52 Pick-Up: 3 of Clubs

    It’s natural for relationships to change.  Times.  Circumstances.  Needs.  There are so many factors that’ll cause the shape of love to bend and twist.  “Are you sure?”  Looking into her eyes, I can see that she’s serious.  We have certainly reached a turning point.

Her eyes read honest, as she answered,
“Yes. I think it’s a good idea.”
Getting on her nerves, I squeal, "For real?"

    I thought our future was already filled with limitless possibilities.  Infinite arrangements.  Infinite journeys.  Infinite destinations.  But now, my head calculates what would happen if I’d multiply the infinite by three.  All I could say was, “Wow…”  Three people sharing a single connection.  Three people sharing the same household.  My future splinters before my eyes.

Is it even possible?

    Our strange brand of love just got real.  Its no longer a working theory, but a lifestyle.  We've seen people live comfortably outside of convention.  We've witnessed families blossom in this way.  We've seen children sprout up completely healthy and well-adjusted.  We want in.  Whether this third person is a lover or a child.  We want in.

"3 of Clubs" by Boistrous

Drunken Thought #15

     I've been tucking it into my pocket.  Nice.  Neat.  In a cute envelope.  Each and every time something stupid comes out of your mouth, I've been gently filing it into the abyss behind my left lapel.  My thoughts and emotional impulses are folded two or three times to fit perfectly... To fit nicely... To fit neatly...
     Aren't I a saint?  Aren't I an alchemist?  For converting bullshit into pretty packages...  Sealing bullshit filled envelopes with a decorative closure... It even matches my outfit.  Aren't I nice?  Aren't I neat?  Aren't I a well-trained negro, to be so tall?  My jacket is so well tailored, you barely notice the lump swelling beneath my left lapel.

Enter: Vodka
Enter: Example after example
Enter: The right time for all the wrong things to happen

     Even the finest paper dissolves quickly in alcohol.  The beautiful, ordinate seals can not contain the bullshit locked within.  What happened to nice?  What happened to neat?  My mouth is neither.  My arms won't stop flailing.  My beautiful jacket is ruined!  And, I don't care.  It's covered in smelly, age-old bullshit.  And, I don't care.  You need to know.  They need to know.  I need to know.
     My pockets are bursting open for the world to see.  Here I am, in my Sunday's best, vomiting in public.  It needs to go...  All of it...  Get out of my body...  Get out of my face...
     In retrospect, I would've reconsidered my filing system; if I had known it would explode at a later date.  All of it at once.  I would not have tucked my anger away in neat places.  I would not swept my emotions under a rug so expensive.  Now, I have a mess to clean up.
     I've learned that even the abyss can fill to its brim....  Even an European-tailored jacket can tear at it seams.  Even the most beautiful, most extravagant seals have their limits.  Shit.  I thought I had finesse.  I thought I was professional.  It turns out, I'm a person, too... Shit.

Bad Sex: (Ep. 3) "Some Like it Rough"

     LOGO's new television series "Bad Sex" has garnered by attention.  The show features a sex therapist's work as he helps people with dysfunctional sexual issues.  Each episode focuses on a single client as (s)he participates in group and individual therapy.  I found the first two episodes to be nothing short of thought provoking.  Peeling back the layers of their sexual behaviors, the sex "specialist", Chris Donaghue, helps to reveal the deeper emotional issues they were masking with sex.  Good TV.
     The third episode rubbed me wrong.  They turned the camera to Erin, "A rough sex/love addict".  Choking.  Cropping.  Fetish.  She admits, "Sex has to be rough for her to enjoy it."  I found myself waiting for the bad part.
     Her therapy with Chris and the other clients showed that Erin had some major intimacy issues.  Habitually, her relationships consist of sex alone. No conversation.  No cuddling.  No connection.  The major problems with her love life were flagrant.  However, what offended me was their need to continue to emphasize her kinky proclivities.  Slicing in scenes of her purchasing sex toys and buying fetish gear.  From what I seen from the show, I believe her issues were independent of her kink.  Yet, the directors continued to draw this connection between her fetish and her fear of intimacy.
     Her two-year relationship with a married man was the problem, not her urge to be tied up.  Her ability to stay in a relationship with a man who fucks her and then sleeps on the couch was the problem, not the whips and chains occupying her toy box.  Maybe I would've appreciated it if Chris assured Erin, "It's okay if you like to be choked."  I think this show had an opportunity to be kink-positive and progressive, but squandered it on being sensationalist.

I think its possible to have your emotional/spiritual needs met in a kinky relationship.

  I think psychological health can co-exist with fetish.

What do you guys think about this episode?

Quantum Touch: Cups

     It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  Bending.  Striking.  Digging.  An adult can dissolve into a crying child.  A human being can transform into an animal.  A body, of flesh and blood, can open its gates and become the ocean.

It was a Friday morning...
She surprised me...

     Placing the first suction cup against her back, I turned the knob.  She snaps, "Ouch! Can't you do it any slower?"  Massaging her back with oil, kneading her skin and muscles, I warm her up before trying again.  Turning the knob slower this time, I watched the plastic case fill with her flesh.  Hissing, "Fuck," she slams her fist against the ottoman.

