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subrapture · 4 years ago

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It appears it's time to post this again, for the newcomers and the curious.

THE OLD GUARD, HISTORY, ORIGINS AND TRADITIONS.

By Guy Baldwin M.S.

Guy Baldwin, M.S. a Los Angeles psychotherapist, served as International Mr. Leather and Mr. National Leather Association during 1989-90

While reading a recent interview with Brian Dawson, I came across some of his comments about that '0ld Guard' In the leather lifestyle. Although I used that label in a piece I wrote almost three years ago, I only recently realized that there was a strong likelihood that large numbers of leather guys don't quite know for sure what the phrase, '0ld Guard' really means. I'm sure that I have never seen a description of the style (and it is a style, so I want to offer one now. I have carried my own '0ld Guard' card in my wallet right next to my Selective Service Registration card (draft card) for long enough that I probably qualify to offer what follows so, here goes...

First, a bit of historical perspective will be more helpful than you might guess. '0ld Guard' is really a misnomer - a misapplied name - for the earliest set of habits that jelled by the mid- to late 1950s in the men's leather community here in the U . S. It is very important to remember that the modern leather scene as we now know it first formalized itself out of the group of men who were soldiers returning home after World War ll. (l939-1945).

For many gay men of that era, their World War ll. military service was their first homosocial experience (first time being thrown together mostly in the company of other men for significant lengths of time), their first time away from their growing up places, and their first experience of male bonding during periods of high stress. War was (and is) serious business; people died, buddies depended on each other for their lives, and the chips were down. Discipline was the order of the day, and the nation believed that only discipline and dedication would win the war and champion freedom: (Ever notice the especially strong patriotic feelings that happen at leather events?)

Anyway, these gay war veterans learned about the value and pleasure of discipline and hard work in the achievement of a noble purpose. They also learned how to play hard when they got the chance for leave time. Indeed, military life during wartime was (and is) a mix of emotional extremes born out of sure knowledge that one could literally be 'here today, and gone tomorrow. ' Lastly (for these purposes), the gay vets had the secret knowledge that they fought and served every bit as well as straight soldiers, and this information strengthened their self-esteem. All of these things came to be associated with the disciplined, military way of life as it existed during the wartime years.

Although not all gay men of that time served in the military, those who didn't were exposed to the military attitudes through their contact with the vast numbers of military men who were everywhere to be seen and cruised both during and immediately after the war years. In any case, all these things greatly influenced the shape of masculine gay sexualities. Mars

Upon their return to the States about 1946, many of the gay vets wanted to retain the most satisfying elements of their military experience and, at the same time, hang out socially and sexually with other masculine gay men. They found that only in the swashbuckling motorcycle culture did such opportunities exist and so the gay bike clubs were born. It was here that they found the combination of easy camaraderie, the stress and thrill of real risk taking (the riding), and the masculine sexuality that they had known during their military days.

Since one can tell who is and is not in the military only when uniforms are worn, these gay men unconsciously (in most cases) transferred their loyalties to their own uniform-the leather gear of bike riders with a few paramilitary touches thrown in. Club insignia often recalled hose insignia of special military units: Thunderbolts, Warriors, Blue Max, and Iron Cross to name only a few. Club members would exchange their insignia with members of other clubs in friendship; christening rituals were transferred from tanks, ships and airplanes to motorcycles and piss was substituted for champagne; the military dress uniform hats became the leather bike caps-all these elements were just as had been during military service.

Incidentally, during the war, the soldiers would often put on skits for their own amusement. Since women were not allowed at the front, some of the men would play the parts of women by doing a kind of mock dress-up (as in one scene from 'South Pacific'). Later, this tradition would be expressed in 'drag' shows during bike runs. So, masculine men pretended to be pretending to be women-not truly 'drag' at all. (lt. still happens in a few places.)

In any case, being in the military also meant following lots of rules. And just as in the military, there were (unspoken) rules about what you did and did not wear, how you handled your personal affairs, who you could and could not socialize with and more. All this was overlaid with a kind of ritual formalism just as in the military. Those men who were really into dominance and submission, SM, or leather sex tended to take these rules rather more seriously than those guys who simply thought of themselves as butch. The butch ones wore just enough leather to be practical when riding, and those into the exotic sexualities tended to wear more gear than necessary to signal this fact about themselves, but they all hung out together in the same settings. As you might guess, in some cases, any particular person might be into both riding and the exotic sexualities.

