#(queer kinky and sex-positive to name a few)

[mando-forgive-me]

.

[theplushfrog]

Being able to opt-in or opt-out is important, obviously, but having a place that's able to discuss sex and sexuality is SO important.

At my uni I helped with the Sex Positivity club. (It was an unofficial club, bc the uni never would allow it officially to exist, sadly.) Asexuals and sex-repulsed were welcome, but with the knowledge this was a sex-positive space. Sex WOULD be discussed, and likely the main topic would be about sex or connected to it.

And yes, this was not a club for hooking up, nor was it a spot to bang, it was a space to freely and clearly discuss sex and sexual topics that are usually taboo.

Our biggest events were always Sex Ed 102 "What you wished you learned in sex ed" and Ropes 101. And as a reminder, all clothing stayed on during meetings (so we didn't get banned from campus), but we did do clothed demonstrations for various topics, like the rope class.

We would start the meetings by loudly yelling body parts, often genital names, so we could get the nerves out of the way and break the "taboo" we had all learned about not saying things like that. Often people would say that they felt odd during the first half of their first meeting, getting used to how candid they could speak, but by the end, people felt relieved to be able to bluntly ask questions or talk about taboo topics freely.

We had a range of people who would show up. A majority were queer folks, but plenty of cishet folks showed up too. We also had a surprising amount of aromantic members, who enjoyed being able to discuss sex without being shamed about sex outside of romantic relationships. We also did have a few asexuals who were interested in sex intellectually, or were kinky, or just wanted to learn more about how allosexuals were. Unsurprisingly, a lot of the regular members of the club were polyamorous, altho surprisingly, many were from separate polycules and didn't end up overlapping.

Some people only showed up a couple times, mainly to ask a specific question and get responses, and then they would go along their merry way.

Nearly everyone who participated in the club would say later that the space the club allowed them was healing. For some, just knowing the space existed, even if they never used it, relaxed them.

Also, just from the sheer amount of REALLY REALLY basic sex ed questions that would be answered over and over and over... yeah having a place to get actual knowledge, and candidly discuss sex, was extremely important for people.

(And yes, doubly so for college kids for whom many had never been out from their parents' eyes before, but whom were full of hormones and constantly being shamed for it.)

i think it's important for most people's mental health to have a space where they can safely and unashamedly express being horny and i don't mean milquetoast tongue-in-cheek "oh step on me mommy" jokes or whatever i mean capital h Horny

[ms-meredith-milton]

FIC: A Model Patron, 1/?

BLAME @sabrecmc FOR THIS!!!  :)

No idea how far I’ll get--that’s why I’m not putting it on AO3 yet!--but when I saw the prompts @sabrecmc was floating around, one of them bit me and wouldn’t let go until I wrote this down.  So whatever gets written is a gift to Sabre while P&P is playing hide and seek with my muse!

Fic: A Model Patron

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Tags/warnings: BDSM; pre-serum Steve; prostitution / sex work; Great Depression; power imbalance; age difference; eventual graphic kinky sex!

Original Prompt (though I’m taking it in a rather different direction): Prompt 9:  Smol hooker Steve, so I was thinking that it could be Depression-era sort of noir-ish vibes.  With the economy in shambles, lots of people, including many Irish immigrants, turned to selling their bodies to have enough food to eat, but who would want someone like Steve?  Or so Steve figures.  But, he hears about a guy who has been trolling the docks looking for a very particular type of person for certain “special clients”.  Steve’s no stranger to pain, so he figures he can handle it and if it puts some food on the table, it would be worth getting knocked around a bit. At least he would be getting paid as opposed to the usual running his mouth situation.  Or, how smol, 1930’s Steve enters the world of bdsm and finds himself ensconced with a particular reclusive millionaire with very specific tastes.

A Model Patron

When Steve had first accepted a gig at the Academy, he had expected to be humiliated: his imperfect body, frail and small, exposed to a circle of elite art students whose ranks he’d never be able to join.  

But he hadn’t been humiliated by the modeling at all.  The students had been courteous, though distant distant, and as Steve sat on the raised platform, above them, he’d been their muse.  Steve was the center of their devoted concentration, at once a person and an object, as the Master walked around the room commenting on someone’s shading across the curve of Steve’s ribs, or how to capture the jut of his hipbone, or the right pigments to convey the fading bruises on his cheek and arm (remnants of Steve’s last scrape). 

Steve hadn’t hated it; he liked it.  Liked to be looked at, liked to be transformed into artwork.  It had made his blood sing and his body hum.  And his miserable, treacherous body (his goddamn traitor cock) responded for all to see. 

That had humiliated him and he’d vowed not to go back, even when the kind, old professor delicately assured Steve he wasn’t the first model to respond to observation in a physical manner. 

But Mr. Cavalli had recently let Steve go when his business took another bad turn; the pinch in Steve’s stomach and the danger of being turned out in the cold was enough to conquer far greater humiliations.  He needed steady work, but one solid gig would stave off disaster.  

Steve shifted nervously in his seat and stared at the student work displayed in the hallway. Fine, but generic.  Steve didn’t care for it.  (And couldn’t help thinking he’d be capable of better, given such fine paints and canvass--not to mention lessons.)

“Can I help you?” Professor Ellis asked politely as he stepped out of his office and saw Steve waiting. His greying beard was meticulously trimmed, his old brown shoes carefully polished, and his old fashioned jacket well brushed.

Steve scrambled to his feet, glad he’d taken such care with his own appearance. 

“Professor Ellis,” Steve said, holding out his hand.  They shook.  “Steve Rogers here.  I modeled for your life drawing course a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, of course,” Professor Ellis said with a smile.  “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Rogers.”

“And you, sir,” Steve replied, heart racing nervously.  The professor looked at him expectantly. 

 “I--” Steve faltered.  “I’m here to inquire if there might be any openings for models again.”

The sad expression on the professor’s face was answer enough.

“I’m afraid we got more applications than usual and we’ve already hired our models for the upcoming session,” he said gently.  “And we’re operating on a reduced budget, so we have fewer slots than in previous semesters.”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“I understand, sir,” Steve said in a hollow voice, then added after a moment’s hesitation, “Perhaps there’s a waitlist in case a model cancels? And, I-- I understand that funds are tight for the Academy; I could accept a reduced rate if there’s any opportunity that opens up.”

Steve knew he reeked of desperation, but instead of withdrawing awkwardly the Professor only looked softer.  

Then a sudden change--he cocked his head to the side and frowned, scanning Steve up and down.  

“Was it my advanced drawing course in October you sat for?”

“Yes, sir.”

The professor nodded and hesitated before speaking. “Actually, I may be able to refer you for something after all.  Won’t you step into my office, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve followed him, only barely managing not to trip all over himself in his eagerness.  

The Professor began shuffling papers across his messy desk, clearly looking for something as he spoke:

“Not long after you modeled, a young woman--afraid I’ve forgotten the name!-- came in to look at some student work and show it to the collector she works for who sometimes acts as a patron to promising young artists. He liked young Mr. Winslow’s drawing from that class and purchased it directly, though sadly no additional patronage seems to be forthcoming thus far. But a few days later one of this young lady’s colleagues came by to reiterate the collector’s satisfaction with the work.  And with its subject.”

At last the Professor found the card he’d been looking for, but instead of handing it to Steve he held it, frowning.

“I was given to understand that the collector she represents may be interested in dabbling in some . . . unusual art work of his own.”  

There was something odd in the professor’s voice and Steve started to worry that the old man wouldn’t give him the referral card after all.  He held his breath as Professor Ellis finally looked up and met his eyes.  

“The Academy has very high standards for how we treat our models,” the Professor said almost primly, “and it is our policy not to refer our models to unknown parties. But since it seems you may be”--a delicate pause as he selected the right phrase-- “in a difficult position . . .”

Steve’s cheeks heated even at the careful euphemism, but he took the card without hesitation when the Professor held it out.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said, trying not to sound stiff.

“Of course, Mr. Rogers,” he said, still a little melancholy.  “I hope the position proves satisfactory.  I wish you the best of luck.”

They parted and Steve finally looked at the card. 

All it said was “Miss Natalie Rushman” and a phone number in Manhattan.  

>>>

Steve was fifteen minutes early for his interview, so he paced the side streets nearby killing time since he didn’t want to look too eager (or desperate).  And Miss Rushman had offered to meet Steve at a pub near the Academy instead of making him travel all the way to her offices in upper Manhattan, saying she would be in the area anyway.  When he’d asked how he’d recognize her if The Old Pony was crowded, she’d replied that she’d find him--then reminded him that she’d ‘seen him before’ in a tone that made him blush.

At exactly 3:59, Steve stepped into the pub, blinking as he adjusted to the dim light.  A voluptuous redhead in a beautifully cut green dress approached him immediately with a slight smile.  She extended her and greeted him in a deep voice: “Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers.”

It was strange; she looked so familiar, like someone he had seen around his neighborhood from time to time. But he was sure he’d have noticed such a high class lady in his area, so it was probably just a passing resemblance.  (Or his exhausted mind playing tricks on him.)

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Rushman,” Steve replied.  

“Please join me.”

Steve slid across from her in the small corner booth near the window.  

“Thank you for taking time to meet with me,” Steve said.

“Likewise.  Thank you for meeting me here,” she said, green eyes sparkling.  “Please allow me to offer you a drink--compliments of my client.   What would you like?”

“Coffee if they have it.”

She nodded.  

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked Steve.  

“One coffee and one vodka,” she answered.

The bartender gave Steve a queer look, but didn’t say anything. Miss Rushman studied Steve’s face with an intense expression while the man brought their order.  Steve flushed, then turned brighter red as the man set the coffee in front of her and handed Steve the vodka.  She traded their drinks immediately, paid, and raised her glass saying, “Cheers.”

“Good health,” Steve replied. He wrapped his chilled fingers gratefully around the warm cup.

She took a sip and leaned back in her seat, still examining him.  