Her mouth may have been filled with curses.
Her fists may have been filled with her comforter.
But, the scent of her cunt filling the air
was all the permission I needed to apply the second cup.

     Twisting the knob clockwise, her speech was quick and punctual, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  If I listened more than sniffed, I'd stop.  But, my nostrils filled with the musk of a masochist.  My instincts took over and continued to systematically work her body.
     Taking my time, I strategically fastened cup after cup, riddling her backside with several of these bizarre attachments.  Sucking.  Pulling.  Tightening.  It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  After the third cup grasped at the flesh of her ass, something changed.  Suddenly, like a gust of wind, silence made its presence known: sacred... still... golden...
     Someone 5' 5" can tower over the tallest of men.  Soft curves and moist valleys can match the hardness of diamonds.  It was Friday morning and she revealed herself a goddess.  I swear, her humming voice made the temperature rise in Oakland that day.  All I could do was watch and praise the miracle before me.

"Zen" by Forbidden Light (Featuring Boistrous)

Drunken Thought #2

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I'm waiting for an opportunity to tell my story.  Before the scab... Before the scar tissue... Before the blemish...  No one has ever asked me what happened in the first place.  Before the broken skin... Before the spilled blood... Before the ambulance ride...
     It's been a very difficult story to keep to myself.  But, no one asks, "How did you get that x-long gash from here-to-there?"  Instead, I'm told to "apply cocoa butter to reverse the hyper-pigmentation."  As if, healing lies in the reverse of the trauma's symptoms.  As if, I'd be free if the scar blended with my skin-tone.  As if, the disappearance of my scar will make me forget his forceful hands in my hair.  Before telling me, "Black skin is prone to darken where a barrier is breached,"  please ask if I'm proud to see evidence of a threat null and void.
     I've been longing to say 'yes' for so long.  "YES!"  I've wondered how that would sound from my lips to my ears. How would "YES" sound reverberating throughout the air?  "YES, I've been in scuffles."  "YES, I've fought for my life."  "YES, I'm still here, in spite of the sharp edge held firmly at my face."  However, I've longed to say "YES" without adding my name to the long list of victims.

Why would I want to cosmetically remove a badge of honor?
Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I've been equally redundant to call upon my truth.  I would hate to have all-that-I-am reduced to 'fucked up', so I stay silent.  Waiting...  Longing...  Furiously masturbating to the thought of someone giving a damn enough to ask, "Where'd this come from?"  Pointing to the scar between my eyebrows.
    Is it a rude question to ask?  Is it inappropriate to inspect my body and inquire about your findings?  Probably.  But, I find it equally rude to discuss the matter on Oprah's coach; in an attempt to promote my latest project.  I guess this story will die with me...or, it'll splatter from lips when I'm desperate for some attention.  Which isn't today.

Black Spark: Blackstreet

What is this, that drives me out on his limb?

     At some point, "I love you" didn't do it for me anymore.  No matter how I said it: in the heights of passion or in the depth of emotion, It didn't completely translate how I felt.  No matter how much I said it: the rattling of a dated declaration didn't do my feelings justice.  "Love" was too shallow of a term to define the nature of our connection.
     Looking into his eyes, "Cum inside of me," felt right.  Holding his pumping hips in my hands, "Cum inside of me," became an opening statement before a sacrifice.  I wanted him to know: I am devoted.  What's a word to describe my need to put my life into his hands?  To use risk as evidence?

The intensity,
building with every stroke,
makes me wish I had a womb to capture this moment.

       With my legs drawn over his bouncing shoulders, our rhythms drive me mad.  The thirst for his every drop develops into a compulsion.  Regardless of what sprouted from his seed, whether a jolt of life or a slow death, "Cum inside of me!"  I wanted him to inhabit me.
     His face falls open.  His muscles clings to my body.  Pumping in clinging spurts, we began to bond in a new way.  Spraying.  Churning.  Soaking.  Whether to build a new life or to weather the same sickness, I cast my life into the winds of his orgasm.
     As his body collapses onto mine, I am filled with the unknown.  Questions swell in my head.  Possibilities play themselves out.  What did I just do?  There is so much pending... So much to be determined...  What's a word to describe my desire to die, if he's going to?

"Cum inside of me," felt right.

Black Spark: Chapter 1.5

"Elsewhere a villain in born.
 He will take your power...
 ...up his ass.
 ...down his throat.
 Now, he has stolen mine: I lost focus.

 I must find him and take his load." - Black Spark
     I kept nodding off at work today.  So damn tired from staying up all night masturbating.  Beautiful Boys.  Dusty Basements.  Lasers.  Lust.  Abandoned Dance Floors.  I couldn't stop watching.  These films activated something deep within me, I couldn't lift my eyes from the Black Spark.

Everything I've ever wanted from pornography:
Irresponsibly Truthful

     After my fourth load, my orgasms weren't wet anymore.  But, like the characters in the films, I couldn't stop touching myself.  Stimulated on every front, my hands and cock were inseparable. Poetic lines scrolled across succulent close-ups.  The way their secrets sparkled kept my thighs open. The music kept me awake long enough to squeeze out the fifth.

