I have the task of recording life. 

Scribbling while living.  Jotting.  Transcribing.  Taking in everything I can…so much gets lost in translation.  So many details dribble from my lips.  So many messages drip from my chin.  Split between participating and observing, I sometimes get lost…

Some experiences elude me and I’m left asking, “What just happened?”  My senses: overwhelmed.  My creative process: abandoned.  I scramble to gather the pieces.  Nothing connects.  Nothing works.  Nothing fits in a linear sequence of thought.

How do I write about gaining consciousness to the sound of Ennio Morricone humming through my speaker?  Where do I begin, when the first thing I remember was eating semen off the soles of another man’s feet?  How do I describe the familiar flavor which I knew to be my own seed?  How do I make sense of his tears falling from his eyes, rolling down my naked thighs?

He was so moved.  I was entranced.  Neither of us was drunk or high, but sex shifted our consciousness.  I could feel his fingers probing deep inside of me.  I could feel my throat struggling to swallow all that I have planted.  I could feel his lungs rattling, he couldn’t stop crying. 

I have the task of editing life.

Segmenting while living.  Erasing.  Rearranging.  Trying to make my reality realistic…so much ends up on The Cutting Room's floor.  I validate my truth using lies as a medium.  I write fiction to trick people into reading my autobiography.  Split between being the author and character, I sometimes get lost.

"Bas Fonds" by Errikos Andreou & Al Giga (Featuring Sasha Marini)

Race Play: Fuck Tha Police

     Pulling my hair, forcefully drawing my ear closer to his mouth, “Who the fuck do you think they’re gonna believe, huh?”  His snarl reeked of brandy, “Me, a decorated officer or a fucking nigger?”  On instinct, I spit a cocktail of saliva and brandy into his face.  Laughing as he wiped his face, “You done fucked up now!”
     In a single motion, my face was thrown into the pillows and my arms were twisted behind my back.  Handcuffs were locked around my wrists.  Pulling my pants and underwear off, he slaps my ass, “You like this boy?”  Spitting on my asshole, he quickly jabs his fingers into me, “Yeah, I knew you’d like this.”
     No warm up.  Only lubed with spit.  A jolt shot up my spine as he jammed his cock up my ass.  Trying to stand upright, I was forced to bow again.  My attempts to resist by twisting my hips were unsuccessful.  His hands griped my hips mercilessly, in between pants he whispered over my back, “I knew you were one of those black faggots.  Take this white cock, boy.”

This is the first time I’ve ever participated in rape or race play.

     Turning me over, a white flash filled the room as his palm slapped across my face.  Pumping.  Grunting.  Slapping.  I couldn’t believe what was happening; I was helpless.  Drunken on Brandy, this felt so real.  We were channeling some real issues.  I’m not sure how many black men are actually raped, but historically thousands were violated in other ways.  Just a couple weeks prior, Oscar Grant’s killer was just found not guilty of murder…and we’re incorporating this into our bedroom?
     Admittedly, I was aroused.  Watching him simultaneously curse and worship my black cock also channeled some real sociological energies.  Spitting on it and pumping his fists, he hated that I was born with this.  He hates the privilege it possesses.  The power it had over him, even when its secured in my low hanging pants. 
     I found myself on the floor with a dildo still lodged in my ass.  My arms: bound.  My orgasm: pending.  Left alone, I had time to think about things.  How fetish can be used as a coping device and how this relates to race relations.
     I recently wrote a guest spot for ka|os-theory, "Fetish For My Fathers' Curse" about a retreat where black and white men stage a homoerotic recreation of American slavery.  At that time, the erotic aspect did not translate to me.  I think I am closer to understanding it now.  For me, it felt like an acknowledgment.  The hatred and jealousies were all incorporated in our play.  To have those things said and done to me struck a true and ugly chord within me, but with my sexuality involved, I was able to reassign the energy.  I was able to spit and scream and kick while enjoying the stimulation, the result was cathartic.