It was the strangest interview he’d ever been to and Steve was starting to feel an echo the professor’s uneasiness.  His blush was spreading down his neck and he started to drop his head awkwardly, almost bashful, then reminded himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of. Steve raised his head again and threw back his shoulders. 

“Yes,” she said at last.  “I think you may be a very good fit.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, trying to reign in his temper. “Perhaps you could tell me more about the position now?”

Steve couldn’t quite keep the impatience out of his tone, but her smile widened despite that (or perhaps, oddly, because of it).

“Quite so,” Miss Rushman said, leaning forward to fold her hands on the table.  “I represent an unusual and eccentric artist who has been searching for a . . . special muse.  He’s had single sessions and even a few repeats with models before, but never formed the artistic bond he craves, which is one it would take time and trust to nurture.  Something more collaborative.”

Steve sipped his coffee and nodded, intrigued.  

“My client values his privacy,” she continued. “He is exceptionally wealthy and well-regarded and can compensate you very handsomely for your services.”

“Would I know any of his work?” Steve asked, thrilled (and more than a little bewildered) by the idea that a luminary of the art world--both rich and famous?--might want him as a muse.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Miss Rushman replied smoothly.  “His wealth and renowned are based on industry, not on his purely private artistic achievements.”

Steve tried not to let his disappointment show.  

“I must warn you that the artist can be . . . difficult.  Fickle.  Hard to work with.”

Steve nearly snorted. Sounded like every artist ever.  And this one was a rich industrialist to boot?  He’d probably be a terror. But Steve could handle that. He’d handled worse.  

Miss Rushman continued.  “He can be harsh, but he is not by nature cruel. He’s brilliant, arrogant, and impatient.”

She took another sip of her vodka.  “Are you still interested?”

Steve nodded. “Very much so.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “Would you be free for a meeting sometime soon? Tomorrow perhaps?”

Steve tried not let his relief show.  

“My schedule is very open tomorrow,” Steve said, trying to sound confident.  

She smiled. 

“Excellent.  If you are still interested at the close of our meeting, I will provide some funds for travel expenses. This is separate from the salary.  For your initial session, the artist would pay you 100$.”

Steve couldn’t keep the shock off his face and it undoubtedly doubled as she continued.

“But perhaps you’ll find that you’re busy tomorrow after all,” she said, “when you understand the exact nature of the . . . art.”

Another sip of her vodka. Steve’s stomach began to tighten up into knots; there was something decidedly unnerving about all of this. He felt like he was always missing something, like he couldn’t read between the lines.

“If you accept the position, Mr. Rogers,” she said, leaning forward, her expression intense, “you would be the canvas for his art.”

“Pardon?” Steve said, cocking his head to the side.  “You mean that he’d . . . paint on my body?”

Hardly seemed like that would require such princely pay or all this mystery.

“He might,” she answered with a hint of a smile at her brightly colored lips.  

“But he mostly works in a different medium--the relationship between pleasure and pain.”  

Her voice was low, intimate, almost a caress. Steve’s heart began to race as she continued: “He likes control. Intricate patterns of rope twined around the body. Leather cuffs. Chains.  And he likes to inflict pain and make it show. Bruises. Scratches. Sometimes welts.”

Steve took a sharp breath. A few moments ago, he’d felt chilled but now the pub seemed far too hot.

“So, this so-called ‘artist,’” Steve said tightly, “wants a ‘model,’ he can tie up and beat?”

“A vulgar way of phrasing it, but not entirely inaccurate.”  She waved a hand dismissively and finished her drink.  “But he’d want to make it good for you. And he would hurt you, but he would never harm you.”

“What’s the difference?” Steve bit out. 

“No lasting damage. His tastes aren’t particularly extreme and he has exceptional control. As I said, he’s not by nature cruel.”  

Steve couldn’t keep back an incredulous snort. (Not cruel! Just wanted to pay for the pleasure of beating somebody up who couldn’t fight back.) 

Her expression tightened and she added in a grave tone, “And if you change your mind at any point and tell him to stop, he will.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Steve asked with a glare.

“Believe what you like,” she answered smoothly. “It is the truth.”

With that, she slid abruptly from the booth and took a small envelope from her purse.  She placed it on the table.  

“Funds for travel expenses to Manhattan and a good meal on the way,” she said briskly.  “Noon tomorrow at the enclosed address if you’d like to meet him and continue the interview process. If not, then I wish you well, Mr. Rogers.”

She took one step away from the booth, then turned back to add in a soft voice, “He isn’t always a nice man, but he is a good one.”

Then, as if by magic, she seemed to vanish in the crowd.  

Steve’s coffee cup shook in his hand; he set it down abruptly with a clatter.

It was quite some time before Steve collected himself enough to go home, envelope secure in his inner breast pocket, right above his too-rapidly beating heart. 

[zoadgo]

Kinktober Day Twenty-Seven | Gun Play/Against A Wall | my selfish side has got a special way of coping | Murphy x Bellamy | The 100

Words: 4290

Tags: Gun Play, Modern/Dystopia AU, Guard!Bellamy, Prisoner!Murphy, Prisoner/Guard dynamic, Questionable use of power, Anal sex, Rough sex, Fingering, Mentions of systematic abuse, Mentions of homophobia, Questionable consent

tagging @mvrphyblooms

Note that this is a kinktober prompt fill. It will be explicit smut, and quite likely, kinky. Mind the tags.

ao3

Murphy's a survivor. Always has been, always will be. No matter what life throws his way, he struggles through, and he keeps on going. Honestly, some days his perfect track record with overcoming calamity is the only thing that keeps him from giving up. And he has overcome so very many potentially life ending disasters, some that weren't even his fault, too.

Like this latest one, being locked up in a facility he doesn't even know the name of. No one will tell him where he is, or why he's here, which isn't a good sign. Couple that with Murphy being no stranger to jails and knowing at least in general what day to day life should be like, and he can tell pretty easily this is no normal jail.

Government black site, detainment camp, ultra max - it doesn't matter what term they're using, the end result is the same. Even if there was anyone out there looking for him - which there probably isn't, beyond a few gangs he's screwed over - they would never be able to find him. He's off the grid, at the mercy of a government that he's never been on particularly good terms with.

Just another thing to survive, at the end of the day, and Murphy knows exactly how to do it.

If the government running this facility isn't friendly with him, Murphy's got to get a lot more friendly with the people directly responsible for his miserable quality of life. It takes a few false starts, a couple of beatings that he only half deserved, and no shortage of embarrassment, but he finds his mark after a while. Nameless, simply the least cruel of his guards, until one of the others calls him “Blake” a little too loudly when passing Murphy's cell.

It’s not hard to tell where Officer Blake’s interests lie, with a little careful testing of the waters. He never calls Murphy a fag or queer like the other ones do, which is a good first indicator. He doesn’t shy away or beat Murphy when he stumbles and leans up against him as Blake ushers him to various facilities, simply grunts and waits for him to catch his feet again. He’s primarily aloof, which doesn’t necessarily make him a mark. Maybe he’s just a good guy, caught up doing bad things in the name of serving his government.

But of course, there’s the final test, the one that’s gotten Murphy’s ass kicked countless times. He times it perfectly, for when Blake should be coming to collect him for his daily shower. At least, he thinks it’s daily; there aren’t any windows, or any real way of telling the passage of times short of counting seconds. Murphy hears the familiar boot steps approaching, and grins to himself. Time to see if he’s right, or if he’s going to have dinner seasoned with his own blood again tonight.

When Blake opens the door, heavy locks falling with the sound of gunshots, Murphy is perfectly displayed. Ass to the door, three fingers buried inside himself, spine bowed in the way he knows makes him look the most delicate and inviting. He moans, a small needy noise as he thrusts his fingers a little. It feels good, even though his primary purpose in this show isn’t to actually get off. No, this is a declaration of intent, a display of the goods he can offer if only Blake is in the position to give him something in return.

Murphy knows, by the gust of air brushing over his skin, that Blake is in the room. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rush over to beat him, so Murphy figures it’s working. He drops his face into the shitty, moldy mattress as if it’s the finest bed in the world, completely ignoring Blake’s presence. This only works if the guard thinks it’s an accident, not purposeful. They both know that’s a lie, of course, Murphy’s tried this trick a time or two before, but the illusion is necessary for the relationship to work. The guard has to initiate it, he always has to have the power. Nevermind that Murphy feels perfectly in control, making short thrusts of his hand at this awkward angle.

“P-” The first syllable dies on Blake’s lips, sending a thrill of victory through Murphy. Oh, he knows what that dry mouth and stumbling brain means. Life is about to get a little bit better for Murphy. “Prisoner 211804, stand and face the wall.”

Murphy hops to it, quite as if he hadn’t just been ‘caught’ masturbating. He chuckles as he raises his hands to the side of his head, staring at the cement wall, entirely nude. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

His breath leaves his lungs in a rush as Murphy’s shoved forwards into the wall, hard and without warning. Worry flashes through him, it’s entirely possible he misjudged Blake even in the last few seconds. Maybe he was just so enraged he couldn’t speak, maybe it wasn’t that he liked what he saw.

But no, Murphy crushes down on that doubt in a second. He’s come too far now, he has to see this through to the end. It’s not like he’s going to get any more of a beating for talking.

Well, he might. But a beating is a beating, at the end of the day.

“So rough,” Murphy laces his words with a moan, “That’s okay, I like it rough.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Blake’s voice is an even deeper rumble than the few times Murphy’s heard him speak before. His hand, still covered with its rough, tactical glove, grabs the back of Murphy’s neck, pinning him to the wall.

It doesn’t hurt, though, and he doesn’t hit him. Even when he shoved Murphy into the wall, it was more surprise than pain. Murphy smiles, cheek scrunching against the cold concrete.

“What, you-”

Murphy starts, but he’s silenced by the cold touch of steel on his exposed cheek. His eyes strain in their sockets, mouth going dry as vision confirms his fears. Okay, yes, that’s a gun. It’s not pointing at him, simply resting against his flesh, and the safety’s still on, but still. Murphy’s concern over a beating is a fancy of the past now. He shudders, closing his eyes.

