  A second time, "OhHhHhHhHh!"  You're climbing the walls trying to escape your body as it goes haywire!  My arms are on fire.  I can't remember where I put my legs.  Creating a silver puddle on your chest, I melt into a puddle onto your chest.  Limp.  Demolished.  Left with just enough juice to hit the 'off' button.

"Mathias Lauridsen" by Henrik Bulow

Folsom Street Fair 2010: The Gallery of the Absurd

 Does anyone know who this man is?

One leg is crawling with the alphabet...

His head: adorned by a bullhorn...

An alien life form sprouting from his loins...

If anyone knows who he is, forward me his info.

     One reason I found the Folsom Street Fair very touching: it served as a creative outlet for many artists.  Attempting to express their complex and unique sexualities, the final results were otherworldly.

     I was delighted to see so many oddities, so many with the "WTF" factor. People displayed abstraction and surrealism as a form of lingerie.  It was incredible! I love and need to experience things that makes me scratch my head.

     Next year, I think I may give it a try.  How would my sexuality look on the surface?  How would people respond to it?  I better get started on it now, it may take a year to perfect! I have a feeling my costume will incorporate mirrors...

Deadly Sin #1: Extravagance I

 
     Extra-virgin olive oil poured directly from the bottle to the small of your back.  Slowly.  Liberally.  Heavily.  Followed by strong palm strokes, I spread the oil all over your naked body.  I love the way your skin shines.
     Massaging you all over.  Enjoying the sensation of our slick bodies sliding off of each other.  We are both so slippery, we began to invent new ways to hold each other.  Tight.  Tangled.  I love the way your calves graze my sides.  You love the way my fingers grip your throat and jaws.
     Seasoning your skin with sugar and mangoes, I scrub your body with the coarse grains.  Scraping.  Scouring.  Sweetly sweeping every inch of your skin.  Feet.  Toes.  Thighs.  Knees.

Our bodies will never accept less after this moment.

We have both tasted extravagance and made drunk by its allure.

There's is no road back home.

"Ashley Duvernay" by Gregory Prescott

ex·trav·a·gance[ik-strav-uh-guhns]  1. Excessive or unnecessary expenditure.

2. Unrestrained or fantastic excess, as of actions or opinions.

Folsom Street Fair 2010

Perverts became pedestrian

Kink was commonplace

God favors the freaks

     I always wanted to attend.  Even as a little boy in Detroit, I always wanted to go to the Folsom Street Fair.  I always loved the sight of absurd abominations spilling out into the street...Items typically reserved for dark alleys slip into a bright, Sunday morning.  I am drawn to events that cause a lapse in decency, for life have always proved to be a lapse in freedom.

     Walking around in my underwear felt very natural.  Wearing furry underwear, me and friends danced in the streets...Ran our fingers across perfect strangers.  Reverting to being clothed felt impossible.  Rediscovering Eden, how could I fall from grace a second time?  There was no knowledge of good and evil.  There was no shame in our nakedness.  How could I return to corporate fig leaves?

     

     I always wanted to walk around town wearing something absurd and do "regular" stuff.  Go to the ATM.  Eat at a pizzeria.  Wait for a bus.  These photos are the just the beginning.  With our freaks left out to dangle, my beloved Forbidden Moon and I will continue to troll around the Bay Area while capturing the juxtaposition.

A P(art) 1

...I was warned...

Staring so deep into the canvas

...its a matter of time...

Until you fall into the art and become a part of it.

     I get so weird when a camera is pointed in my direction.  I hate posing.  I hate praying that I've found a decent angle.  I hate the consoling chime of the photographer, "What do you mean? You look cute!"  I'm just not photogenic, whatever that means.

     Dating my Forbidden Moon, she's been snapping random pictures at every given moment.  Pictures of us at dinner.  Pictures of us getting drinks.  She is truly a sadist!  She even threatens, "I'm going to tie you up and just take pictures of you and tell you how pretty you are!"  I shudder at the thought, even as I type this post.