Just as an aside here, before and during the war, kinky folks seeking to identify each other would sometimes defensively ask, 'Do you play the mandolin or the saxophone?' to discover which of them was the masochist or the sadist by the first letter of these instruments. All this while wearing street clothes! The creation of a butch subculture by the gay vets began to allow people to specialize their sexual interests in a way that had been impossible earlier. Prior to this development. it was not apparent that there were very many ways to be gay.

The bike clubs and the bars where they hung out became the magnets of their day which attracted those gay men who were interested in the masculine end of the gay spectrum, but it was the leather men who defined the masculine extreme at that time. (Nowadays, we know there are many ways to be masculine.) This meant that those who had an inclination to kinky action pretty much felt compelled to explore kink in the context of the leather SM scene since it was the only game in town. If motorcycle riding or black leather itself was not 'your thing', that meant one felt obligated to visit the hang outs and look and act the part as much as possible to find one's way into the inner circle of those who looked like they knew something about the exotic sexualities. This meant finding out what the rules of inclusion were (how can I be included?) in order to gain access. To some extent, all this is still true because the attitude still prevails that the 'uniform'' indicates experience and social access to the Knowledgeable People.

And so, the Scene became EX-clusive rather than IN-clusive, meaning that the people in the Scene understood the rules and tried to keep outsiders out-to exclude them. An outsider became defined as anyone (butch or not) who did not have a primary interest in and experience with the exotic sexualities or at least an interest in motorcycles. (This excluding attitude was probably also reinforced by guilt about being kinky.)

I know that this combination of kinky men mixed in with motorcycle riders may sound a bit odd now, but that's how the Scene worked and, to some slight extent, still does. All through the 80's, with the emergence of kinky organizations and specifically leather/SM events, the motorcycle riding community and the kinky leather community have grown apart such that now those in one group are pretty much ignorant of or indifferent to the events happening in the other.

This growing separation is more true in larger cities which have the numbers of people that are necessary to support each of these two communities, each with separate needs and agendas. Consequently, many old and venerable bike clubs have experienced a drop in membership and some have disbanded altogether.

But for the most part, kinky people have segregated themselves out from the riders as the process of erotic specialization has continued. Generally, the riding community seems not to have minded this development perhaps because many of the members of riding clubs are either turned off or embarrassed by the erotic visibility of the kinky crowd "Birds of a feather". But for this discussion, it is noteworthy that many of those kinky people retained the paramilitary trappings, manners and attitudes of that early, core group of returning World War ll. gay vets.

Most importantly, these features of the military mind-set joined with inky interests and became erotic in and of themselves became fetishes. These men then were the original '0ld Guard', and so it will come as no surprise that their quasi-military rules of inclusion and exclusion still influence kinky society today.

So what exactly were the (unspoken) "Old Guard' rules? Here are a few of the more important ones that had prevailed by 1970:

About Attire

Always wear boots, butch ones, and preferably black.

Always wear a wide black leather belt plain, not fancy.

Never mix brown leather with black leather.

Never mix chrome or silver trim with gold or brass trim.

Long pants only, Levi's or leather, and no shorts.

Chaps indicate more commitment than Levi's, and leather pants more commitment than chaps, especially when worn consistently.

Leather Jackets must have epaulets (bike riders excepted).

Head gear is reserved for Tops or experienced or heavy bottoms only.

Bottoms may not own collars unless a particular Top has allowed that bottom to be the custodian of the Top's collar. A bottom wearing a collar is a slave, and belongs to the owner of the collar who, presumably, has the keys. Other Tops are not to engage a collared bottom in conversation, but other bottoms may do so. Should such a relationship end, the collar must be returned to the Top.

Never touch the bill of a bike cap, including your own.

Never touch another man's cap (or head gear) unless you are very intimate friends or lovers.

Keep studs and other decorations to a tasteful minimum unless they happen to be club insignia.

Never wear another man's leather unless he puts it on you.

Leather, other than boots and belt, must be 'earned' through the achievement of successively challenging 'scenes.'

Wearing gloves is reserved for heavy players, glove fetishists or bike riders.