I'm so damn tired...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: The Process

     Weeks later, I am still processing my time at the Folsom Street Fair this year.  What is it about Folsom that makes me feel like I'm in my element?  Of which spirits did I fellowship?  I think I may have tasted a morsel of something significant.  Something clicked.  I feel compelled to pursue this harmony, discovering what it means for my life's purpose.
     Whether it was a cold breeze or warmth from the afternoon Sun, it felt so good on my bare hide.  Exposing myself in public...  Playing without fear of judgement...  It felt good to be surrounded by a community of people doing the same thing.

Its painful to think about this happening only once a year.

      I think I am realizing how much I need this.  Sex and Sun needs to continue sharing the atmosphere.  Public displays of fetish needs to be met with smiles and the lighting up of eyes.  Kinksters should go home with the thought in their head, "I am not alone."  What can I do to usher this kind of environment into reality?

That's where I always get stuck
I don't know.

     I think "Journals of an Intelsexual" shines a light on sex-positivity, broadening people's perception on sexuality and fetish; but what's next?  I am racking my brain trying to figure out my next steps.  I've taken a few shots into the dark, submitting applications to open positions within the sex industry and reaching out to kindred spirits.  I feel this to be a tremendous turning point in my life, both professional and personal.

All I can do is pray
This passion is weighing on my heart for a purpose
I await to see what surfaces

Photos courtesy of Boisterous & Tommysole

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part II)

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I’d start with me and him naked.  On all fours.  Overlapping on the motel room’s floor, we were in unison.  With her legs wrapped around my neck, her heels sat on my back as he serviced her feet.  Slurping.  Moaning.  Flicking my tongue over her clitoris, I can feel his warm mouth alternating between her feet and my back.  Taking turns licking and lapping.

Us: Gnawing and nibbling.
Her: Moaning and giggling.

     I love the warmth of their limbs wrapping around me.  Embracing me from behind, his hands roams all over my body as she fills his mouth.  Our services are synchronized.  Our thirsts siphoned  from the same well.
     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start the next scene with her on her back.  Putting myself on top.  Her throat and teeth quivers around my cock.  Plunging his fingers inside of her, he feeds me her pussy from his palm.  Spreading her lips further apart, I rhythmically dart my tongue directly on her clit.  Each orgasm makes her body shake and rock; I love the momentum.  I love the way he sucks her juices from my beard and how our tongues battle for the last drop.  I love kissing him. 

Two heads are better than one.
Four hands are better than two.
Three lovers are better
than any fantasy I could've mustered on my own.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start with poetic thoughts of dreams coming true.  His tongue rakes across the sole of my left foot.  Her mouth seals around the toes of my right foot.  Heaven materializes before my eyes.  Infinite hands sliding across my skin.  Tongues slithering and darting inside of me.  Heads rising and falling in my lap.  I've prayed for a moment like this... Being worshiped by two people at once.  Fireworks exploding in my body!  A network of pleasure tearing me apart!  For an hour, I attended Heaven.
     Its his turn to stare at the ceiling.  She's on all fours.  I'm kneeling behind her.  We're going to fuck on his face.  She can barely maintain her composure; as I stroke deep inside of her, his mouth tugs on her cunt from beneath.  Every few strokes, I'll remove my erection from her and give it to him to suck clean.  It was a beautiful sight, to see his bearded face respond some greedily.  His hands traveled to my hips, groping my ass...then to her hips and her breasts.  Every few strokes, there was another mess for him to clean up.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part I)

     Folsom is more than a street this weekend.  What typically is driven on, somehow drives everything in a ten-mile radius and beyond.  Inspiring.  Intoxicating.  Influencing.  The Spirit of Folsom fills me with an infectious excitement.  We’re all excited.
     In a crowded bar.  In a buzzing social scene.  Cigarettes.  Booze.  Dancing.  This is how we wanted to meet him.  If he turned out to be annoying...  If he turned out to be boring…  If he turned out to be crazy, like the guy from last year’s Folsom Street Fair, we had a way out.  My girlfriend and I wanted to make sure there was chemistry before going any further.

I think we fell in love immediately
Already intrigued by his intense need to serve
We didn’t expect him to be so handsome

     In a crowded bar.  Random introductions.  Cell phones.  Clicking.  Coronas with lime.  I can’t remember who’s idea it was to remove her shoes.  Immediately dropping to his knees, publicly taking her toes into his mouth.  His tongue wiggling between each of her toes soon met mine as we both serviced her right foot.  French kissing each other as we sucked and kissed her feet, commentary floated around us, “Ugh! That’s just nasty!”  Like magnetism.  Like gravity.  I was pulled into this moment of worship.  “OMG! Hold on, Jim; I’ll call you back.”  Name calling.  Cameras.  Cheers.

I loved every moment.

     It was safe to say we had chemistry.  Kissing my girlfriend.  Kissing him.  Watching him and my girlfriend kiss.  To taste the salt from her toes on his tongue.  It turned me on to share each other.  I’ve never had an experience so all-inclusive.  Everyone was into everyone equally.  In that moment, no one was straight or gay.  Single or coupled.  Equally helpless to each other’s charm, we were simply lovers.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: A Random Introduction

     Its one a.m. and its already "tomorrow".  I am dreading the thought of returning to the office.  The thought makes me cry.  The thought makes me turn this bottle of Fernet Branca upside down against my face.  The thought makes me reach out to random strangers, "Am I crazy?"  Yes.  I am not ready for "tomorrow".