     One day, while playing with ropes and prickly things; she whipped out her digital camera and started to shoot.  In a submissive mind frame, I was more cooperative...more relaxed as she documented my bondage.  I did whatever she asked.  I pointed my ass upward.  I looked into the camera.  My Syr was the director, I was not going to disappoint her.

     After our session, I was stunned to find how beautiful the shots were.  I seen myself in a whole, new angle...and I was pleased....

Here are a couple of the images taken that night.

You'd have to join Fetlife to see the rest...

"Bound by Boisterous" by Mim Arts

Arrival

     I've developed a strange emotional cocktail.  A feeling more severe than anticipation is flooding my mind.  I feel as if I've leaped so far into to the future, I'm mourning the loss of tomorrow.  I miss a man I have never met.  I deeply wish he would return to me, although his plane hasn't even arrive yet.  Damn.

     We've been in deep contact for what feels like a year or more.  Chatting.  Conversing.  Fondling each other thoughts in hot sessions of phone sex.  But I've never seen him in motion.  I've never smelled his scent.  I've never, so much as, shaken his hand.  But, I know him.

     Sour thoughts are reverberating throughout my mind.  What if there's no chemistry?  What if he finds me unattractive?  What if he thinks I stink?  I have to remind myself that he knows me, too.  He stayed on the phone with me as I fought with cashiers.  He continued to chat with me as my drunken fingers expressed my deepest, misspelled thoughts.  He takes my abuse, laughing as he dusts it off his shoulders.

To make such a big step

To cross time zones to visit

He must, at minimum, like me.

     Perhaps, he is, in a way, returning to me.  When I see him for the first time, an introduction isn't even possible.  I know him already.  When we make first physical contact, it would be a confirmation of a touch I've lived several times in my dreams.  I felt him already.  Shit.  He is indeed meeting me again...  This time, in a closer setting; but no more real.  The Chatting.  The Conversing.  The fondling of our thoughts has proven to be a tangible, sturdy foundation.

6:15 p.m.

I must remind myself in the meantime

He must, at minimum, like me.

"Decadence" (Featuring Sasha Marini) by Alberto Rugolotto

"Shared Alike" by Andrew Archer

If you could spare a little patience

Conjure some inner peace

You'll see. I'm going some where with this...

You won't regret falling limp

Opening wide, at this moment, is the best thing you could do

Just trust that I'm on to something

For once,

Grant my words passage through your ears to your mind

Unobstructed by chatter and input

Don't make sense or make comfortable

Just make yourself available

You won't regret going dumb
Silence, at this moment, will pave the road to enlightenment

Just trust that there's something you need to hear

For once, let your body feel without numbing the sensations

...with assumptions...

...with past experiences...

...with labels...

Just trust that these fingers and palms are brand new

This tongue speaks a language beyond your comprehension

Trust that your soul understands and is pleased with what it hears

You'll see, I'm going somewhere with this...

The Curiosity is Killing Me (Part III)

The Eleventh Degree (Introduction)

 

Press patiently.

...basketball games...double overtime...big money on the line...

...heated conversations...waiting for her to shut the fuck up...some thing's never got off my chest...

...driving past vehicular collisions...running late...can't take my eyes off...can't take my foot off...

...shit...

A lifetime of clinching

Squeezing in suspense

All of my anxieties and tensions tied in a single knot

Be gentle.

By Gonzalo Benard

 

Mystery as a Medium

     I also love the 'everyman' quality that comes with the cropping.  I have the space to construct my ideal Adonis.  I have the room to wander within my own fantasy.  Without being spoon fed a blatant display, I can ask myself, "What am I hungry for?"  Thick healthy cock?  Strong inner thighs?  Pretty bare feet?

     Sam Scott Schiavo gets it!  He understands how to use mystery as a medium.  There is something about a tightly cropped photo that gets me hot.  The mystery of what's lying beyond the edges.  The secret skin left on the cutting room's floor.  Looking for something that isn't there arouses me.  My mind begins to fill in the blank.  My imagination reaches out to feel in the .