Always indicate SM preference, only with keys left or right.

If you are cruising seriously, wear the keys out; if not seriously, tuck them in a back pocket. Always indicate strictly leather sex or 'rough sex' interest by wearing no keys at all.

Those who 'switch' are second class players and not to be taken as seriously because they haven't made their minds up. If you must switch, do so in another town.

'Full' leather is reserved for after 10:00 P.M. only and only with 'our own kind'.

Respect the public by wearing less of it during the day--don't frighten old ladies (l did once by accident), or anyone else for that matter.

About Socializing and Cruising:

Experience in the Scene determines social seniority (Top or bottom) , not age, not size, not amount of leather worn, and not offices held in organizations, awards received or titles won.

Tops and experienced bottoms should be accorded higher respect and deference unless and until they behave rudely--all are expected to observe rules of social courtesy-bad manners are inexcusable and can lower one's status in the Scene (thereby reducing access to the Knowledgeable People for information or play),

Real Leathermen keep their word: they do not borrow or lend money; they conduct their affairs with honor and integrity-they don't lie.

Preliminary social contact should be on the formal side.

'Senior Persons' (Top or bottom) are not to be interrupted when in conversation.

Experience being equal, Tops lead the conversation.

Junior Tops defer to Senior Tops and Senior bottoms in social situations.

Junior bottoms defer to all others in the Scene but not to outsiders.

When walking together, bottoms walk half-a-step behind and to the left of Tops with whom they are involved or playing.

It is up to the Top or the experienced bottom to extend a hand to invite a handshake. (All touching is highly restricted during initial contact between strangers.) NEVER over-indulge in drugs or alcohol in public, or otherwise attract scornful attention to one's self--to do so brings dishonor on the men in the Scene,

Tops should always have the first two opportunities to make verbal or physical contact,

The more submissive one is, the less direct eye contact one makes-glance frequently at or stare at His boots only when cruising; less so in non-sexual conversation. The more dominant one is, the more direct the eye contact is unless there is no erotic interest (cruising only).

Men in the Scene do not discuss (or write about) the Scene with outsiders. All men in the Scene must be able to spot outsiders with the 'right stuff' and be ready to facilitate them into the Scene after they indicate sincere interest.

None of these rules are taught or explained to anyone except by innuendo, inference, or example.

Erotic technical information is only shared among peers.

Maintain formal and non-committal relationships with those outside the scene; avoid contact with feminine men. Women are not allowed although Senior People may occasionally have intellectual or brief social relationships with the occasional qualified kinky woman, but only in private.

Very few men maintained full compliance with all these rules all the time, and some, flatly refused to follow rules they personally objected to. But, to be included one was expected to follow at least most of these rules most of the time. Also, confusingly, there was some variation in some of the rules depending on what city you happened to be in at the time. The list above is not complete although it conveys the sense of the style.

Understandably, a certain stiffness surrounded the men who followed these rules, just as a certain stiffness surrounded the military men of the era. Those who sought inclusion had the challenge of finding a relaxed and easygoing way to follow rules. However, this required considerable social skill and many kinky people lacking those skills (or patience ) simply gave up and accepted a frustrated role on the fringe.

As time passed, there were more and more guys in their twenties whose early sexual development had not been influenced strongly by contact with the military. Therefore, they lacked the early raw material with which to fetish-ize the military features of the '0ld Guard' leather/SM scene. Still, they needed information and experiences to help shape the urges of insistent kinky longings.

These people were essentially without resources until the establishment of kinky organizations brought about new educational opportunities that were not bound by '0ld Guard' rules.

Consequently, there is a lot more support now for new people coming into the leather/ SM scene who have other ideas (non- military) about what is hot. Long hair, rockers with wild designs on their jackets, road racing bikers with brightly colored leathers, leather faeries, skinheads, women and others now are found on turf once dominated by the '0ld Guard' system'.

So, '0ld Early Guard' or perhaps thought of as 'Early Guard" or perhaps 'First Guard' because that style makes sense given the erotic influences that shaped the inner lives of the men who were coming of age sexually at that time. The Old Guard made some real contributions and made some real mistakes, and still does both.

It is more useful to understand than to criticize. And, perhaps most importantly, what the Old Guard did for the development and expansion of kinky life and butch gay male sexuality can best be appreciated against the backdrop of what had existed earlier--not much of anything!