Time to play the survival game, which means doing exactly what Blake wants. No more flirting, no more teasing, just being a good little prisoner. He can do that, much as it pains him.

“Who put you up to this?” Blake demands, voice dark in Murphy’s ear. It occurs to Murphy that he’s way closer than he needs to be for intimidation, the starched fabric of his uniform actually brushing against Murphy when he shifts slightly.

“No one, I swear man, okay? Nobody puts me up to this, I just-” Murphy cuts off, unsure of exactly how to phrase it. What way does he plays this situation, that doesn’t get him killed and dumped in a hole without a name?

“You just what?” Blake asks, words clipped and tight.

Murphy tries desperately to think quickly, as the gun slides against his skin. His body reacts to the situation unfortunately, his fight or flight response as always giving him the not so helpful third option of ‘fuck’. It’s all he can do to keep from rutting against the wall, and it does not help his higher brain function in the slightest. Murphy takes a second to mentally kick himself for being such a horny bastard, which is a second too long for Blake, apparently. He steps forward, crushing Murphy to the wall with his body, and as frightening as that should be, it does not help the situation with Murphy’s cock in the slightest.

“You. Just. What?” Blake’s breath tickles Murphy’s ear as he speaks, and Murphy shudders again, but for a different reason than when the gun had touched him. It’s been a stupidly long time since he’s gotten any other than his own hand, and- “Answer me.”

Blake taps the gun against Murphy’s temple, and it snaps Murphy out of his ridiculous headspace with mild panic. He blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, which is also, unfortunately, the truth.

“I was trying to seduce you!”

The gun goes frighteningly still against the side of Murphy’s face, and he barely bites back a whimper. Blake is silent, still crushing him into the wall. He can feel his life hanging in the tense air between them; Murphy may have felt in control earlier, but Blake has all the real power here. As in, the gun. He’s got the freaking gun, and Murphy really should have come up with a better lie than-

“You what?” Blake’s voice sounds different in a way Murphy can’t quite put his finger on, but hey, at least he’s talking. Talking is better than hitting, and definitely better than shooting. So Murphy’s got to play this situation with the truth, then, or near enough to it.

“I was-” Murphy stumbles on his words as the hand on the back of his neck shifts. Ever so slightly, but instead of crushing his face into the wall, it simply seems to be holding him now, thumb laying gently along the column of Murphy’s spine. He doesn’t find too much comfort in that, though, steel still glinting in his peripheral vision. “You’re really hot, okay? And it’s been a while, and I thought-”

Blake silences him with another movement of the gun. Murphy hopes that response works, at least it gives Blake a way to dismiss him as just some dumbass, horned up guy, instead of anything malicious. And it is the truth, just not the whole truth. Let’s be real, if Murphy had run into someone who looks like Blake at a bar, instead of in a prison, he would be climbing that shit like a tree.

“No one put you up to this?” Blake asks again, and Murphy shakes his head as much as he can, which isn’t much at all.

“No. I’m in solitary confinement, remember? Who would I talk to, who would have put me up to this, all the other guards hate me anyway. I guess that’s part of your job, and you do too, but-”

“I don’t hate you,” Blake cuts him off, and there’s that hope again, flaring dangerously in Murphy’s chest.

“Okay.” Murphy accepts that without questioning it. Things seem to be a little less volatile now, and there’s no need for him to go changing that with stupid questions. But then, of course, something starts nagging at his mind, and he asks a question anyway. “Wait, why do you think someone would have put me up to this?”

“They’re always talking about the pretty little-” Blake cuts off in a way that informs Murphy very clearly what the next word is, or at least the sentiment of it. He clears his throat, continuing, “I figured it was because I’m- that they were trying to get to me, to mess with me.”

“Hey, I’m not messing with you, man, I promise,” Murphy assures him, hope taking more sound root among his ribs. So, in those little absent words, does that mean what Murphy thinks it means? Then this position, Blake crushing him into the wall with his body...

Murphy’s dick twitches painfully against the rough cement of his cell wall, and his breath stutters in his throat, unbidden. He curses mentally at his reaction, because no matter what Blake meant, now is not the time for this shit.

Except, there’s Blake’s thumb, moving ever so slightly to stroke just the pad of it over Murphy’s skin. Almost imperceptible, but Murphy’s perception of his body is a little bit heightened right now, what with the weapon still against his face, and the rock hard erection between his legs.

“Are you… getting off on this?” Blake asks, and Murphy immediately attempts shaking his head again, despite the fact that yeah, yeah he is. Blake’s voice sounds like pure sex at the best of times, so him asking that question doesn’t exactly help any.

“No, it’s-” Murphy begins to lie, but then Blake’s hand shifts up his neck, to thread into his hair, and he has to bite his lip to stop from whimpering.

“You are,” Blake states soundly. The gun disappears from Murphy’s cheek as Blake takes a half step back, and there’s the sound of it being holstered, which allows him to breathe a little easier. Then the hand in his hair turns into a fist, pulling his head back enough that Murphy can actually look at Blake a bit more. His gaze is dark, something almost violent in it, but not like the violence Murphy’s used to. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I-” Murphy goes to lie, but a twist of Blake’s hand makes him wince and rethink that strategy. “Okay, okay! I am.”

Blake pushes him back flush with the wall again, and then his hand leaves Murphy altogether. Murphy hates that he finds himself missing the touch almost immediately. Well, he hadn't been lying when he’d said it had been a long time. Even before he got locked up, the last person he’d slept with was… God, had it really been since the bouncer at Skybox? What was his name again? Mbege?

The sound of velcro draws Murphy back to the present and away from delightful memories of the strong, mostly silent man. Something falls to the ground, but Murphy isn’t going to risk moving in order to look and see what it was.

A bare second later and Blake’s hands return, except this time it’s not the rough touch of fabric gloves. Blake’s skin is hot against his slightly chilled form, and Murphy can’t help the way his breath catches in his throat. He practically melts into the touch as Blake runs his hands up Murphy’s back, dragging his palms over his ribs. Murphy tries to look at him as much as he can, but Blake leans over him in order to rest his head on the back of Murphy’s shoulder.

“They weren’t lying about you being pretty, huh?” Blake mumbles, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze Murphy’s ass. Murphy jumps under the contact, and Blake’s other hand falls on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place. Murphy is saved from having to come up with a response to that by Blake speaking again, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

His voice rumbles straight into Murphy’s chest, from there to his groin in a heartbeat. Murphy swallows thickly and nods, cheek dragging against the wall.

“Say it,” Blake orders, hand squeezing Murphy’s shoulder. His other hand continues its lazy exploration of Murphy’s buttocks, mapping and squeezing the flesh there. A moan sneaks past Murphy’s guard as Blake’s thumb trails down for a scant second to ghost over Murphy’s hole.

“Yes, this is what I wanted,” Murphy admits, blushing despite the fact that this had started with him fingering himself in full view of Blake. This isn’t how this had gone down the previous times Murphy had seduced guards in his various prison stints. Those were always quick, guards taking what they wanted from him and giving him the little luxuries they could after they used him for their quick little orgasms.

“And what if it’s not what I wanted, huh?” Blake asks, actions somewhat undermining the possibility of that being true.

Without warning or any real preparation, he sinks a finger into Murphy’s ass, and Murphy gasps. He’s glad he’d prepped himself just moments ago, allowing his body to take the intrusion with a minimal amount of protests. It still burns slightly, though, and Murphy grunts in the back of his throat.

“What would you have done then?” Blake asks, curling his finger inside of Murphy. Murphy chokes on a breath, chuckling breathlessly.

“Gotten beaten. Gotten dead. Nothing that couldn’t have happened on any other day,” he admits, perhaps a little too truthful, but Blake had told him not to lie. Blake’s slight movements still for a moment, and he wonders if he’s fucked up.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Blake’s words are a bare mutter against his skin. Murphy refuses to feel anything for that other than victory. Protection is one of the biggest things he can get out of this whole arrangement.

He moves his finger inside Murphy once again, thrusting slightly, and a second digit begins probing at his entrance. Murphy barely restrains himself from moving his hips, grinding them towards Blake’s hand. He remembers his earlier words, said in jibe, and Murphy smirks.

“I mean, you can hurt me a little. I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked it rough,” Murphy suggests, once again very definitely not lying. Because this is nice - hell, more than nice, Blake’s touch is strong and hot and belays a certain level of skill that excites Murphy to no end. But a part of Murphy is desperate and has been barely holding back from humping cement this whole time, and he’d love nothing more than to have Blake just take him however he damn well pleases.

“You do, huh?” Blake rumbles the words, thrusting his second finger in much as he had the first. Murphy’s hips jerk at the shock of it, and okay, grinding his dick into the wall isn’t quite as good as his mind had thought it would be. Blake continues holding him firmly in place, thrusting his fingers and shifting them to stretch Murphy. “Then maybe I shouldn’t bother with any of this, huh? I mean, you were handling it yourself pretty well when I came in.”

He leaves Murphy with a choice with those words, one which Murphy doesn’t hesitate in making. He bites his lip and takes a shaky breath before responding, “Yeah, just do it. Please.”

He sounds more than a little desperate, but whatever, he’s allowed to make the best of a bad situation. He could do a hell of a lot worse than getting fucked by a phenomenally hot guard with a voice that is getting sexier by the second. Blake pulls his fingers out of Murphy, chuckling slightly, which sends a crazy heat through him. Really, him laughing at Murphy’s needy state should not sound so damn good, but it does, and Murphy luxuriates in it.

There’s the sound of a zipper behind him, and then Blake grabs Murphy by the hip, pulling him slightly away from the wall. Only just enough that he’s not crushed into it, and Blake’s other hand keeps his shoulders firmly against it. It takes some of the uncomfortable pressure off of his dick, and Murphy breathes a contented breath.

“You’re sure you want it rough?” Blake asks.

Murphy shudders, harder than he can remember being in recent history, nodding eagerly. He feels the head of Blake’s cock drag over the skin of his ass for a monet before dipping between the mounds of flesh to tease at his hole. Murphy hopes Blake doesn’t want a verbal answer, because the anticipation takes deep hold of his lungs, making his breath come shallow and forming words absolutely impossible.