    

Conversation w/ Sasha Marini (Part II)

"Denim" by Albert Rugolotto

Sasha Marini: Have a look at these pictures; my purpose is very clear. (Above)
Forbidden Light: These pictures are poking at the pervert in me! Looks like two shots of the same stroke!

S.M.: Exactly, they were...

F.L.: You were air fucking?

S.M.: I was with my mind.  It's not about who you are fucking, it's important that you are fucking in your mind first of all and then your body will follow your feelings...

Sasha Marini: What do you think of this photo? (Above)
Forbidden Light: I love how dirty and industrial the set is...The female model seems a little contrived.

S.M.: As with all female models.  There are more pictures where I am alone:

F.L.: I was having a conversation with Gonzalo Benard and we were talking about how men are automatically categorized as "homoerotic" just because they are the center of attention.  Thus, some shoots have token women to establish their commercial market.

S.M.: Exactly! Nothing to add, just true.

F.L.: I will admit, I'm envious that you're touching her backside. Do you happen to be gay? LOL

S.M.: No, never happened.  I have an open mind but I've never slept with a man.

F.l.: Wow...so you're like, hetero-flexible?  It's good practice to 'never say never'...

S.M.: You got the point, let's see what is going to happen.  I'm not afraid; not shy.

F.L.:  (Conjuring very dirty thoughts of a having role in Decadence II)

Forbidden Light: Have you ever thought of doing self portraits?

Sasha Marini: No. I have no self estimate?

F.L.: Estimate?

S.M.: I'm not objective; I don't see myself as you can see me.

F.L.: What do you see?

S.M.: A cheap man.  Unloved.  Not appreciated.  Not understood.  Ok, stop talking about me.

F.L.: I feel like that very often.

S.M.: So many people don't believe in my skills, nobody. Because I am different: I don't have usual models features and my attitude is unusual.

F.L.:  Amazing.

     The remainder of our conversation became larger than words, too big to fit into the format of an interview. We both feel plagued by this 'openness'.  Being so open, that emptiness becomes a natural side effect.  So open, that honesty becomes involuntary, as does the expenses that comes with such truth.

     Accompanying this open nature is the pervasive feelings of abandonment.  To be so available, only to go unacknowledged.  To welcome the entire world, for no one to show up.  To tell the stories of so many people, silence becomes the only translation.  I love him for putting a face on a feeling I know all too well.

     The next time you see Sasha in the magazines or posted on your favorite blog; look him in the eyes.  Give him enough attention to hear what he is trying to say.  The fashion, the fetish, the physique is merely a shell; a masculine yet soft spirit dwells slightly beneath the surface.  Look into his eyes and you may catch a reflection of yourself.  I sure did.

    

"Beauty" by Alberto Rugolotto

Deadly Sin #6: Envy

B

     The erection doesn't sprout as expected.  Clicking through the slideshow, my pants doesn't inflate with the usual steel.  Cobblestone Abs.  Pillar-like Thighs.  Thick Hamstrings.  Display after display of strength and power, my blood takes a detour elsewhere.  Rippling calves burns into my eyes.  Square jawlines gnaw into my memory.  Arms that could build nations hammer away into my soul.  The erection doesn't sprout as I expected, instead, another part of me awakens.
     Racing with a chubby lump bouncing at my crotch, I find myself jogging to the gym.  Images of perfection flashes through my mind, adding length to my strides.  Plump glutes could be mine.  Chiseled V-shaped frames.  Defined deltoids.  I feel like a diesel engine fueled by envy; coveting which each blast of its pistons.  I will be better if it kills me.
     I imagine the upkeep necessary for one of those glorious bodies and how much I've been neglecting mine.  Twenty-piece nuggets.  Volcano hard tacos.  Cheese filled pizza rolls.  I sentenced myself to forty-five minutes on the Stairmaster.  An hour on the treadmill, with full incline.  At this moment, I become a self-indulgent sadomasochist.  Preacher curls...bench presses...dumbbell squats become my weapons of choice to beat the dwarf within to submission. 
       Perhaps there is another use to pornography besides being a masturbatory tool.  Maybe there is a stimulating quality beyond sexual.  I know: I'm playing with fire.  I know: I'm chasing a phantom.  But, I think I need to feel like shit to wield the results I'm looking for.  My feelings of inferiority gives me strength.  Comparing myself to gods, keeps the indwelling sloth at bay.