I don't want this moment to end...
Although, its already over...
The leather's been packed away...
The freaks have scattered to maintain their respective lives

     We celebrated our day in the Sun.  We exhaled audibly outside of the shadows for a change... Outside of the basements...  Outside of the exclusive underground that binds us.  I am nagged by my depression, "Why are you celebrating the 1/365th of a year you can share the same Sun?"  I don't know.  The unfurling feels euphoric... liberating... But, the sub sequential re-integration is becoming unbearable.

Damn, I'm out of liquor.

     It's 1:34 a.m. and I am stepping deeper into "tomorrow".  Although, I have a beautiful woman sleeping next to me, I feel so lonely.  Not from the lack of quality company, but from the reality that we are mentioned during Sunday sermons.  Kinky.  Polyamorous.  Sadomasochistic.  Queer.  We are the people mentioned to get a rise out of the congregation.  I feel lonely because a false accusation becomes true because of my rare proclivities.

I am instantly wicked because I am twisted.
     This is what happens.  Every time fantasies materialize, every time I receive a massive offering of love and service.  The reality makes me sick to my stomach.  The reality persuades me to escape from "tomorrow".  Indefinitely.  What if my dissonance indicated that this isn't my "reality"?  Instead of cramming myself back into that ergonomically-correct desk, I should be screaming, "Fuck you, vanilla world!"

I damn and praise this awareness that I need a job!

     This weekend was beautiful; I will be spending this week writing about all that happened.  The problem with beauty, however, is that everything pales in comparison.  Its hard to get dressed in a suit and tie, when you've publicly frolicked in the nude.  Its difficult to step foot into the office fresh from a game-changing threesome.  It's challenging to have a taste of freedom and go back to the same stale coffee.  Just to stay alive.

Hopefully, my brain chemistry balances.
Hopefully, reality proves to be a great companion to fantasies.
Hopefully, I have an easy day at work "tomorrow".

Images by Michael Macku

Quantum Touch: Brush II

He wants it so gentle...so soft...
I have to give it a little hard.

He wants it so smooth...so slick...
I take this opportunity to scrape and prick.

     I don't think I'm a sadist.  But, I do like the way his body alternates between relaxation and tension.  Bathing him in extravagance with sudden splashes of course boar bristles, he's so confused.  Although I'm barely touching him, he can feel that this brush is much more coarse...less flexible...cold.  He wants roses, but they also come with thorns.
     Switching brushes, one moment he's climbing the walls, the next, he's melting into my bed.  He likes it all.  Brushing the inside of his thighs with the tough brush, he got a much needed opportunity to make some noise.  Even church mice have a need to scream.  The softest men can appreciate a little edge.
     Turning him over, he points his tail upward.  Dangling.  The golden hairs on his balls are begging to be brushed.  At the slightest touch of the boar bristles, his hips jolts into the air.  He can't catch his breath.  A second swipe makes him shake uncontrollably.  After his sensual fit, he returns to his former position.  I like the way he readies himself for whatever I want to do next.

That's love.

     Dropping the brushes, my fingertips on his skin makes him melt.  Human contact.  Rubbing my palms all over him quenching his thirst for affection.  Pressing my naked body against his naked body.  Kissing him deeply.  Wrapping my arms around him.  Pinning my erection between his cheeks.  Human contact: there's nothing like it.

Photographer: Forbidden Light/Model: Angelito

Quantum Touch: Brush

     Mein liebling likes the brush.  He wants it head to toe... ear to ear... cheek to cheek.  He wants me to take my time and stroke every inch of his skin.  Hunching his back as I slide up his calf, I continue towards his ass.  Feeling his voice vibrate through the mattress, I spend extra time caressing his naked backside.  Sliding across his ribs, he moans aloud as I briefly pass his nipples.  I make a mental note to return.

He's so sensitive

     Feeling every fiber, his body squirms so beautifully.  The slightest change in pressure changes the key of his whimper.  His responses varies greatly depending on which zone I was influencing.  His body was an instrument.

     His highest notes:
The tender flesh where his thighs meet with his seat.

His deepest notes:
His testicles

     Concentrating on his right knee, I loved looking up to find his erection rock-hard.  I love his inability to contain himself.  What would make most people giggle and fling their limbs, he relishes.  Interesting.  What reminds most people of crawling insects, reminds him that our nervous system is genius.  Avoiding direct stimulus to his cock, I revisited the truth that our entire bodies are sexual organs... that men can climax without casting pearls... that a little attention can go along way.

Mein liebling likes the brush.

Photographer: Forbidden Light/ Model: Angelito


"He's known me all those years...and, suddenly, I'm no-good just because I love the horses?"

     First, I'd like to acknowledge that "Zoo" is a beautifully made film.  The creative direction of this 'docu-film' came across as very artistic and emotive.  Even the script, while conveniently cryptic, was both poetic and confessional.  The beauty of "Zoo" is what left me feeling fucked up at the end of the movie.
     Watching this film, I felt a great deal of dissonance.  While I can not relate to zoophiles, I can relate to the characters' discoveries... The discovery that there's a name for your darkest secret... The discovery that there's a handful of people into the same thing... The discovery that wild ideas manifest into your real life... The discovery that fantasies coming true can be quite destructive.  While I could relate, to some degree, their fetish activated my gag reflex.
     I don't want to get too much into what the movie is about, and I have a feeling the director didn't either.  The hinting.  The code.  The minimalism.  I've done that before, in an attempt to manipulate an audience's perception.  In retrospect, I see that I was steered into seeing their humanity, first.