He hears Blake spit, which is the grossest form of slicking oneself up in Murphy’s mind, but better than going in dry. As is, it’s barely better, and as Blake starts to sink into him, it hurts like hell. Murphy sucks a breath in through his teeth, hissing at the burn. Okay, so maybe Blake is one of the biggest guys Murphy’s ever been with, and maybe Murphy’s a bit out of the game to be taking someone so well endowed.

Nevertheless, Blake continues to press forward, unrelenting, filling Murphy to an almost impossible extent. Murphy’s pretty sure he forgets how to breathe about four inches in, and he doesn’t remember until Blake bottoms out against him. His hand on Murphy shoulder moves to rub the back of his neck soothingly, and Murphy gasps a breath.

“You’re fucking huge,” Murphy manages to say, and Blake chuckles again, which makes Murphy’s cock twitch despite the discomfort.

“Still want it rough?” Blake asks, sounding a little bit patronizing, which Murphy scoffs at. Okay, Blake is big, whatever. Murphy’s taken more with less prep, and he’s actually not so bad now that Murphy’s had a second to adjust. The burn fades to a gentle ache, and Murphy rolls his hips a little, as much as he can given the angle. He smiles as the actions causes Blake to choke out a curse.

Not so cocky now, huh?

“Try me.”

And oh, does Blake ever rise to those two words. He makes a noise somewhat akin to a growl, drawing his hips away from Murphy for a moment, only coming out about half way before pounding back in with impressive force. Murphy can’t help the gasp that draws from him, or the breathless noises he makes as Blake sets to fucking him thoroughly and soundly. It’s not too fast, but every thrust of his hips drives enough force into Murphy that he’s somewhat glad for the wall holding him up.

It should be too much to be pleasant, or the sort of weirdly dull experience he normally has when simply getting railed in order to get something he wants. But Blake’s hands on him, fingers digging in whenever Murphy manages to move against him, send sparks of pleasure to his core. And there’s the little noises Blake makes; not as many as Murphy, who moans when Blake hits that sweet spot inside of him, but definitely there. He’s good at this, not merely using Murphy to get his rocks off, but actually paying some small attention to what pleasure Murphy is getting out of it.

“Rough enough for you?” Blake goads, snapping his hips forward particularly firmly, his fingers digging bruises into Murphy’s shoulder. The actions drives an aborted half moan from Murphy’s lips, and he catches his breath with a laugh.

“Is it rough enough for you?” Murphy parrots back, because there’s no denying the possessive force of Blake’s grip, or the way his breath catches whenever he drives in particularly hard. He likes this, just as much or more than Murphy, and that all works to Murphy’s favour.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Blake rumbles, and Murphy rocks his hips against him.

“Does it?” He asks, the very picture of false-innocence.

Blake mumbles a curse that Murphy’s sure he didn’t even intend to say and begins thrusting again, with a new and singular purpose. His cock brushes over Murphy’s prostate time and time again, building pleasure in Murphy’s gut and making him react to the movements all the more. He doesn’t bother with being quiet; there’s no one else around that he’s ever heard, other than guards. And if Blake’s here, there’s little chance of anyone coming this way until they swap shifts later on.

So Murphy gives into it all; the moaning, the quiet curses and heavy panting behind him, the thorough and oh so delightful abuse of his ass. Blake hits his sweet spot on more thrusts than not, and Murphy whines, fingers digging into the wall so hard he’s afraid he might tear his nails out. He didn’t expect to actually get off on this, but now he’s almost there and he wants it so, so bad.

“Do it,” Blake orders, releasing Murphy’s shoulder and dropping down to grab roughly at his cock.

It only takes a few quick pulls and Murphy is finishing with a strangled moan, cum painting the wall in front of his hips by virtue of proximity. He breathes hard, chest still flush to the concrete, barely managing to hold himself up as Blake continues thrusting inside of him. As his orgasm ebbs, it’s definitely too much for his level of sensitivity, but never let it be said John Murphy is a quitter when it comes to dick.

Blake must know something of how uncomfortable it is for Murphy, because he releases Murphy’s softening cock and grips his hips with both hands. He thrusts violently for a few more moments, which Murphy takes with only a few whimpers and grunts of protests. Then he pulls out rapidly, so sudden that Murphy finds himself clenching around nothing and feeling awfully empty. Blake chokes out a deep curse behind him, and Murphy feels warm wetness hit his ass.

They stand there a moment longer, catching their individual breaths, and then the sound of a zipper breaks the relative silence. Murphy listens to Blake picking up his gloves, never moving away from the wall. No matter what, he’d been told to do this by a guard, he’s staying right here until Blake tells him otherwise. No sense ruining a good thing by making a guard think he was using sex as a distraction to go for his weapon.

Staying still has an added bonus when Blake shows enough consideration to grab something to wipe Murphy’s ass off with. Well, life is looking up already, isn’t it? With a cursory cleanup, Blake drops Murphy’s long discarded clothes on the ground next to him.

“Get dressed, it’s time for your shower,” Blake says, and it sounds less like an order and more like a request. Well, Murphy is more than happy to oblige. And if he puts on a little show when he bends over, well, Blake isn’t complaining.

When Murphy gets a chocolate on his dinner tray that night, he certainly isn’t complaining either. It’s not too bad, he decides, going to sleep on his shitty mattress, freshly showered, well fucked, and with cocoa on his tongue. As far as situations he’s been in, could be worse.

[dominavontana]

Wed Aug 15 #sexed @sugartheshop Sensual Bondage with Pervertibles

Perveritble: any common often domestic item that can be used for a different purpose other than that originally intended by the manufacturer in a style that is part of a BDSM or kinky play scene

Below are three separate blog posts because ain't no body got time for that...separate posting bullshit.

I just want to go play in the woods.

1. Sugar classes, when sex workers lose clients to death, and the amazing Domme I met

2. The post I promised you yesterday

3. Summary of the successful summer tour (and whatever shit I decide to write about along the way)

First up...SUGAR

Below is the post I promised you yesterday.

 But before we get to that...please check out this  bondageworkshop I’m teaching on August 15 in Baltimore at www.sugartheshop.com. Tickets are $25 and the classis 90 minutes, from 630 to 8. I always hang around til close because it’s fun and the teaching space is super gorgeous. The stores great too :) and they share the same space…

 On a more personal/professional note, I’ve read about the grieving process particular to sex workers who loose long term clients. And now I am both proud and saddened to say I find myself for the first time at this place in my peculiar career. Both clients are regulars and souls that I genuinely enjoy, cleints who respect me and men I believe are a blessing to those who know and work with them, and especially those that may love them or call them family. Good people. I’m not sure what this chapter of my journey is going to have in store but I’m prepared to face it without fear or reservation, because as I see it? My job is to make every moment feel like life its self until the last moment the slave can retire to the great Master of us all, that quaking moment between here and forever.  

 Last Wednesday after my class at Sugar I attended the wake for the untimely end of the Baltimore Eagle and bumped into an amazing Domme with the verbal gymnastics of the best stand up can offer and she was dressed like a pin up doll, veil and all. And I wondered, why can’t we all be like that? When I discussed my style with her, professionally speaking, her replay was,

 “Oh honey, you work so hard, that’s why they have to pay you for it.”

 Such a siren with the sweet tongue was she that still I do not know if I am flattered, or being scolded.

 I liked her. It’s a lonely sport, topping the top 1%.

 One. More, Eclipse. This week. Then you can all breath but my ruler is gonna play hopscotch across my sky for the NEXT two months so I’m just gonna keep riding this ride and asking for patience because GD if I couldn’t slap a bitch on a day like today #PMSRealness B r e e e a t h e

 See you on the 15th.

2. Yesterday's blog post is about domestic violence, the kind I have lived with most of my life until now, so I'm finally ready. Let's all take a deep breath.

DV stands for a lot for a lot of things. Not just my initials, Domina (D) Vontana (V), but also...domestic violence. This post is a coming out story. This is my emotional psychological and mental #metoo moment. I’ll never be capable of sharing the stories of my multiple sexual assaults. I’m too much of a scorpio for that shit. Last week I picked up a new pickup truck and it’s been glorious. I’ve started rapidly checking things off my to do list at the farm that have lingered for months, years even. And then finally today the clouds part, the sky clears and FOR FUCKING ONCE there is sun in the sky on a Saturday. If you live in the Mid Atlantic you appreciate what I know. For those of you who don’t let me say this - I arrived back from Asia the last week of April. I arrived at the farm the first week of May. It has rained. Every. God. Damn. Day. Since minus maaaybe...a total of 2 weeks. Today is one of those days that makes up those two weeks and so I took a nice long drive through the country in my new truck. And that’s when I realized...I haven't been yelled at by a man in a year and a half. That is a record in my recent history. And by recent I mean the past decade, at least. Because strong women get abused too. Honestly, I’ve often wondered if my abusers didn’t take more pleasure in hurting me BECAUSE I was a dominatrix. My father was a Pisces and a preacher. My mother was a Sagittarius and a musician. If you know your astrology your cringing right now, and probably laughing. Both my parents were trauma survivors. Especially my father. He was as queer as his daughter here and just as charismatic and beautiful. My mother was the codependent to his addict and as the eldest child and a daughter I was expected to perform the role of caretaker to both. And it sucked. It sucked every single day. There wasn’t a god damn day that went by that there wasn’t some potentially humiliating and or completely unjust situation to deal with while the world outside the window carried on like inside everything in my life wasn’t completely absurd, completely violent and completely religious, all at the same time. Mind fuck is not even the word. Oh and the cherry on this shit cake is that the context for all of this is rural, white America where everyone knows your name and your business. The only place to hide is literally, the corn fields. My parents did their best. I know this now. And it was not that great. I accept this now. And that is why for most of my adult life I have loved men who returned my love with vicious emotional and often violent attacks. Some of these men I am still friends with and they may read this and be upset at me and that’s a price I’m willing to pay because the very reason I haven't been screamed at in the past year and a half is because finally, finally...I am putting myself first everywhere in my life, not just in the dungeon. It is a choice who’s time had come and a choice that has made me more available to the people in my life, not less. If I hadn’t had the figurative and literal space of the dungeon to practice speaking up for myself and EXPECTING to be heard I would most certainly be less fulfilled than I am today. And today I am filled with all the things that make life worth living - love, friendship, passion, creativity, community and family. And I’m almost positive that the only reasons I’m coming up with this blog post now, at this moment, rather than any other I’ve contemplated revealing the truth of my struggle is probably the intense PMS I’ve experienced during the full lunar eclipse on my moon. So bare with me, babes. And what the actual fuck is my part in all of this? I stayed. I believed the lie that obligated me to fix these men. I honestly thought I could heal someone, all I lacked was resources. Then I found myself in a situation with limitless resources and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference - the addict stayed sick for a very long time. Long enough for me to finally skip country and fulfill my expat fantasies and also to finally quit my codependent habit. Now I am in control of my life in and out of the dungeon and no longer suffer fools in any area of my life. And for that every broken bone, every stint in the ER, every bruise and every scar is worth it because I am free at last. Psst. Come closer. I have another secret to tell you. The final reveal. Remember when they said it was scary out there in the real world and so maybe we closed our heart chakras to feel safe? Turns out that is a red flag for predators that sends them knocking at our doors. It was only after I took the chance and did the work that I found myself starting to attract the kind of people and experiences I had always longed for that’s why recently when I felt my heart trying to close again I reminded myself that THAT was NOT the path to security. My brother (biological): “Once a woman realizes she doesn’t need you? It’s over.” 3. Summer Tour Summary