I will be better if it kills me.

     The images above are from Rick Day's new collection, PIONEERS.  I really can't explain it: Day's work turns me green with envy!  Every time without fail, I'm heading to the gym or towards the ground for some impromptu push-ups.  I'm infuriated to the degree that the images aren't erotic, they're purely motivational.

No one else's work gets this response from me

I have no explanation.

The Curiosity is Killing Me (Part II)

Yang Shi by Luis Carlos Aguayo

Conversations w/ Sasha Marini (Part I)

Forbidden Light: Oh my..... You had a fever...

Sasha Marini: What do you mean?

F.L: You look as though you were unfurling...pre-orgasmic...clinching.

S.M: You will see in the finale.

F.L: I can't wait to see it.  I've always wondered this, do you have any experience with BDSM or are you playing a role?

S.M: It was a role, but, keep in your mind this is a behind-the-scenes video. Everything is real.

F.L: Well, it's very, very sexy; you seem entranced.

S.M: I can't tell you if I'm sexy on that video; I was working on my purpose.

F.L: I cant believe you're unsure about whether you're sexy; you're giving off a lot of heat.

S.M: I don't think to be sexy or I don't try to look sexy. I'm just me as I am in real life.  That's all.

F.L: So this isn't a role, after all.

F.L: This is one of my favorite images of you. (Posted above) Where were you here?

S.M: I love that picture, this image is so full of meanings. I was in Paris, shooting in Alberto Rugolotto's studio.

F.L: You exude Christ to me, very sacrificial...selfless...exhausted.

S.M: I'm so tired man, not only my body, but something in my deep.

F.L: In your "deep", I love that!

S.M: My life wasn't so easy and even my career is very difficult, maybe that's why I'm like that.

F.L: You really are real; you aren't playing a role at all, this is how you feel.

S.M: I just wanna follow my mood and feelings that's all.  I don't know, man, how it will be and where I'm going.

F.L:  Well, where ever you're going...its beautiful

Part II

Conversations w/ Sasha Marini (Introduction)

Model < Man

Interview < Conversation

Crush < Connection

     Wearing a saddle with lace panties.  Crucified on a tree as a sexy understudy of Christ.  You can find this man's image all over your favorite blogs.  Sasha Marini, the central figure to Albert Rugolotto's highly influential spread "Decadence", has been a long time fixation of mine.  Thanks to him, my recent fantasies all require a stylist.

     Sasha is surprising in many ways.  I found all my assumptions regarding models horribly wrong.  In our conversations, I was astonished to find that he is a man just like me.  Plagued with insecurities.  Uncertain about his contribution to the world.  Searching for himself.  He fails to see his beauty...the same way we do.

     I find him beautiful in a much different way than before.  Getting to know him has added another dimension to his work.  I, now, wonder where is inspiration comes from as he screams while wrapped in tape.  I wonder what thoughts pervade his mind as he wearily drapes himself across his own lap.  I wonder if I have the same motivations when I'm locked in my fetish gear.

It is my pleasure and honor to present to you a slice of my conversations w/ Sasha Marini!

 

The Curiosity is Killing Me (Part I)

     I've been watching you for a long time.

Intrigued by the way you take your garbage to the dumpster...

I savor the way you order from the menu.

I ruin my posture to stare at your sandals.

Although I live amongst you,

I feel as though we live world apart.
I can't ignore that a large part of you is hidden...

There's a mystery in your masculinity.

A secret that everyone seems to know...but me.