Overall, I found the movie unsettling.
But, that's why I liked it.

Has anyone else seen "Zoo"?
Any thoughts?

Quantum Touch: Wortenburg Wheel

     Sharp, prickly points traveling across my skin. Certain parts of me can endure while others....not so much.  I, honestly, can not explain the feelings that run through my body and mind.  The simultaneous hatred and appreciation.  The paradox of pleasure and torture.  Throwing tantrums while throwing my legs further apart.  How can I want something that's so annoying...so badly?

I fucking hate this shit....but that doesn't mean I want you to stop.
I try to escape, wiggle out of your hold...while staying still.
Fuck!  Shit!  Motherfucker, that hurts!
Moaning...  Whimpering...  Exhaling, I surrender my body further under your control...

     Giving myself to the one I love, I want to flail my arms and punch.  Why so much pressure?  Why so fast?  Opening myself wider, I realize that I'm in a relationship with a sadistic asshole.  And, that's sexy.  Somehow.  I wish I could explain why I'd spend $9.99 for this Wortenburg Wheel while muttering curse words.  Why do I store a nuisance so neatly in my toy chest?

This is the epitome of a love/hate relationship!

Photos by Angelito/Model: Forbidden Light

Schlampe (Slut)

     We have a game we like to play.
     Sometimes, we play it because I've had a hard day at work.
     Other times, we play 'Schlampe' because she's been very bad.
     In either case, fun is had by all.

     Men like me have certain...idiosyncrasies.  Random bullshit regular women wouldn't put up with.  I like my DVDs in alphabetical order... I like to wake up to an egg white omelet and Jazz... Oh yeah, and I can't cum without a tongue jammed into my asshole.  I've tried speed dating.  I've tried eHarmony.  But, alas, no luck finding "the one".
     Sometimes, I order her from Amazon.com.  Other times, I've found her ad on Craig's List.  In either case, she always comes with stellar reviews.  She's a five-star schlampe from Eastern Europe and she's all mine.  A list of things I've always wanted to do grows lengthy in my head.
     I can't understand what she's saying, but her accent is so cute.  All I can recognize is, "Please, no refund."  She struggles to keep eye contact with me as she hands me a leash connected to her collar.  Forcing her to her knees, the lengthy list gives me a headache.  I want her to make me a drink as I hold her to the ground.  I want her to call me 'Daddy' in her native tongue as I pump my hips into her face.  I want her to do everything these American bitches don't want to!
     That cute outfit quickly becomes clutter on my living room floor.  Her ankles fit so beautiful into my palms.  She looks as me with this odd facial expression as I squeeze into her; as if she was saying with eyes, "How could you do this to me?"  I like that look.
     Hours go by...  Fucked.  Beaten.  Gagged.  She's been dragged throughout my house.  Maybe, I'm not so idiosyncratic.  Pushing me onto my back, she spreads my legs and sticks her tongue in my ass, as if she's done this a thousand times before.  Her voice mumbles inside of me, "American asshole." Question marks fill my head as she comes up for air, "You American assholes are all alike."  I didn't know whether she being a poet or a bitch...  In either case, I was cumming!
     We have a game we like to play
     Today, she was the 'schlampe'
     Tomorrow, I may be the one who's been very bad
     In either case, I hope she wears that outfit again.

Photography by Forbidden Light/ Model: Boistrous

Quantum Touch

     Exploring the gulf between nearness and arrival.  Hairs stand on end.  Juices flow.  Almost touching, his body jumps at the mere anticipation of contact.  Erections swell.  Breaths thicken.  He can't stay quiet.  Its something about closing the space between my fingertips and his skin...  His instincts sets his skin on fire as phantom caresses crawl across his flesh.


The same way light too dim for my eyes to register
can be just as blinding as staring into The Sun.

A touch so soft it's barely felt,
can be just as intense as nerve-numbing pain.

In other words, he's wants it so gentle it hurts.

Photography by Forbidden Light/ Model: Angelito

Baby Sis

We must've grown up together.

The records you're spinning reminds me of the grown folks that stayed up past my bedtime.  Cigar smoke.  High-pitched wails.  Spades.  Funky bass lines.  Laughter.  Here we are, awake past midnight, playing the way grown folks play.  Drinking what grown folks drink.  Smoking what grown folks smoke.  We must've both walked in on Ma and Daddy...this looks mighty familiar.  Her floral dress hiked up past those juicy knees.  My pants, twisted and tangled around my left ankle.  