     The above images are from Justin Monroe's phenomenal set "Interrogation"!  Very few artists are willing to makes polished images of grotesque symbols; I honor his bravery!
     I have been a longtime fan of this particular spread and I'm glad to have lived an experience which warrants me to use it for this blog.  Authority.  Brutality.  Beauty.  Only here!

For the EXPLICIT remainder of this set:


     Lately, I have been in these situations where I needed to fuck without making a sound.  Sex at ungodly hours, next to sleeping neighbors...  In consideration to roommates chilling in the next room...  Keeping a sexual secret...  I love and hate the result this kind of scenario produces.  I love the restraint, the bondage to silence.  I love finding alternatives to moaning and screaming, diversifying our expression.  Meanwhile, its annoying when certain positions or activities become prohibited.  It becomes scary when our libido snowballs out of control and silence becomes far fetched.
     Coping with this difficult task of silence, breathing exercises become hisses, then moans, then..."Shhhhhhhh, you're going to wake my brother."  While on top, it's a challenge to manage swinging body weight; instincts take over and hips start to thrust harder...penetrating deeper..."Shhhhhhh, you're making the mattress squeak."  And don't get me started on certain positions that hurt so good that screaming become inevitable.
     In some cases, I ended up in walk-in closets to finish our midnight snack in peace!  Our skin slapping freely.  Throwing our legs over shoulders for maximum access.  Its okay to pant and hiss, wildly embracing and kissing.  All before an audience of neckties and linen.  Cumming and spurting, our muted bodies tic and twist as our orgasms pass through our bodies into the air.  Coming down, I feel bad for this circumstance...but not as bad as I feel for my dry cleaner. 

"Games & Restrictions" by Steven Klein

Embracing The Softcore

     After plunging headfirst into the world of Sadomasochists and fetishists, I am realizing that everything doesn't have to be so hardcore.  Don't get me wrong, I still believe that pain and pleasure make wonderful companions.  I still enjoy the friction that comes with squeezing square pegs into round holes.  I am still very much so a fetishist.
     I am learning that everything has its place.  Sex and lovemaking isn't this linear slope starting at making out and resulting in watersports!  Sex can be a delicious composite of S&M and tenderness, quiet whispers and loud skin slapping.  (This feels like a novice epiphany, but I never claimed to be an expert.)
      Practicing BDSM, I grew to hate how impact play would get increasing more painful.  I secretly wished that in between swats, there were some genuine affection: kisses and caresses.  I am turned off when a sexual session turns into an endurance game of "How much can you take?"
     The same woman I can fit my fists into, needs to be touched ever so gently.  The gentleman who loves to piss on me, craves the warmth of eye contact and intimacy.  Jaded ears that perk at the sound of "Bitch!" and "Slut!" could use some encouragement in between degradation.  I marvel at our range and complexity.

It feels good to give myself license to be both sensual and 'hardcore', 
Whatever the hell that means.

"The Creator of Devotion" by Matthew Stone & Matthew Josephs

Watch Him in the Valley

He's in the valley.
This is the time to watch.

Let him starve: what does he do to soothe the hunger pains?
Let him sleep alone: what form does his desperate libido take?
Let him cry: are his tears toxic?

     We reveal a lot about ourselves in those moments spent in the valley.  Low.  Vulnerable.  Surviving.  In these moments, a man's integrity can be measured clearly.  Our strength pours out... Our venom is put to use... Our resources are emptied for the world to see.  Out of self preservation, our true nature is activated.
     Recently, I got a chance to see a man wallow in his temporary valley.  He cried like an infant.  He abused the scorched earth beneath him.  He sullied the beautiful, desert skies with curses.  He was a nuisance.

I was glad to see it.
I was grateful to see the truth of this man dawn over the horizon.
God forbid, we'd share a valley...
I'd be his only source of sustenance.