I must know for myself.

I want you truthful.

I want you naked.

I want you open.

I want you now.

.

"A Kiss to Yves" by Rafa Borges

Autonepiophilia: An Aborted Entry

     August 2010 was a weird month for me.  Mercury rolled into retrograde.  Murphy's Law was in full effect.  My cell phone damn near exploded in my hand.  As a result, I decided to stand back and sit outside of the chaos; staying at bay until it was safe to resume my life.
     Waiting until the cosmic smoke cleared, my mind started to function in an odd fashion.  For some reason, I began to process old, outdated emotions.  I got angry at things that happened years ago.  I whined about being misunderstood in elementary school.  I tried to slap a bitch I met in college.  I realized I was incredibly backed up, constipated, if you will.  I had volumes of emotional shit crammed deep into the hidden colon of my mind...And without my permission my subconscious started to do some cleansing!
      As a means to manage these chaotic feelings flowing from me, I attempted to write.  Since I was born without tear ducts, I needed an outlet for this cry baby throwing fits inside of me.  I needed a receptacle to air my expired grievances.  So I jumped on my laptop and let my Mama have it!

"I could've been Miles Davis,

If you would've let me practice indoors."

"I could've been a published author,

I you would've read my childhood novels.

Instead you encouraged me to keep my writing to one page."

"I could've been..."

"I could've had..."

"I could've lived..."

     This was news to me.  I didn't know I had so much resentment towards my mother.  Before then, I thought she did a banged up job of raising three sons on her own; turns out she sucked...Or at least my inner child thought so.  In the days to come, he also open fired on my father, ex-girlfriend and previous employer.  At the lethal force propelling each shot: "I could've been so much more."

     Before clicking the 'publish' button; the truth dragged me back to reality.  Not discounting my feelings or personal history, the entry sounded...obituary.  As if my potential was spoiled, my proposed destiny was irretrievable.  I may be much older than the infant screaming from within, but I'm not dead yet!

I can still be Miles Davis

Thanks to my mother's restrictions, I will play much louder!

I can still be a published author

I've had much time to develop and perfect my craft.

I can be...

I can be...

I will be...still.

     I do feel much better, now that it's all out of my system.  I've been operating much smoother without the accumulated frustration of what "could've been".  I will make more of an effort to experience my emotions, instead of storing it away to fester.  September feels more harmonious already.

   

     The art posted above is from Alberto Rugolotto's "Decadence" and "Metamorphosis" featuring my muse and friend, Sasha Marini.  Rugolotto's work is so poignant because of his commitment to his expressive concepts.  Marini's role in his vision is less of a model and more of an instrument; casting his beauty aside, Sasha channels the deeper, more agonizing tone of Decadence. 

     Keep an eye out for an upcoming interview with Sasha; you'd be surprised to hear what he thinks of the fashion industry, modeling and himself.  He is an interesting departure from vainglory.   

Melolagnia: There's No Sadist Like Time...

Ascent

     You prefer everything slow.  Your briefs slide down your hips like molasses.  Your shirt creeps up your torso like the sunrise over the horizon.  The fabric slipping across your skin makes you hiss and suck your teeth.  Using your sleeves to bind your wrists, I softly bark in your ear, "Keep your hands up."
     As if you really know the answer, you arms remained stretched toward the ceiling.  My kisses crawl down your arms...your armpits...your sensitive sides.  My strong grip squeezes your ass...muscles in your back...your sensitive nipples.
     Your underwear never makes it past your knees.  Crouching before you, I smile at the erection now twitching towards my chin.  If only it had a voice of its own.  Running my hands from your shaking knees, up your thighs to your warm waist, I stand to my feet.  A small whimper escapes your lips; our cocks butting heads is the only time it has been touched.  Poor baby.

Are you reconsidering your preference?

As my lips remain closed at the tip of your cock?

 There's no sadist like time...

Patience can spoil from virtue to sin...

Are you sure, you like things slow?

I have all day...