Yeah, this feels very familiar.
Grabbing the curly kinks on her head, there's no escape from my lips.  Wimpering, she tries to pull her neck away from my mouth.  Pressing her hands against my chest, her voice sizzles, "I have to work tomorrow; no hickies."  I recognize: nutmeg, vanilla and cinnamon.  Smells like Grandma's sweet potato pie is cooling behind her ear.  What's that?  Frankincense?  And, Brandy on her breath?  I may have just stumbled upon her secret ingredient.
Damn, Baby Sis: breasts big like the women on Mama's side of the family, but, dark like our cousins from down south.  Watching you down there makes so much sense.  Lip smacking.  Neck swiveling.  Impeccable rhythm.  I like the way those big earrings move like pendulums between my thighs.  Swinging in unison.  Her voice hums, vibrating, around my dick the same way Aunties hum hymnals while making breakfast.  Soulful.  Soothing.  Oh, shit.
Her hips spiraling up and down on my lap.  I recognize: hula hoops, dutty wine and walks to the corner store.  The Brandy on her whisper, "Oh, Daddy," fucks me up.  The weed smoke on her moan...  The peaches on her kiss...  Takes me back to those Friday nights.
No wonder we had to go to bed so early as kids.

Ap(art): Oxford Brown

     The first stroke from his roller was followed by concern, "I don't know about this, bro.  Looks like shit...literally."  I had the idea of painting some walls in my bedroom a dark shade of brown.  I wanted a room that felt womb-like.  I wanted my future victims to feel swallowed alive.  Watching my friend spread a thin layer of brown paint across the eggshell wall, I also grew concerned that it wouldn't turn out like I've visioned in my head.
     It took us two days to get the high-gloss Oxford brown up, and I love it.  The way it interacts with light... The way it effects my mood... Nodding his head, impressed, "Yeah, man... This is kind of sexy. I like it."  I couldn't wait to see naked flesh against these walls.  Too bad the paint was still wet.  And,Tim and I are platonic.

'Oxford Brown' by Forbidden Light

Morphophilia: Koné Sindou

     Finally, legs that goes on forever...  Hips that sit upon lofty heights...  The short distance between his rib cage and pelvis.  Spider-like limbs inspiring minds to dangle from a web of fleshly thoughts.  "What is he?"  "Why the over-sized jeans?"  "Why the secret?"  Finally, a body like mine.
     Finally, a black man disclosed.  Lengthy blackness that has nothing to do with his dick...  Long, vein-riddled forearms...  Thirteen inches of rock hard quadriceps.  No wonder the waist of his pants fasten around his thighs.  No wonder his crotch bulges from the center of his shirt.  Is anything made for him?  Is anything made for me?  No wonder I prefer nudity.
     It's good to see him exposed.  It's a chance to celebrate my reflection in his anatomy... An opportunity to see my body at its prime... A moment to witness the beauty in those skinny calves.



Vorarephilia: Love is...

Love is marinating in citrus.
Love is bathing in hot water, seasoned with rosemary and mint.
Love is throwing salt over your shoulders, liberally sprinkling some sugar and spice.
Love is coating your body olive oil.
Love is pre-setting the oven.

Love is being cooked, burned even.
Love is stewing in your juices.
Love is keeping your tenderness.

Love is being raised and fed for this moment.
Love is the flavor blossoming from your bones.
Love is the fragrance announcing to his neighbors, you are ready.
Love is the fork piercing your flesh to confirm.

Love is waiting on cold porcelain until he is also ready.
Love is the meal too large for one man to eat alone.
Love is the hope he doesn’t share.

Love is being pinched between his teeth.
Love is being chewed.
Love is being swallowed.
Love is the pleasure filling his palette.
Love is the wish he’d savor the next bite a little longer.
Love is the dash of salt to make you even better.

Love is the second and third helping.
Love is the dirty dishes and stained shirt.
Love is the sandwich he makes with the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch.
Love is the nutrients, the nourishment.
Love is the prayer you never reach his rectum.
Love is the foreknowledge that you’d end up on cold porcelain again…and marinating anyways.

Melolagnia: Bitter Funeral Beer


         I wanted to write something clever.  Creating a metaphor that tied together chocolate and rhino horns...  Funerals and Orgasms...  Africa and this big man raining sweat from above me.  My memory couldn't quite capture the dual sensation of Don Cherry's trumpet in my ear and nine inches in my ass.  All I could do was sing along with the mourning women.
     I wanted to correlate our fucking and Bitter Funeral's composition.  The way we climbed walls.  Smoldered.  Wilted.  The way we left behind a strangely sweet scent.  What an amazing score?  Accompanied by exotic tones, I felt inspired to snake my spine and touch him gently.  In this moment, his body was an instrument and I just wanted to play him skillfully.  Appreciating the slip of his sweaty skin... The taste of salt from his nipples... I just wanted to play him with precision.
     The slightest touch brought about noise.  The tip of my tongue summoned eruptions.  Subtle squeezing stole his breath away.  I wanted to write something clever.  Something about, both, jazz music and my heels greeting my ears simultaneously...  Creating a metaphor of melting horns and whitening chocolate.  All I could do was listen to the harmony between his panting grunts and their twisted wailing. 

One-Way Street

     He loves to fuck bareback...however, in the event he ever bottoms, a condom is a must.  He's a daddy, knowing best...or, at least, better than you.  A very kinky man, he's into fisting, bondage and flogging...from the top.  He's a one-way street.
     He loves having his cock sucked...but he's very sensitive to scents and tastes.  He's a sadist, causing pain, but never feeling anything.  He's a dom, tying subs down, yet remaining free.  A very kinky man, he's interested in cumming, pissing and spitting...on you.  He prefers to stay dry.