This note is to tell you Mistress had a wonderful summer tour and will be taking the next week off to do even more fun stuff, the old fashion way - without social media.

 Three a.m. and the gypsy finally rests, alone, on her bed. It’s been ten days and four states. At least 1,000 miles.

 I.am. so. Blessed.

 Several years ago I was up for a full ride to UNC so I moved to Chapel Hill. Thus began a period of restoration. My work is very demanding and there are few opportunities for training or mentorship. I left my vanilla life behind when I went pro out of necessity, not choice. This past week I visited the very people who gave me back my vanilla life.

 It wasn’t until this week when I stepped back into the wooded paradise I called home for two years that I felt like I was finally back from Asia. That yard is where the Japanese Ume plum blossom first appeared in January and I didn’t even know what I was smelling, but it was fantastic. Fast forward four months it’s April and I was stepping off a plane in Tokyo with just a backpack. My dream to change my life yet again started in that yard, and it ended there. Last week.

 Some people know what they want. I know what I don’t want. The path to perfection for me is a process of elimination, not acquisition. Turns out, I want less of myself and more of others. I want more experiences and less things. I want love. And beauty. And art. And laughter. And dialogue. And play. And I’m an introvert. So quality not quantity.

 I’ve spent much of my life alone, in one form or another, often literally alone. I admit that part of this lifestyle is self sustaining for me, if not self serving. But all good things must come to an end. Now that I’m back my gypsy spirit has managed to work out a reasonable circuit: Baltimore, DC, rest at the farm, repeat.

 So I’ll see you there (www.sugartheshop.com)

[gossipnetwork-blog]

How Women, Tech Took Over Porn: Inside the 2018 AVN Awards

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/how-women-tech-took-over-porn-inside-the-2018-avn-awards/

How Women, Tech Took Over Porn: Inside the 2018 AVN Awards

From #MeToo to cam stars, this year’s Oscars of the obscene showcased the future of porn

Here’s a Black Mirror pitch: You pay several hundred dollars to attend the world’s biggest porn convention and awards ceremony. You travel to Las Vegas, where the air has transformed into mentholated nicotine vapor and no one will validate your parking. You do this in order to meet porn stars in the flesh, to see them onstage celebrating the Oscars of the obscene, because – even though, according to Scientific American, half of us are now creating our own sexual content on our personal devices – there’s something superhuman about sexual celebrities.

Death of a Porn Star

When August Ames killed herself following controversy on Twitter, it revealed a schism between the gay and straight communities in the porn industry

But when you arrive at the convention, in place of your 1990s dream of impossibly proportioned stars in bedazzled Lycra posing for Polaroids, what you see is a 15,000-square-foot hall teeming with hundreds of beautiful, semi-clothed models of all shapes and styles, grinning into their laptops. You try to talk to a young woman in heart-shaped pasties and booty shorts, but she’ll only give you a few seconds of attention before she’s back to clicking her shiny gold nails across her keyboard.

Here’s the twist: This ain’t no dystopian nightmare. Attendees of the 35th Annual Adult Entertainment Expo and Adult Video News Awards were treated to precisely this display of tech-mediated intimacy. Plenty of big names were in attendance – stars who had led more traditional adult-film careers – but they were outnumbered by scores of up-and-coming models who primarily built their own businesses using cam shows, original clip stores and monetized social-media platforms. The mass availability of easily pirated streaming video may have decimated the porn economy, but it seems that women are the ones adapting, finding fresh ways to connect directly with consumers. As these models gain more economic influence, they are also raising the bar for consent conversations throughout the industry.

The last time I was at the AVNs was in 2012, when I was nominated for producing and directing a niche site called QueerPorn.TV. My Bay-Area scene was proud to think of ourselves as the forward-thinking weirdos, exemplifying the characteristics of the queer porn genre: body-positive and diverse, with a riot-grrrl aesthetic. We were nominated in the somewhat self-contradicting category Best Professional Amateur Site, and were miffed when we lost to Clips4Sale, a platform which had been around since 2003 for creators to upload and sell short original videos. Here we were, indie smut with a vision, and we lost to a tech host?

Now, it seems as clear as a Bellagio fountain that clips stores were the future of “professional amateurs.” While much of the male-dominated porn studio system is fighting against stolen content, independent female artists have been able to establish a sustainable business, producing their own content and marketing it to a small but loyal fan base.

One such artist is Bratty Nikki, a leggy, half-Mexican, half-Irish woman with a frosty reality-TV aesthetic: blonde extensions, impossible nails, skin-tight miniskirts and designer spiked heels. She sat on a gleaming white couch in an enormous booth on the expo floor, calling attention to her shirt, which read; “Never underestimate the power of a girl who knows what she wants.”

“Never underestimate the power of a girl who knows what she wants,” says Bratty Nikki. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

Nikki is the executive vice president of IWantEmpire.com, an umbrella company that includes IWantClips, IWantPhone, IWantFanClub and IWantCustomClips, with more in the works. Hers is one of many companies vying for dominance in a sort of clips market arms race. Nikki got her start seven years ago working as an online financial dominatrix, offering phone and cam sessions to clients in which she expressed a personality she tells me isn’t really a character. “I am a greedy brat,” she says. “I believe that I deserve the best out of life. My fans love that I’m confident enough to say, ‘This is what I want and you’re gonna give it to me.'”

She started IWantEmpire with her husband, entrepreneur Jay Phillips, because she felt other host sites were underestimating her as an artist. Like other platforms, they take a cut of the profits, but the artist sets their own price and decides what and how much they want to upload. Their brand expanded to offer a store for consumers to order custom clips, and a fan club where artists can monetize social media-like “lifestyle” content. As it turns out, kinky consumers are willing to pay for content created by people who understand precisely what they’re looking for.

Like many fetish clips, Nikki’s videos don’t include sex or even nudity, just specialty monologues in which she teases, chastises and degrades her devotees. In the larger-than life video projected over us in the booth, she wore skinny jeans and a tank top, standing in an apartment entryway holding shopping bags. “Yes, I’m leaving you,” she spits at the camera with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’ve already maxed out your credit cards. Taken a bunch of vacations with my girlfriends that you paid for. You’re going to be sitting home alone tonight crying into your pillow as you hate-jerk your little cock.”

The audacity of financial domination is a perfect fit for naturally bossy women. Haven, a Haitian-American dominatrix from Orlando, says that when she was go-go dancing and camming she didn’t take direction from clients very well. When she discovered that she could make fetish clips online, it was a way for her to make a career off her genuine demeanor. “I really don’t want to talk to you; I really just want your money,” she deadpans. “That’s me, wholeheartedly.” Now she films around 15 short clips every Sunday, improvising on topics like small-penis humiliation or jack-off instruction. She spends the rest of the week editing footage, scheduling uploads, writing marketing copy and promoting her brand on social media.

Fans mill about the floor of the AEE. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

“It takes a lot of work to make this look so easy,” she says.

I tagged along to an afternoon of clip shoots at a local film studio run by porn director/performers Madeline Marlowe and Will Havoc. Havoc was pulling a red and black leather harness over his tattooed chest, preparing to shoot sex scenes with two porn stars named Riley Nixon and Arabelle Raphael.

Riley, who was nominated for Best New Starlet at the AVNs, wiggled into a canary-yellow latex two-piece and platform heels. As she filled out her legal paperwork, she kept squatting and yanking on the rubbery crotch of her outfit. Even though she was following a conventional route to adult film fame, signing at the Penthouse booth and shooting for notorious gonzo studio Elegant Angel, she also sold Skype shows, custom clips and signed Polaroids on her personal website. She would post today’s footage on her own ManyVids and OnlyFans pages, where fans can pay a monthly membership for access to exclusive content.

One advantage to making her own content is that she has more leeway to maintain her preferred androgynous style and buzzed head ­– some mainstream studios still won’t cast models with short hair or tattoos. “I’ll wear a wig to play a character, but I don’t want to have to wear a wig to play the role of a woman,” she complains.

Arabelle has had to deal with her own hair troubles in the industry. She’s a French-Persian Jew, and long ago grew tired of being expected to straighten her hair and use skin-lightening makeup to work with certain directors.

“I was being cast in really racist roles,” she says, “and basically told I was not good enough.” She took time off to build her own membership site, a Clips4Sale store, and an OnlyFans following, discovering unprecedented financial and emotional success. “I had no idea I was a good performer and that people wanted more content of me,” she says. “I left my hair curly, got as many tattoos as I wanted, shot with who I wanted.”