     The truth of the matter, the man we encounter in the pits will be the same man standing at the peak.  Meaning, the petulance is still there lying dormant... the latent malevolence is stored away... the toxicity will lace every instance of digestion...  Hence, the way he sits in the valley will mirror the way he'll stand at the peak.  Besides, the one thing we can be certain of...there will always be another low point in life.
     On the bright side, I have also had the pleasure to witness someone shine from the same valley.  Lower.  Dryer.  Riddled with vultures.  And his integrity wasn't compromised.  His strength multiplied with each challenge... No weapon prospered... The world got to see the resources he possessed...and we marveled!

He's in the valley.
This is the time to watch.

Is he someone you'd share your apex?

Take note.

'Dissection' by Enzo Mondejar

Bas Fonds: Night Blossom

     Some blossoms bloom at night.  Subtly.  Slowly.  Deliberately.  Opening wider, the shade is perfumed with an exotic essence.  Spreading.  Yielding.  Peeling apart petals as slumber washes the shore of consciousness.  Something about the night ripens.  The shadows summons such sweetness to the surface.  The small hand of twelve compels knees to be apart....temperatures to rise...thirsts to beckon.
     Some blossoms bloom at night.  The fragrance filled my head...  The sole planting on my thigh charmed my thoughts...  I mistook the pressure of body weight lowering slowly as a dream.  The raindrops in my mind turns out to be sweat from a heavenly body descending.  The sound of the rising tide turned out to be a silent hiss of pleasure.  Lowering slowly, deliberately, a gasp awakens me.  This is a dream...came true.  I am warm.  I am deep.  I am inside.
     Some blossoms bloom at night.  Some fruit are better eaten late.  Some delicacies find its season during winter.  I pity the impatient as its succulence hits my tongue.  I pity the glutton as I savor its sweetness.  To rush this, is to waste this.  To gulp this down, is to sin against my very own senses.

      Sasha Marini is such a sweet soul.  I truly believe him to be more than just a fashion model.  He's an instrument, a vessel.  I this particular set, "Bas Fonds", I thinks he is channeling a modest sensuality.  Writhing.  Tossing.  Turning.  He captures this palpable moment where the passion burns through any sense of restraint.
     Shot in Athens with photographer Errikos Andreou and stylist/creative director Al Giga, they manage to turn a kinky scene into an elegant, sensuous rapture.  Fever.  Honey.  Grit.  "Bas Fonds" creates an experience where empathy meets erotica.

Barbie of Gomorrah: The Work of Mariel Clayton

He's a delicate flower: fragile & sensitive.
She's a tough cookie.

He cries while watching movies.
She fast-forwards the film, until it gets to the good part.
They both press the pause button during nude scenes.

She's walks into the room as if she owns the place.
He's so bashful and cute.

She has a thing for black leather.
His bedroom is wall to wall lavender.
They both can't live without chocolate.

     I have been thoroughly entertained by the work of Mariel Clayton!  There is something about seeing a demented Barbie shacking up with an effeminate Ken that yields hilarious results.  She is taking "playing with dolls" to the next level.  Bloody massacres.  Kinky sex.  Fucked up family fun time.  Everything I tried to make happen between G.I. Joe and Barbie when no one was looking as a kid.
     Upon closer inspection, I see that she is also using the dolls to explore gender.  Why are female serial killers considered bizarre?  Why is it so jarring to see the man of a heterosexual household exhibiting hyper-feminine qualities?  Why is it so funny to see toys perform sadism and violence, while crying at real life examples.  If it wasn't playtime, I would ponder these questions.  But I'm curious to see if Ken has genitals in this collection.

Have fun!

Romance in Numbers

     Despite its slight curve to the left, my dick gets great reviews from consumers.  In the right pair of pants, my ass has the potential to turn a few heads.  Furthermore, I enjoy the privilege that comes with being 6 foot, 3 inches.  But above all, my most complimented feature would be my "math".  I have sexy numbers.
     Every once in awhile, I'll get a random call from Detroit.  Not answering, I soon receive a new voicemail.  A young woman's voice records, "Hi Michael, my name is Trish; I got your number from your mother.  She says that you could answer some questions I have about San Francisco.  I'll be heading there soon and I wanted to know what kind of fun things I could do.  Call me back when you get a chance."  The message is a clear sign that my Mom spilled the math again.  Let me explain.  Here's the math at its most rudimentary level.