Have you ever lost your way?
Too distracted by the map to see the roads?

     My gut told me to pump the breaks and make a u-turn into oncoming traffic.  He set my course.  He set my speed.  He made me cum everywhere...but home.  "Going with the flow" lead me deeper into his trap.  Thank God for guts, Heaven only knows where that road would've sent me.  (I apologize to those I cut off.)

Looking in my rearview, my vision is 20/20

     Who did he think he was?  Loving the taste of his cock on my kiss, but shuddering at the thought of dick in his mouth.  Loving the taste of my cooking, but shuddering at the thought of washing my dishes.  Standing with his arms folded across his chest, he wanted me to run towards him with mine open.  Who did he think I was?  I am a very kinky man, I'm interested in cumming, pissing and spitting...and everyone gets wet.

Queer Heterosexuality

      "I can not believe this is happening between a man and woman."  This thought swells in my mind every time I'm with her.  My hard, black cock dangles from between my thighs.  At the same instance, her small white wrist does the same as her fist makes it that much deeper inside.  Heterosexuality is redefined for me with every thrust.  Masculinity and power becomes disassociated, as I keep my manhood intact as she takes control.  Who says men can't moan in the fifth octave?
     I thought I would only find total worship in the company of men.  But, she loves my asshole.  She loves my toes.  The soles of my feet.  All the nooks and crannies that make my voice whistle.  Furthermore, she finds my cocksucking adorable...
     I love that we can relax the fixed, traditional dynamics of heterosexual relations....and just play!  She can peg me with her strap-on without being feminizing me.  She can tightly grip my hips without adding bass to her voice.  We can be ourselves: two queer people making a connection.

How beautiful?

     Queer heterosexuality interests me.  The idea that dykes and fags can become comfortable enough to connect and explore one another.  The idea that men and women can relate beyond the old in-and-out... relating beyond the old me-Tarzan-you-Jane... After my handful of experiences, I can never return to my former understanding.  I need a woman who isn't afraid to put her foot up my ass.......literally.

"Forbidden's First Pair of Stockings" by Boistrous

Somnophilia: Snooze

Photography by Angelito
     I can't recall what I was dreaming about..something involving spears, penguins and Aretha Franklin.  The alarm clock failed at its function; more annoying that awakening.  However, I couldn't hit the snooze on his touch.  Firm and hungry, I woke up with his hands wrapped around my ankles.  My dreams of The Queen of Soul was interrupted by his tongue raking against my soles.  I remember being unsure.  Uncertain whether I was actually awake or if my dreams jumped to another station.
     In the brief moments where my flesh wasn't between his teeth, he said, "You're going to be late for work."  Gnawing at my legs.  Sticking his nose inside my briefs.  Sucking at the stiff bulge begging to be released from the black cotton, his voice vibrated at my crotch, "I'd hate to see you rushing out of here. Do you see what time it is?"


     I open my mouth wide to get some air.  All I can see is his abdomen as his morning wood crams itself down my throat.  Gasping.  Sucking.  Breathing around his thick cock sounds ironically like I'm snoring.  Choking.  Slurping.  I feel like he's leaning all of his weight into my face as he pumps his hips.  Prying my mouth open with his fingers, getting his dick in there good and deep, "What time does your office open, again? Nine? You really should be getting up, baby."
     Getting out of bed.  Brushing my teeth.  Showering.  Jumping on the BART.  This all feel impossible without busting a nut.  Eating breakfast.  Putting on my tie.  Signing in at work.  None of that seems feasible without spilling this load.  Stroking my cock.  Pinching the head.  It's 7:45 a.m.  Salivating.  Scheduling my next breath on his out-swing.  If only I could schedule this orgasm.  The sooner, the better.


Love Spell

Peppermint Oil
St. John's Wort

     Those pretty eyes of his glare in my direction, "Are you casting a love spell on me?"  Swishing around the flavors of Fernet Branca, Alice Coltrane and every rumor he's heard about me, skepticism and arousal becomes the cocktail of the night.
     Pouring him another shot, "What if I was? Would you stop?"  Taking the small glass from my hand, his head snaps backward to gulp down my bitter potion.  He's committed.  Doing the research.  Reading the testimonials of both favorable and....

"Forbidden Light is a monster.
He is the worst person I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."
- Toddy English

     Emptying the contents down his throat, "I'm not scared of you."  Whether to green pastures or the slaughter house, he is committed to see where this thing goes.  But, he isn't the only one embarking on a new journey.  I've learned that a new companion can make a beaten path fresh again.  I am equally aroused, yet suspicious.


     More drunken, the bitterness from his cup translates into his gaze, "You aren't the only one with love spells."  I know this to be true.  He doesn't know how often I recollect his hands gripping onto my legs.  How the sensation of his teeth sinking into my soles stains my every dream.  I'm not the only one.
     Every night with him, I become more and more aware of how magical sex can be.  I've spoken in tongues, came into paper so I could set my prayer on fire.  I've channeled his aunt and gave him advice as his tongue plugged by asshole.  He cries in his sleep and I dream to comfort him.