Riley, Arabelle and Will showed one another the results of their standard STI tests on the secure Performer Availability Scheduling Services database. They negotiated sexual boundaries and preferences while doing their own costuming and makeup. With low production cost and the creative advantage of working with friends, they’re each an individual porn studio unto themselves.

Will Havoc, Riley Nixon and Arabelle Raphael film a scene after hours. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

Porn stars work hard and party hard, and sometimes they work while they’re playing. Late that night, I was invited to a private sex party with a hard-to-obtain address. A Lyft took me away from the light pollution of the strip to an edge of town tract housing development. Through the unfurnished living room, past an ominously neon-lit pool, was a warehouse filled with porn stars smoking blunts and offering one another bumps in their rhinestone-encrusted nails.

Hired stars ascended to a sort of wrestling platform in the center of the room, performing exaggerated lubed-up sex for onlookers to the rhythm of deafening drone metal. My friends, a polyamorous “family,” decided to find a quieter room in which to play. As I enjoyed a beer and watched sex-worker activist Siouxsie Q fuck her curly-haired boyfriend Michael Vegas, an AVN nominee for Best Supporting Actor – as her Barbie-blonde pro-domme girlfriend Bella Bathory was eaten out in a nearby chair – it occurred to me that we were doing exactly what porn fans assumed we must be doing. I felt like I had ringside seats to watch NBA superstars play a pick-up game.

As the four-day convention wore on, the all-night partying didn’t threaten to slow anyone down. The AEE still makes the classic circuit demands of conventional porn stars, each scheduled to appear for three- to five-hour shifts, where they were to sign and sell eight-by-10 glossies, allow hands around their waists and shoulders, smile, twerk, tell fans how their favorite position is still reverse cowgirl, princess wave, talk to men like they’re babies, talk to men like they’re dogs. But it was the cam models who had the boundless energy, who behaved like Vine stars or friends at a slumber party that just happens to be surveilled. They hovered over their screens, promising to spank one another in exchange for tips; the ding of virtual tokens being earned echoed the slots at the nearby casino.

The models had each brought their own laptops, colorfully branded with their stage names. Most of them had elaborate production rigs including flattering ring lights, bulky webcams and phallic microphones. Cam models perform all kinds of explicit shows when they broadcast from their homes; but, due to city-wide nudity laws, they couldn’t wear less than pasties and a thong at AEE. That meant no dildo shows or live sex. Yet their chirpy conversation still had value for the members watching from home, some of whom had actually financed the travel for their favorite model.

Performers at the FreeCams booth. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

At the booth for the webcam company Chaturbate, both men and women were making cameos on one another’s screens. This seemed to be in defiance of the porn convention that objects of desire should be separated, lest a consumer’s taste be offended or boner deflated by something they weren’t expecting to see.

A male model named Leon with One-Direction hair and powder-blue briefs explained to me that one of his online fans had just told him he was enjoying watching all the broadcasts because, “It’s like seeing all of the characters from my favorite TV shows in a crossover episode!”

I approached a group of giggling young camgirls in pastel-colored wigs. They were teasing a group of bystanders, telling them to tune in to their group cam show later that night “to see some real action.”

I asked them if they were hoping that in future years they’d be as famous as the porn stars in the Wicked or Evil Angel booths? Did they want everyone to know their names?

One of the models shook her head vigorously, making her unicorn-horn headband wobble. “The more famous you get,” she pointed out, “the more people will pirate your content.”

Her friend, who was wearing a mesh leotard with skeleton hands covering her nipples, agreed: “We make more money when only our fans know who we are.”

MyFreeCams performer Lil Miss Angel at the 2018 AEE. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

With the national conversation surrounding #MeToo, it was no surprise that the sex workers at AEE were ready to address the topics of harassment and bodily autonomy. Members of the Adult Performer Advocacy Committee (APAC) handed out colorful “What Is Consent?” flyers, which illustrated how consent is “informed” and “freely given,” and that it “can be revoked at any time.”

For the second year in a row, every single convention attendee – fans and exhibitors alike – was required to sign a Code of Conduct form that outlined, for example, the difference between a consensual public picture and a violation such as an upskirt.

The Code of Conduct described a zero-tolerance policy towards “stalking, unwelcome physical contact” and “offensive verbal assaults,” emphasizing that guests were “welcome to use the restroom that match their gender presentation or identity.” This last stipulation was especially welcome from the trans community attending the awards, as two years ago several performers accused Hard Rock security guards of disrespecting a gender non-conforming attendee.

Some participants were aware of ways they could make their models more comfortable. Best director nominee Greg Lansky, a delightfully flashy French pornographer in a red Givenchy tracksuit, says that he literally elevates his studio so that fans can see women “on a pedestal.” His security teams knows which performers are ok hugging and touching their fans and which aren’t.

“I’m trying to make these girls feel good about what they do,” he says. “They all worked really hard to get here.”

With security at all corners of his booth, with its Instagrammable gold couch and open bar, Lansky believes fans get the message that women deserve respect.

“It’s hard for me to go anywhere [in the hotel],” says Jessica Drake, a Best Actress nominee, from the relative privacy of her pristine media suite. “Guys congregate in groups of 30 and just stand there. They circle you. I’ve become a master of taking a selfie and restraining them at the same time.”

Director and performer Joanna Angel, owner of the alt genre site Burning Angel, says she’s never had a bad experience with a fan at AEE. “The fans are traveling to be here,” she says. “They’re really looking forward to this. People wait in really long lines to come see you.” The only time she’s seen nonconsensual groping is from men at the bar after the convention, whom casino security quickly ejected. “I wouldn’t even call guys like that fans,” she says, just entitled jerks.

Ron Jeremy, who has been considered more of a walking novelty than active performer for many years, was banned from the convention and awards show following his claim that groping is a part of the job of his pubic appearances.

In a statement to Rolling Stone, AVN CEO Tony Rios commented, “Ron Jeremy admitted guilt to specific aspects of our code of conduct policy. We discussed this with Ron, and he was not allowed to attend the convention and awards show.”

However, performer/director James Deen, who was accused of on-set misconduct as well as intimate partner violence back in 2015, was nominated at and attended the awards.

Rios clarified, “We did not prohibit people from attending based on accusations.”

Siouxsie Q, who was recently elected secretary of APAC, is upset about what she sees as double standards, where the young, powerful Deen is still welcomed while aging Jeremy is put out to pasture.

“I think we see similar trends in Hollywood. These accounts of Harvey Weinstein’s predatory behavior aren’t coming out during the height of the Kill Bill franchise, but rather in the soggy aftermath of Paddington Bear 2,” she says. “As someone’s star dwindles, people are more willing to watch them fall.”

Deen’s attorney Michael Fattorosi characterized comparisons to Jeremy as “inaccurate and unfair.” In a statement, he said, “James was never investigated criminally, nor were there ever any lawsuits filed against him by any of the accusers. Nor did James ever admit to any misconduct on his part.”

And unlike other industries where powerful men continue to be reckoned, those in porn face powerful taboos. “It’s challenging for adult performers to speak out regarding any abuse that occurs; it is because it perpetuates stigma and allows for society to tell us we asked for it,” says Tasha Reign, an APAC chairperson.

Siouxsie Q agrees that stigma plays a huge role in consent controversies within the sex industry. “As long as sex workers have as much difficulty as they do when reporting and prosecuting sexual assault,” she says, “there will continue to be a culture of silence, victim scrutiny, and inconsistencies in how the industry responds.”

Janice Griffith was nominated for the Best Actress award at the AVNs. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

“What do you think of this dress? It’s very ‘Times Up,’ but is it whorey enough?”

Janice Griffith, a Best Actress nominee, is in her hotel room preparing for the awards. It’s true that her black cocktail dress is not as provocative as some of her colleagues’ revealing red-carpet looks. The teal undertone in her ombre hair is fading. She’s Indo-Caribbean, Angelina Jolie-skinny, and speaks with a husky authority. She barks at her date not to interrupt her, impulsively dumping out a jar of candy because there’s nowhere else for him to pour her a fresh vodka cocktail.

None of Janice’s friends in attendance know how to roll a joint. I’m happy to oblige, so she gratefully hands me a packet of rolling papers the size of a hot dog and a sack of sativa the size of my laptop.

“Our biggest issue is that we treat an industry of freelancers as if we’re an industry of employees,” Janice says. Despite the efforts of the Adult Performer Advocacy Committee and Free Speech Coalition, in her view, porn is currently too under-regulated for meaningful accountability.

“When men make women uncomfortable, we brush it off,” she says, “because we know people will write us off as being over-reactive or emotional.”

I visited many porn star rooms and saw both their self care safeguards and true psychological states – Sephora explosions and Cosco-sized boxes of Tangerine Emergen-cee, elaborate dabbing rigs and electric kettles. Janice had brought Complete Works of Kierkegaard.

Harli Lotts, co-host of the AVNs, dons a suicide awareness and prevention ribbon on the red carpet. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

As the red carpet wound its way through the Hard Rock, gamblers and bar patrons scrambled for a glimpse of the stars. While many pornographers opted for prom-worthy gowns and suits, their outfits nodded to their profession with bare midriffs, waist-high slits and undulating décolletage. Some wore little more than fringed bikinis. Lance Hart, founder of the PervOUT network, stood out in a stripper-style policeman’s shirt and fishnet stockings; he was handcuffed to his date Charlotte Sartre, who revealed on Twitter that she was not wearing anything underneath her slinky black dress. Abella Danger, last year’s Best New Starlet, shimmered in a transparent bodysuit adorned with strategically placed green and pink crystals.

The AVN awards show was predictably raunchy but surprisingly sincere. Co-hosted by comedian Aries Spears, Australian performer/director Angela White and camgirl Harli Lotts, the event’s biggest draw was hip-hop star Lil Wayne, who performed two high-energy sets with a drummer and DJ. The teleprompter dialog meshed well with the talents of porn star presenters, who were well-practiced in the art of the arched eyebrow and exaggerated wink.