But remember this, as long as we have a military, and a paramilitary police system, and as long as that military has traditions of initiation, ritual, inclusion/exclusion, honor and service, there will always be an '0ld Guard'. Its size and influence in the leather/SM scene will probably always be proportional to the role played by the military and other paramilitary organizations in society-larger following wartime and smaller during peace.

I thought maybe you'd like to know.

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pagesofivy · 5 years ago

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All Knotted Up

Prompt: Kinbaku/Shibari rope bondage for @there-must-be-a-lock Lou’s 2k(inky) Celebration

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader

Word Count: 1150

Warnings: talk of shibari, but no dirty stuff yet

Beta: @ladymidnightt

Find it on AO3

This is part 1!! Part 2 will have smut!! (Let me know if you want tagged!)

You tug the rope, tightening the last knot and pulling everything into place, then take a step back, proud of your handiwork. You check your camera viewfinder, then adjust some of the lighting and set pieces around the torso before taking pictures, pulling the camera from the tripod and moving around to get closer pictures and different angles.

The photos come out looking really good and you upload them to your computer before doing some editing on them to get the pictures looking exactly how you want, and once they’re perfect, you upload them to your Instagram account. Stepping away from the laptop, you set about cleaning up your workspace, carefully un-knotting the rope and pulling it off before rolling it up and putting it on its proper hook. You shut the big photo lights off, plug the camera in, and then grab your laptop and the mannequin before leaving the room, making sure to lock it on your way to your bedroom.

Laying on your bed, you think back to when you first started with shibari. A stolen mannequin and old rope were your original materials, not the best but not horrible. Your photos at first were just taken on your phone with a white sheet and a lamp as backdrop and lighting; they weren’t perfect, but they weren’t awful either. You’d made an Instagram account - ropepractitioner - to keep track of your progress and your work overall, visually, and somehow you’d gained followers quickly. At first, you’d checked out the account of every new follower, curious about the type of people following, but after one too many straight up nude accounts, you’d become more selective, only looking into accounts with names that interested you.

That’s how you’d found out that Sam Winchester, your lifelong crush and the man living just down the hall from you, follows your Shibari account. Always a lover of books and monster lore, you’d been intrigued by the handle “lorelover83” and had gone to see what the account involved. The photos on the account were gorgeous photos of old book and their pages, some with clear type and some faded, all beautiful. Some of the books look familiar, but you brush it off as having seen so many books in your life, at least at first. That is until you come across a book you’d seen just a few days ago, on the exact pages you’d been looking at.

Plus, the captions were lore tidbits that, to an uninitiated onlooker, would seem like fun mythology, but to any in-the-know hunter would be invaluable information, so obviously the account was a hunter-run thing. It only made sense that Sam Winchester, king of lore and research with the eternal personal wi-fi hotspot, would run an Instagram page with hunting tips for anyone involved.

You don’t say anything to Sam of course, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, and life goes on. You keep practicing between hunts, picking up rope and ties and mannequins when you can, posting pictures as you go. You figure out what content people want, what content you want to post, and figure out how photo editing works. Slowly but surely your follower count goes up, and it’s a point of pride that your hobby has gained so much popularity. One night when you’re working on a new shoot though, it all comes out.

Generally, you make sure the door to your “studio” is closed tight, not wanting Sam or Dean to stumble in, but in the midst of everything, your dinner isn’t agreeing with your stomach. You hurry out of the room and shut the door, heading straight for the bathroom, but when you get back, the door is partially open, and your heart stops. Maybe it just creaked open. Maybe I just didn’t shut it all the way.

Pushing the door open the rest of the way, your heart stops cold when you see Sam standing by your half-tied mannequin, examining it closely. You’re not sure what to do, so you announce your presence by coughing, which makes Sam jump guiltily.

“S-Sorry, I just… I saw the door was open, and I was looking for you, I didn’t mean…” He’s flustered, cheeks burning, eyes staring at the floor, and while you’re definitely embarrassed, seeing Sam like this is too cute for words.

“It’s fine Sam, it’s my fault. I should’ve shut the door better. But now that you’re in here, what do you think of it so far? I’m about halfway through.” You motion to the mannequin beside him, walking over and getting back to work.