Bay Leaves

     Swishing the flavors of Fernet Branca, Alice Coltrane and every rumor I've heard about him.  I realize that the tables have turned.  The hypnotist has been transfixed.  Intoxicated.  My vision doubling.  I squint to find his true location, "Are you casting a love spell on me?"

'The Fernet Fairy' by Forbidden Light

Daytime Kink

What happens to kink during the day?
Does it retreat into the closet?
Does it lose it charm?

     There was a time when I was strictly anonymous.  Fronted by an avatar, I enjoyed a great deal of creative freedom.  I had no fear of being found out.  My voice translated to readers much clearer with the omission of personal details.  At a time in my life where I felt so stifled, repressed and misrepresented, “Forbidden Light” was created to be sacrificed.

Or, so I thought.

     Writing and experiencing, I am learning that this character isn’t fictional or an alter ego, but a malnourished aspect of my whole self.  “Forbidden Light” is just that.  He is the dark place within myself who finds his own dawn.  Living to be inspired… Connecting with readers…. Finding community…  My daily life, little by little, in beginning to resemble posts from “Journals of an Intelsexual”.

What happens when perverts become real?
Does our hot flesh cool to 98 degrees?
Do we become ordinary?

     I foresee a shift occurring in my writing to come.  Still perverse.  Still charged with wanton sexuality.  But, more whole, more inclusive of the man my Mama raised.  Hiding less behind poetry and metaphors, it’s becoming pivotal to reach out from the darkness and profess life.  This time, the “Forbidden Light” shines unto the truth that perverts can love God and start families.  Perverts can be good, loving people.  Perverts are people.

What happens to kink during the day?
It becomes translucent.

Sex for Disabled People

     I have lovers who are sex workers.  Occasionally, they are contacted by clients with certain disabilities and/or deformities. Searching for an intimate, sexual experience, they desire to be pleasured by someone who sees beyond their disabilities and/or deformities.  I moment to let their inhibitions go without judgement.  This brand of acceptance is very scarce in this world.
      In a society where sexuality amongst the handicapped is considered taboo, there are low to zero opportunities to have the sexual/intimate needs of disabled people met conventionally.  I can certainly see how one could be very frustrated with the limited possibilities available.  Especially knowing that some disabled people identify themselves as queer and/or kinky.  I can only imagine how challenging it can be to find satisfaction.
     Personally, I have always felt a discrepancy around able-bodied and handicapped relationships.  There is always a fear that the disabled could be preyed upon and taken advantaged of sexually.  As mentioned in the video, it never crosses their mind that: (1) The disabled are mature sexual beings, complete with needs and resources to engage in adult situations.  (2) Most disabled adults are competent enough to reject unwelcomed advances.  (3) There are disabled perverts out there who would love to be objectified, if given the chance.
     Ultimately, it is up to disabled men and women to assert themselves and challenge the opinions of the majority.  I, personally, would love to see a sexually liberated person with disabilities!  Hearing impairments have never been known to reduce libido.  Men, whether with seeing-eye dog or crutches, will always be men...fully intact with with hormones and hard-ons.  We all need to hear more stories about fantasies wetting the seat of her wheelchair.
     I honor my lovers' practice and I consider their sex work a ministry.  Giving disable men and women the tools and environment to further understand their emotional and sexual identities is commendable.  With better knowledge about themselves, I believe they are better equipped to engage with a conventional partner...just like the rest of us

Turning Twenty-Nine

     Every year around my birthday, I sink into depression as I take inventory of my life.  Where have I been?  Where am I going?  The answer that followed whenever they asked a nine-year-old Forbidden Light, "What do you want to be when your grow up?"  I came out of my psychological cave with a great deal of gratitude.  I must say, I am rather content with my life.

This is new for me.
     Being someone who thrives under the internal pressures of envy and fear, I feel like a fish flopping happily outside of water.  Its a great feeling to know that I wouldn't have done anything differently.  It's a greater feeling to feel that all of my desires are within my reach.  Fantasies.  Professional Opportunities.  Love.  Evolution.  Everything is ripe for the picking.  I expected to feel the opposite as I drew closer to thirty.
     This birthday has also allowed me to be very thankful for all of the extraordinary people in my life.  Readers.  Friends.  Family.  Reading some many revelations disguised as birthday wishes, I was overwhelmed by the love and empowerment I had access to.  There are so many who are very supportive and inspiring in their own rite.  Artists.  Writers.  Fellow freaks and queers.  Lovers.

I must say, I am pretty damn lucky!  

Fetish #229190: Arousal by Weighlessness

     I lost my balance but did not fall.  Tipping over, I remain upright.  He has me.  Wrapping my limbs around him, my legs are impressed by the firm torso bearing my weight.  The ground become irrelevant.  Falling became folklore.  Weightless.  Suspended.  Damn, his hand feels good holding my ass up.

His palms are the perfect platform.

     Kissing him.  Sucking his neck.  Fondling the big, thick cock throbbing within his jeans.  He was so much bigger.  Taller.  More muscular.  Enough girth to give me lockjaw.  My brown skin got lost in his beautiful black.  My 180 pounds disappeared in his arms.  My reservations falling apart in his lap, I see why he calls me 'baby'...and why 'Daddy' sounds so-fucking-good whispered into his ear.

Weightlessness feels wonderfully new.

'Ultimate Bondage' by Sergei Bizjaev



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