White set a record by winning fourteen awards, the most AVN wins in one night. Clutching her Female Performer of the Year trophy to her remarkable cleavage, she emotionally thanked her co-stars for “allowing me to be vulnerable.”

Tommy Pistol, the Best Actor winner for a film called Ingenue, praised the industry for being a “fucked up family.”

Yet Spears, a MADtv alum, did not seem to pick up on the changing attitudes in the room. “Your personal space should not be invaded,” he declared, before utterly failing to read the room. “However, you bitches look delicious tonight. If I should come up to you and beg you for a blowjob, can you blame me? I am a hot blooded heterosexual male in a room full of professional cocksuckers.”

Eventually, the celebration came to an end. The false eyelashes were peeled off, the hangovers medicated with Ibuprofen and brunch. Pornographers’ minds return to their business, and to the social challenges they continue to face.

“We demand so much from porn stars,” says Bree Mills, a lesbian writer and director. “Performers who have made successful careers could be mentors. Give them infrastructure. Get them an appointment with an accountant, get them health care. They get the stigma stamp on them harder than anybody. We have to take care of them.”

Source link

[vitalmindandbody]

The Fifth Element at 20: gender-bending sci-fi or sexist opening shambles?

Luc Bessons 1997 undertaking boasted a wildly nonconformist persona who accepted gender names, but likewise objectified women and relied on a lot of men

Given that its supposed to be giving us fleeting, tantalising peeks of the nebulous future, Hollywood sci-fi is often astonishingly conservative. The brand-new Alien movie boasts a lesbian couple among its gang of settlers to another world, while there was plenty at the end of the debates over makes decision to give Sulu a male partner in last years Star Trek: Beyond. And hitherto both these examples are truly exclusively newsworthy because its so rare that we see anyone in space at all( surely in mainstream cinema) whos not heterosexual.

Star Wars love hoping to see queer representation in the long-running tales have picked up on a few moments of friendship between John Boyegas Finn and Oscar Isaacs Poe Dameron in The Force Awakens as evidence for a relationship. And theres little wrong with that, except that it does seem to be an example of extreme wishful thinking. But it might be worth noting that a full 20 years ago, Luc Bessons The Fifth Element gave us a hero so outrageously unconventional on both a gender issues and sexuality grade that it forms Hollywoods current soothing tilt towards a most diverse depiction of humanitys future look pretty weak for purposes of comparison. In Ruby Rhod, playing with eye-bulging, lunging sexuality by the young Chris Tucker, the frenetic sci-fi romp presented us with a hero of rare homosexual sparkle, more than two decades before fans requested Marvel to give Captain America a boyfriend.

Decked out in extravagant Jean-Paul Gaultier getups, and investing most of the movie either wailing in high-camp repugnance at the vision of immigrants taking over an luxury intergalactic cruise liner or enticing fluttery-eyed seat vixens into virtual orgasms merely by his proximity, Rhod is a persona whose abandonment of gender standards is so heightened that they seem to have arrived through a wormhole from its first year 3000, never mind 2263( The Fifth Elements ostensible time frame ). At one point Tucker chooses to be called Miss Ruby, and hitherto there is a definite clue of phallicism in that rock virtuoso surname. Furthermore, Rhod appears to be the very explanation of red-blooded masculinity. Is it any wonder that Prince was the example for the character, with Tucker merely recruited formerly it became clear the violet one was not going to sign on the dotted line?

How ahead of his time was Besson here? Is Rhod the film-makers vision of a society so comfy in its own skin that gender capacities have slowly defrosted away, or simply a thinking of the directors nutty, French comic book-inspired sci-fi leanings, a progressive pearl structured solely by category happenstance? Does the talkshow emcees evident heterosexuality undercut the bravery of the specific characteristics inclusion, or add to the sense that cultures of the future might not really care who their heroes love , nor how they define themselves, rendered they rock a high-necked leopard-print jumpsuit like it was designed for them at a genetic stage?

The inclusion of Rhod is hardly Bessons only ridiculous call in The Fifth Element. We should not forget that the Frenchman also establishes us a female Christ figure in Milla Jovovichs title character described throughout as a supreme being and saviour. And yet theres an contention to be made that these unorthodox references only stand out so much precise because Bessons space epic is otherwise so crushingly conservative.

The real hero of The Fifth Element is Bruce Williss Korben Dallas, a blue-collar grey person with members of the military background whos called in to save “the worlds” from a giant pitch-black planet of ardor and fatality, despite the fact that Jovovich has just been hyped up as the answer to all humanitys devotions. Its Dallas who rescues her after shes blown half to flecks by Gary Oldmans scheming Zorg; Dallas who discovers the other four constituents by delving them out of an alien vocalists stomach and Dallas who works out how to loose all five components to destroy the black whirling planet of fate just before it affects the Earth. For good calibrate, he then gets to have sex with female space Jesus as the ascribes reel, rather in the form of 60 s James Bond.

Other aspects of The Fifth Element are far more problematic, from the films depiction of heedles identikit flight attendant, cleavage-thrusting future McDonalds waitresses and Dallass unseen father, whos forever announcing him up for a nag. It seems that this is a future predominantly occupied by brainless infinite bimbos and stereotypes of middle-aged ladies. It doesnt facilitate that( apart from Jovovich) pretty much everybody in a position of power, from Tom Lister Jrs president to Brion James General Munroe, is a man.

But perhaps its unfair to adjudicate Bessons film according to progressive mores in 2017. This is, after all, a movie that was fantasy up by the film-maker as a comic book-obsessed teen, at a time when the queerest happen about mainstream infinite movies was C3POs obvious open alliance with R2-D2. It is the very explanation of boys own cinema. Perhaps we should be content that in the virile, lissom figure of Rhod, the French chairman established a hero so eccentrically kinky that their like is certainly not be seen in big-budget Hollywood sci-fi for at the least the next 20 years.

Read more: www.theguardian.com

The post The Fifth Element at 20: gender-bending sci-fi or sexist opening shambles? appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2yzQvx4 via IFTTT

[gossipnetwork-blog]

BDSM: Inside Changing Leather, Kink Scene

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/bdsm-inside-changing-leather-kink-scene/

BDSM: Inside Changing Leather, Kink Scene

They arrive beneath an ornate spiral staircase in the marble foyer of Chicago’s Congress Plaza hotel wearing leather dog m­asks, Dalmatian-print rompers, and wrestling singlets with zippers strategically placed down the cleft of their glutes.

Rubber mats line the floor of the Buckingham Room, a typical hotel conference facility with subdued carpeting and neutral gold curtains. There, amid stiff-backed chairs and folding tables bearing enormous coffee urns, dozens of men bend down on all fours, stick out their tongues and begin to bark.

But hotel staff doesn’t bat an eye. The occasion is the International Mr. Leather convention, an annual gathering of some of the most sexually adventurous people in the world.

The barking men had convened for a “pup romp,” organized for people gratified by role-playing as dogs. There in the Buckingham Room, they cuddled for an hour, and joined in a frenzied chase when a man in a squirrel costume ran through the crowd.

Outside of the romp, thousands more people – mostly men, mostly gay – had descended on the hotel for five days of parties, kinky commerce, creative sex and fashion. The Congress Plaza was packed for the weekend with people wearing next to nothing, jostling through the halls between social and sexual engagements.

In the hotel lobby, attendees mingled with giant phallic balloon interpretations of the blue and black leather pride flag, drifting through the colorful inflated tubes like fish in the tentacles of sea anemones.

In the world of unusual tastes, IML has functioned for decades as a sort of annual conclave. But it’s undergoing a remarkable change.

The leather enthusiasts who convene at IML inhabit a mid-point between subcultures. While the broader LGBT community encompasses everything from lesbian bookstores to the occasional gay Republican, the leather tribe inhabits a few narrow bands of that spectrum. And then, nestled inside of leather, are smaller stripes like pups, hypnotists, foot fetishists, floggers, superheroes and kinks yet to be named. In the world of unusual tastes, IML has functioned for decades as a sort of annual conclave. But it’s undergoing a remarkable change.

There’s always been a tension in the leather community between the “old guard” and “new guard.” One has always been more conservative and devoted to tradition; the other more experimental and open to change. For decades, the old guard has grumbled about the new guard, until the youngsters age into old-timers who roll their eyes at yet another wave of newcomers.

So it has always been, as in so many subcultures: A cascade of generations, each one rippling from young into old. But in recent years, the leather scene has experienced a rapid expansion, testing its elasticity as it stretches further than ever before. It’s a fundamental shift in the boundaries and values of the community – a shift that, depending on whom you ask, may disintegrate the community, or may be necessary for it to go on.

What began as a humble bar party at Chicago’s Gold Coast in 1979 – a celebration of animal-hide uniforms over muscular male physiques – has grown to fill the downtown hotel with thousands of fetishists, allowing organizers to expand their offerings from a simple social gathering to a full multi-day convention. “It takes a hotel and turns it into a leather bar for the weekend,” says writer Dan Savage, a frequent attendee.

Every year, IML concludes with a pageant to select the men and women best suited to represent the community, with titles reminiscent of Midwestern agricultural festivals. But instead of Miss Rhubarb taking home a trophy for her cobbler, a leatherman will be awarded a the sash as International Mr. Leather for his appeal in a jockstrap.

Nestled within the leather subculture are smaller stripes like hypnotists, foot fetishists, floggers, superheroes and, of course, pups. Matt Baume for Rolling Stone

The subculture is thought to have grown out of the post-World-War-II biker scene, which tended be dominated by uniforms, buzz cuts and military honor codes. It was an aesthetic that resonated with gay men who couldn’t identify with the more effete stereotypes of the time.

Those gay men formed motorcycle clubs like the Satyrs in Los Angeles and the Warlocks in San Francisco. They covered themselves in leather, conforming to a look of masculine independence that came to mainstream attention by way of Marlon Brando’s 1953 film The Wild One. Chicago’s Gold Coast was the first gay bar to cater to the leather scene in 1958, and it was there that IML began in the late Seventies.