Sam hesitates, then lifts his eyes and watches, enraptured as your hands move deftly with the rope, knotting and looping and forming the design exactly how you want.

“It looks amazing! I’ve never seen anyone doing Shibari in person, you’re really good at it.” His voice is full of awe and when you look up from your work, he’s looking at you with wonder, like you’re using magic.

“I might have to put some videos of me working on my Instagram, give people a behind-the-scenes look. Good idea Sam!” You smile at him before turning your focus back on your work.

“You… You have an Instagram account for this stuff?” He asks, stumbling over the words, surprised.

“Yeah. You follow me, you know? Ropepractitioner? That’s me.” Dropping the name of your account makes your heart pound; you’d never told anyone of the account before - except Charlie, who had helped you set it up and still helps run it occasionally - and nobody that followed you knew anything personal about you. Telling Sam is a big, trusting step, which makes you terrified.

When Sam’s been quiet for too long, you look up to see his jaw dropped, eyes wide with awe. “You’re ropepractitioner? Holy shit! You’re amazing! Your account is gorgeous! Your work is so good!” Sam starts fangirling and you have to let go of the rope in your hands to grab his hands, keeping him in place.

“Sam, Sam please. Yes, that’s my account. I’ve had a lot of practice and it’s been a journey of growth. Please don’t freak out that much, I’m still just me.” It’s your turn to be flustered, the praise unusual and slightly uncomfortable coming from someone you know; the kinky side of your life is something you’d never planned on sharing with anyone you know.

“Of course you’re still you, you’re just also the rope goddess that I’ve admired for months now.” Sam scoffs, then curses. “Shit! I, uh, didn’t mean to say that out loud. You’re great, that’s all. It’s cool knowing you’re also into this, and also that you’re so good at it.”

There’s an awkward pause where neither of you know what to say, and then Sam audibly gulps, looking nervous as hell as he asks, “Would you… Would you mind letting me be a model sometime?”

#sam winchester x reader #shibari #lou's 2k(inky) celebration #supernatural fic #spn fanfic #twx writes #twx fanfic #social media fic

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belladonnaandulriched · 4 years ago

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the artist | prologue

something that began life with my encounters with joey belladonna on instagram last fall and this past spring (before they turned into qvc 2.0 in late october, that is). i thought of him, as well as the time i wrote a letter to lars and the three years chris was in my periphery. thus, this is actually somewhat autobiographical as well as my watching the world unfurl right before my eyes in the year 2020. joey, lars, and i are alive in this terror-filled nightmare that chris never saw, and i cherish every second the two of them are continuing to walk the earth with me. consider it a testament of our survival that we have reached the final 30 days of this year unscathed.

i’m also looking ahead to after the pandemic, how the world might manifest in the virus’ wake after looking at history with the world-changing diseases like spanish flu, smallpox, and the black plague, as well as civil unrest and the existential threat that is climate change. i will admit that i have no idea where we all will be in 5 years time, but i can guarantee that no nation was the same following those events, especially since the united states was seemingly on the brink of destruction for a few years preceding the pandemic. it’s kind of like what sci-fi writers of the early 20th century did with the advent of the nuclear bomb as well as space travel.

at this point, with 20 chapters left to write, i hold the artist right up with now it’s dark, amped and wired, and black diamonds. it’s me living in a world that has collapsed and we’re all living in the unknown; it’s me wondering which step to take next with the three men i adore near me. it’s not on the same level of agony with my dead trilogy fics, the mirror never lies, or my original work black rain (which i wrote as a goodbye to chris), but it’s... it’s definitely there.

anyways, enjoy! xoxo

He was a tall lithe gentleman with those lush dark curls strewn over his shoulders as though they were the sides of a mane. The way he moved about on a stage with either that shiny mint green guitar cradled in his hands as though it were a naked woman, or the microphone as though it were about to get away from him was enough for me to pick up a pencil. I wanted to touch and caress his black curls, to put them down on paper. He was what I referred to as “draw-able” in that I always returned to him for inspiration.

I swore that it wasn't a phase—I tried to convince my dad that it wasn't a phase, even when I showed him my first drawing of Chris. I was proud of the drawing, too: it was rough and sketchy, and yet you could tell it was him with those long shoulder length curls behind his back and down over his collar bones. I had used a single pencil to draw him as well.