27 years old
divided by 0 children
subtracted by 0 jail time
Plus 0 divorces
multiplied by 40 hours a week of employment

(If they only knew about my many unknown variables!)

     I am learning that the right math could make a man's unsatisfactory features and prowess forgivable.  The right math can render ugly flaws invisible and body odor unscented.  To a person desperate enough, the right math could skip quite a few stages in the typically linear fashion of courtship, "Hello...Good morning."
     Although I enjoy the attention, I am becoming increasingly annoyed with this style of selection.  Mainly, because I know that certain figures in my equation disqualifies me.  I, being a polyamorous, bisexual man who listens to noise for fun, can be a chocolate coated headache for most.  The surface looks deceptively sweet.  The sum of my qualities looks deceptively simple.

Like everyone else.


Like a rainstorm brushing against desert sand...
Like a beloved beverage cooling my parched pallette...

Your naked skin against mine

Like sunshine filling sheltered blossoms...
Like fresh air filling my dusty lungs...

Our limbs entwined

     Do nothing more for me.  Remain effortless.  I just want two things: your every garment to adorn my bedroom floor and your naked flesh saturating mine.  That's all.  Our connection is the balm, soothing my lonely, scorched skin.  Our touch is the nectar quenching my eternal thirst.  Our nearness is the second wind I've been praying for. 

I can go on.

Like a blanket draping across the frostbitten...
Like a shadow shading the sunburned...

Us locking eyes

Like spirits intoxicating the sober...
Like reality awakening the drunkard...

Your naked skin against mine

     Do nothing more for me.  Remain limp.  Draw me home by simply being here.  Slowly melt my illusions of isolation with your body heat.  Remind me: I am not an island.  The pulse pumping beneath my fingertips matching mine reminds me...  Your sweet, warm exhale harmonizing with mine reminds me...  I am one.  I am one with this body that houses the divinity thousands of idols were crafted to imitate.  Your nearness is the epiphany I've been searching for.  I can go on.

     The above photos were provided by ISLAND, the blog featuring the freshest and hottest models!  ISLAND reads like a well organized catalog of beauty.  Whatever your type, there is a primed, archetypal  specimen waiting to be surveyed.  These men and women were chosen with care.
      I enjoy this blog simply because the contributors features the models aspirations alongside their chiseled beauty.  I am reminded through their spreads and interviews, that models are people, too.  I know: terrible thing to say. But isn't easy to forget that these polished sculptures of muscle are made of the same flesh and blood as we are?



Black Cathexis

     I'm sitting in the bathtub.  Seven sticks of Jasmine incense fills the bathroom with blinding, suffocating smoke.  I've been looking forward to this all day.  Wrapping my lips around an upturned bottle of Hennessy, I followed that shot was a fist full of caffeine pills.  I took another gulp of Cognac to help me swallow the cluster of capsules.

I wanted my heart to explode.

     In an odd way, I wanted to exact revenge on myself.  The scolding hot water from the faucet made me whimper as I thought of the kind of corpse I was going to leave for my girlfriend to discover.  Flooded. Naked.  Burned.  Possible bloody.  I guess, it was also my way of getting back at her.
     If only my heart made this kind of noise before.My heart banged so loudly in my chest.  With my ears underwater, I could hear the threatening thump, steadily gaining intensity.  A ticking time bomb, throbbed against my ribcage.  So fast.  So angry.  This is the quickest I've ever seen my body move.  If only I had access to this speed elsewhere in life.
     Taking another gulp, I savored the sting sliding down my throat.  Tempting spirits whispered into my mind, "What's the fucking point!"  These thoughts formed a bundle; too thick, too sticky to pass.  They were making sense, "You're existence amounts to what? Nothing!"  My heart hammered away.  Memories fired shots in my head.  I agreed with it all, I just wanted out.  "Okay...Just let me go."

Needless to say: I survived.
Bathwater overflowed onto the bathroom floor...
As did my vomit.
I spent a lot of time submerged that night...