At the time that the community formed, being discovered as queer was enough to ruin a person’s life. Police conducted routine raids of gay bars, with their victims identified by names in newspapers. Even in the relative safety of the mid-century gay enclaves, an interest in kinky sex led to stigma and ostracism.

“The word ‘leather’ was the code word for men in the Forties,” explains Carmelle, a longtime photographer in the scene. “Back then, it was a way of asking, ‘Are you into rough sex, bondage, S&M?’ It’s like Christians drawing half the fish,” she says, referring to stories of early believers drawing half-arcs so others could draw a second arc to complete the symbol.

At the time that the community formed, being discovered as queer was enough to ruin a person’s life. 

Though the pageant is strictly focused on leather, IML attendees generally interpret “leather” to include any fetish garb.

“Leather means just about any material,” says Jonathan Schroder, general manager of the fetish store Mr. S Leather in San Francisco. For him, “leather” can be anything from flogging to rope to inserting your entire fist into another person’s ass. “Fisting doesn’t involve much clothing at all,” he points out.

On the other end of the spectrum, there’s BLUF, the Breeches and Leather Uniform Fanclub, which maintains a dress code that includes tall boots, leather trousers, and a leather shirt and tie.

Most people in the community fall somewhere between. “Like a leather jockstrap under their business suit,” Schroder says with a giddy look on his face.

For decades, practitioners have maintained a sense of continuity by conforming to at least some measure of protocol and mentorship. Traditionally, an older leatherman would take a younger man under his wing. Dominant, assertive men of a certain age might go by “Daddy” or “Sir,” and would pass down leather traditions. In return, a younger member might identify as “Boy” (and increasingly, “Pup”) and get a role model of a kind that, until recently, was denied to gay men by the mainstream culture.

At one recent IML party, a millennial was overheard asking an older man, “Could you hold my jacket, please?” to which the older man replied, “What was that?” The boy corrected himself: “Could you hold my jacket please, sir?” The older man obliged, flicking a riding crop against his leg as he helped the younger man into his gear.

Caretaking such as this was particularly necessary during the worst years of the AIDS epidemic. Over morning coffee with friends baring various amounts of skin, Carmelle recalls her experience in the 1980s, living in a tight-knit arrangement known as a “leather family.” These familial structures can include numerous people looking out for each other when biological relatives can’t be counted on.

What began as a small party in 1979 has turned into a weekend-long event. Matt Baume for Rolling Stone

“We discovered almost all the men were HIV-positive,” she says. “Our Sir got pneumonia and he died in, I want to say, five days.”

Knowing what lay ahead, the family dominatrix decided that Carmelle should be trained in hospice care. She helped many of her leather family die in peace, adopting Miles Davis’ record Ascenseur Pour Léchafaud (“elevator to the gallows”) as the music for the house.

“They were all dying at the same time,” she says. “They become your brothers and sisters. There’s that one thing that bonds us – we can protect each other in a world full of strangers.”

“HIV/AIDS flipped the script,” says Dan Savage. He recalled guerilla sex education programs in the Eighties that consisted of informal meetups in dorm rooms to talk about how kinky sex, like bondage and spanking, diminished the risk of transmission. “Things that were insanely kinky and depraved, like fisting or getting whipped, were safer than boring anal intercourse.”

But as the hazards of being openly queer disappear and more casual kinksters discover leather, those traditions have fallen away.

Young people are eager to dive in to the sex – but they don’t understand the extensive rules and protocol.

“Back in the day, it was important that you received your first leathers from someone in the community,” says Schroder. “There was a sense of earning.” A jockstrap might be passed down after an intense sex scene, for example. “I think people today have a sense of freedom to discover sexuality on their own. And experimenting doesn’t seem so spooky.”

Today’s IML attracts far more casual kinksters than in decades past, and fewer devotees of the leather rulebook. Vendors at IML now find themselves selling more gear to first-timers than ever before, showing the ropes – sometimes literally – to young people eager to dive in to the sex without also signing up for the extensive rules and protocol.

The reasons that the leather community originally formed have faded as it’s become easier to be open about an interest in leather, rubber, or rope. The stigma of kink has decreased; being queer is no longer an arrestable offense; HIV is treatable; and a handful of states have made it illegal to fire or evict a person for being gay.

As mainstream interest in leather has grown, the community has had to address an atmosphere that, at times, has felt unwelcoming to those who didn’t match the traditional 1950s biker look.

“I almost didn’t come,” says Mama Cleo, an African-American woman. IML is an overwhelmingly white male event, which made her feel unwelcome – until she learned of a caucus where she could discuss minority issues. Attending that group was a relief, she says, proving to her that she did indeed belong.

“The leather community is just a microcosm of the general gay community, where people of color are still a minority,” says Mufasa Ali, founder and National Council chair of an organization called Onyx. “The community is supposed to be about inclusion and being for everyone, because it’s an outlaw community. But when I walk into a leather bar, do I see me? Oftentimes you don’t see anybody like you.”

Onyx arranges workshops, parties and newsletters to connect people of color within the leather community and address their unique concerns. Those topics can range from the fetishizing of dark skin to the implications of the master/slave dynamic; and on a practical level, mindful training is necessary to recognize when dark skin has been excessively flogged. He’s definitely noticed a shift in demographics.

“We’re attracting younger people now,” he says. “Our youngest member in the last few years was 22, but we’ve been seeing a number of people in their twenties and early thirties come to us.”

Women have also faced ostracism within the leather community. Since 1993, IML has hosted a contest for bootblacking, the art of cleaning and maintaining leather goods. The contest that was open to all genders, with IML attendees scoring the contestants, but before long, the late Amy Marie Meek – who produced International Ms. Leather – noticed that attendees tended to judge women bootblacks less favorably than men. Her solution was to create a separate competition for women, which has remained in place since 1999.

And although overt misogyny has waned, it remains an undercurrent at IML, with the historic devotion to masculine ideals leading to occasional schisms. When Jefferson Ely competed as Mr. Phoenix Leather in 2015, he drew scattered boos with his apparel: Amidst the men in quasi-cop outfits and biker gear, he marched out on stage wearing heels, a corset, and a fur wrap.

At IML, leather comes in many forms. Matt Baume for Rolling Stone

“Some people in the leather community really tend to romanticize the Tom of Finland image, the super masculine, super butch, highly cartoonish image,” he says. “They assume that you don’t belong in their community [if you don’t look like that.]”

This is an issue that IML is aware of, and working to address in any way they can. “We have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to any incidents involving racist or misogynistic activities,” says IML Media Coordinator Tyesha Best. “Visual representation of BIPOC (Black Indigenous People of Color) existence in leather and kink is one of the most important priorities in our communities at large. We strive to remain as educated and self aware of this as possible.”

Best cites organizations like the Panthers Leather Club as having expanded visibility for marginalized groups in the community.

“There are many individuals who work to make leather more inclusive,” she says. “It starts at the top. It is up to the producers and coordinators of conferences, organizations and other events that inclusivity goes beyond just volunteers.”

This year, 63 contestants worked their way up through leather contests at local bars, then cities, and then states, arriving in Chicago to compete for the International Mr. Leather title. The pageant is like a Miss America pageant soaked in testosterone: There’s a “pecs and personalities” component; a jockstrap segment; and contestant speeches delivered like a series of short kinky TED talks.

“What now is our role as leather people?” demanded contestant Kenn Kennedy from the stage, his tight uniform squeaking as he paced. “To show those who despise us that we do not fear them here in Leatherland.”

Numerous contestants shared that eagerness to engage in of bold, unashamed publicity. While in the past, leather was an inward-facing community that looked after its own, it’s become increasingly visible as the definition of leather expands. The secret sex-ed gatherings, the mentorship and the leather families are slowly giving way to more casual kinksters. Leather is no longer the only available refuge for those in the kinky underground, now that it’s easier than ever to learn about gay sex, to find role models, and to form close bonds within a community of queers.

The celebratory atmosphere of recent IMLs reflects a wider optimism within the LGBTQ community.

Events like the goofy, lighthearted pup romp would have been hard to imagine under the formal masculine ideals of previous decades. But so would such advances as open military service, the freedom to marry and treatments that prevent the transmission of HIV. The celebratory atmosphere of recent IMLs reflects a wider optimism within the LGBTQ community that’s accompanied progress in civil liberties, public health, and inclusion.

Several speeches acknowledged the challenges faced by minority groups within the community. “Imagine if existing means coming out every moment every day,” boomed Daddy Jeff, Mr. Midwest Leather 2016, from the stage. “Imagine how that must make our people of color, our women, our trans friends feel.”

Leather evolved as secret code issued from the closet for the protection of men whose lives would be ruined by outing; later, it was a community of support that weathered an epidemic. Now, as leather and the queer community grow steadily more welcoming, the focus can shift to an increasingly public and unapologetic enjoyment of sexuality.

“The stigma around being a leatherman has decreased,” Schroeder, of Mr. S Leather, says as he arranges harnesses in the morning, anticipating the crush of customers about to pour through the doors.

“I’m 52, so I remember in my early twenties, going to a leather bar was really stigmatized,” says Dan Savage. “If your other 22-year-old friends found out you went … they’d look at you like a deranged pervert.” Now, he says, “there’s a joyful acceptance of everyone’s different thing. And everyone recognizing that we’re part of a larger kink community. That’s a wonderful thing to see happen over the last 30 years.”

That’s not to say that the community has abandoned its past, and isn’t preparing for challenges that lie ahead. At this year’s competition, contestants spoke passionately about the threats posed by a Republican administration that’s gutting HIV programs, that’s revoking civil rights protections and that appointed a hostile justice to the United States Supreme Court.

But there was no attitude of resignation or despondency in the speeches. As the boundaries of leather expand, so too has a spirit of confidence and pride and determination to be heard.

“Hope is in fighting back together,” declared Mr. San Francisco Leather Geoff Millard, an Iraq war vet, looking out upon an international audience in extraordinary costumes. “And doing it all while looking fabulous in leather.” 

Source link