“Holly, you've gotta do something else with your art,” he said to me that first time. “You've got to do some more still life.”

I often heard that a few times thereafter, even as I did more studies of Chris singing and in different stances to understand his anatomy a little better. It always struck me as odd that my art wasn't more embraced at home growing up, even though my parents were more than happy to support me in my path to art school. My dad showed me the one school down in Portland. I wanted to stay there in Tacoma, even with Chris and his band based up in Seattle.

At some point, and by that, I mean a few months before I graduated, to work my way around that complaint, I began incorporating more plants into my drawings of him. More roses and more leaves jutting out from his shoulders and from the crown of his head. I kept those drawings to myself, granted I knew if I shared them with the household they wouldn't be seen as serious art.

One time when I strolled into an art shop for some colored pencils and I had my sketchbook tucked underneath my arm, I went in under the power of a secret. I had climbed off the bus before the one outside of my house. I protected my sketchbook from the soft spring misty rain of the Northwest. I had a few dollars in my pocket, money left over from the stimulus money I had scrounged up. Just enough for some new colored pencils for some more botanical type work for my drawings.

I'm the multiracial kid with the kinky coarse black hair inherited by a Native American mama and the pale skin from my half white daddy. It had been a long road to hoe the past few years in the wake of the pandemic, especially for my mom and me. She and I had been dealing with it with a bit more difficulty from my dad, since he was the one with the job, at least at first. Even though I was a few years younger by the time we got our check, I got one for myself and I made sure the money stretched enough to whenever we got another one.

Even with my drawing pad under my arm, and the introduction of my digital drawing tablet, I had days where it felt like I needed to do something a bit more useful.

It was from all of the times I heard my dad's criticisms about my art in the past. Add to this, the uncertainty from living through a global pandemic and social reset made me wonder where we all would go from the second the dust settled. I needed to rest my head so much following even the smallest projects. I had witnessed the older generation pushed to its brink and stragglers such as myself found themselves at square one for so long that it was difficult to know which way to go. I was always told that I needed something feasible, something to keep me safe. But the pandemic showed that nothing was safe.

Even in my spare time, or in the times I took a day off from drawing, I found myself seeking solace in reading about things like science and of course, listening to music. For years, I found myself leaning more towards the harder side of the rock n' roll world: Soundgarden was the first band I had found, but then there came along Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. It helped that they hailed from the north of us, so it made sense to me to find them.

But then there was Metallica and Anthrax.

I would sit on the floor of the living room before my stereo with the radio tuned to the modern rock station nearby, and with my earphones in my ears; I would sit there with my drawing pad cradled in my lap and let the music be my master. I came for the scene to the north, but I found my way to the heavy stuff.

I had used a little bit of the stimulus money to buy myself a couple of albums, on part of the recommendation of the chick in the record store of course.

Those swirling powerful but simple drums riddled throughout the Black Album. So simple and yet so strong and with such prowess, perfect for the spine of the music. That strong and exotically beautiful voice from Spreading the Disease. I wanted to touch that voice, to put it and cement it down into something like paper. I was enthralled by the power and prowess of heavy metal.

I scoured the channels of Tumblr to see and study their faces, to see Lars and his long lush brown hair and fuzz about his face, to see Joey and his long beautiful black curls and handsome face, to see them all. And yet I still found my way back to Chris. I still found my way back to him and that unique voice. So deep and full in places and yet unafraid to howl.

And yet I felt so far behind them, a teenage girl from a lower end family and with mixed roots. A girl with parents working so hard that they almost ignore the very craft she was proud of.

I wanted to draw him with roses, complete with the lush red and orange petals. Thus I headed to the little store for some new colored pencils—those good ones that come in all manner of shades of color in a silvery tin. I brought my sketchbook along with me to try them out before I bought them for myself. I already had sketched a portrait of Chris himself but I left him as is so as to fill him out later on.

I stepped into the front of the shop and stripped off my hood. I ran my fingers through my coarse black hair and then unbuttoned my jacket: I looked down at the linoleum floor underneath me. My jeans were falling apart: the waist fitted me a little too well at that point and the hems were tattered. My mom vowed to fix them for me, but when the fabric stores were all closed during the pandemic, it was difficult to find anything that could help us.