     To be honest, I have suicidal impulses regularly.  But I've been working on a way to harness this mood disorder into a resource.  There are more lucrative way to self destruct.  In killing oneself, there are ways to incorporate rebirth.  Or, at least, in theory...
     My self loathing could pave the road to self disciple.  My apathy regarding life could inspire me to me take more risks.  Dissatisfaction cold result in training harder; chasing success to prove these crazy thoughts in my head wrong.  Or, at least, exhaust the possibilities until I'm back into the tub.  

The Light From Shadows

Give it to me.
Roll over, give me the underbelly...
Turn your head, show off those ugly angles...
Smile at me with those crooked teeth.

Delay the dawn.
Allow my eyes to adjust to the light of your shadow.
Allow my fingertips to notice the rough patches in your flesh.

I want hear it...
Your growling stomach...
The gurgling coming from your guts....

I want to smell it...
Anoint your words with a venomous liberty.
Disturb my sleep with your truth.
Let your unjust thoughts crawl across my skin.

Tip the scales forever to the left...

Infect me with a freedom so forbidden.
Drive me to become accustomed to abominations.
So I can give it to you.

"Russian Fairy Tales" by Yana Moskaluk

Siamese Soul: Desire & Doubt

In the stillness of night, Desire dreams aloud,
“Wouldn’t it be great to travel out east?”
Doubt‘s discomfort survives dusk,
“This time of year? The Sun would surely scorch us both.”

Once upon a time,
There were two brothers by the name of Desire & Doubt…
Siamese twins conjoined by the head.

Completely isolated by their connection,
They were helplessly fused together by both flesh and loneliness.

Desire & Doubt would whisper they’re thoughts into each other’s ear
With a childlike enthusiasm, Desire gushes,
“Wouldn’t it be fun to sail the Pacific?”
Cynically, Doubt jokes,
“About as fun as treading water, waiting for help to arrive.”

Despite their annoyingly different views,
They trade thoughts every, single night.
Its hard to keep your thoughts to yourself
when you share the same head.

     Doubt taints my every desire.  Probable misfortune plagues my every aspiration.  Can’t I dream free from calculation?  Can’t I dream free from inspection?  Weighing the risks with the rewards, there is always a discrepancy.  There are no shortages of reasons to keep fantasies apart from reality.

This frustrates me.

     I fear that I am becoming more and more estranged with awareness.  I just don’t want to know anymore.  Success rates.  Side effects.  Safety and prevention.  “The last guy who tried that.”  I want to wipe my mind clean of all information, sometimes.  I want to experience something fresh, without the instant staleness of assumption.  Dangerous, I know; but what isn’t these days?
     Lately, I have been asking Doubt a stupid question, “Why not?”  There are many answers…many risks…many cautionary tales.  The logical side of my mind eventually gets exhausted.  My knowledge of history, statistics and Bible stories are depleted after a day or two.  Then I do it anyways!  I invest my money in a crazy business venture.  I jeopardize my day job to indulge in rock star dreams.  I meet the creepy guy at the bar for drinks.
     I guess, the trick is becoming comfortable with doubt whispering in my ear.  Being aware of the risks and becoming okay with the fact that I may have a setback.  Reckless, I know.  But, this frustration is agonizing.  At this point, I’m driven crazy by, “What if?”  I’m prepared to borrow money from my mom.  I’m not to proud  to beg my boss for forgiveness.  I can deal with breaking out the pepper spray and catching a cab home.

What’s life without a little sunburn?
     I am pleased to present the latest work of Gonzalo Bénard, featuring jewelry from Valentim Quaresma.  Once again, I am blown away by the profound concept lacing his art!  I am falling deeper and deeper in love with this man!
     In this set, I am reminded of the beauty that comes with instability. Model, Arthur Jacob, indulges, ponders and chokes within his duality.  I can't help but recall Apostle James' warnings of becoming double minded. (James 4:8)

I urge everyone to visit Gonzalo Bénard's website:

Every image is a pleasurable parable...
A nude revelation.



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