I shuffled across the shiny linoleum to the aisle with the colored pencils and the nice paints. I stood before the display case and scanned the tins and boxes before me to find anything that would catch my eye.

I was still adjusting to the world following the pandemic: there was a part of me that wanted to stroke my chin in pensive thought but after hearing all of the talk on not touching your face, a part of me continued to resist that very tidbit. I spotted a box of Prismacolor pencils, seventeen of them to be exact.

Seventeen, and as smooth as butter and right within the budget of twenty dollars in my pocket.

I set my sketchbook down on the shelf so I could open the box and reveal those pencils, and I hoped to see them as sharp and new as I would ever see them. I'm usually easy going on all of my tools just out of the nature of the price range, but I wanted to make the roses on Chris as bold and fiery of red as possible. I took out the scarlet red one and opened the sketchbook for the inside cover and I paid no attention to the fact I held the box, open end sideways. Three pencils slid out from under me.

“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself as I closed the cover and stooped down to fetch them.

“I hope those are nice ones,” a voice caught my ear behind me. I turned around to find him looming right there with me. The most stray tendrils of his inky black hair were tousled a bit even as he sprawled over his collar bones and the front of his black raincoat. I stood upright to meet up with his gaze: he towered over me, such that I could make out the sight of the first sprigs of hair sprouting upon the underside of his chin.

“Easy there,” he cautioned me, which he accompanied with a raising of his hands.

“It's alright,” I assured him, “social distancing hasn't been a thing in quite a while.”

“Nah, I don't mean that—I don't want you to drop any more pencils.”

“Oh!” I fetched up the pencils I had dropped on the floor and then closed up the box before I drop any more. He grinned at me, and I followed his gaze to the sketchbook perched atop the shelf.

“Is that yours, too?” he asked me.

“Why—yes.” I wasn't even flustered and yet I felt it even by his gestures and that gaze from those eyes. He stood so close to me, even with the pandemic behind us. I felt my face growing warm as I took the sketchbook off of the shelf. I forgot I still had it open to that sketched drawing of him; when I took it off of the shelf, I held the drawing of his face right before my chest.

He gasped right as I held it before me.

“Is—Is that me?” he inquiringly asked me in a soft voice.

“Huh?” I clutched at the sketchbook and held the drawing away from him.

“I don't wanna—be rude or intrusive or anything,” he swore to me. My face bloomed with warmth. It had been so long since I showed anyone one of my drawings from my sketchbook, much less anyone outside of my family. I whirled around to see the tender expression upon his face: his eyebrows raised a bit and his head bowed enough for me to wonder if he was flirting with me or not. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed through his nose.

I swallowed and then, gingerly, I turned the sketchbook towards him.

He lowered his eyebrows and brought a hand to his mouth as if he was shocked.

“Oh,” he breathed, “oh, wow, that's wonderful. I love the roses.”

I shrugged.

“I just felt you could use roses,” I confessed to him.

“I love it,” he admitted as he lowered his hand from his mouth. “I'd love to see it when it's colored in.”

“I gotta get some pencils first, though.”

“Have at it, girlie.” He gestured his open palm towards me as if giving me his blessing. I decided on the Prismacolor pencils—I also didn't see anything else that caught my attention. Within time, I made my way up front to break those twenty dollars even. I kept my sketchbook out in the open and I assured the young peppy clerk that I had already opened it and long paid for it. He lingered near the cash register and eyed the ceramic supplies at the front there. I never thought I would've met him there in that art shop and at such a strange time. I wondered if I could make my rapport with him as I paid for the pencils and awaited the change from the clerk there before me.

He met up with me on the other side with a pensive look on his squarish face. I slipped the pencils and the sketchbook into the plastic bag in hand so as to protect both from the incoming rain. I felt myself blushing again at the sight of him: it didn't help matters that he continued to tower over me.

“What's your name?” he asked me, that pensive look still riddled upon his face.

“Holly. As in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood…” He grinned at me. He took out the little burner phone from his jacket pocket: such a sight to see, what with technology the way it had progressed to that point.

“Holly Sherman is my whole name...” My voice trailed off as I watched him open the address book up to a fresh page for a fresh number.

“You want my number, don't you,” I teased him.

“Well, yeah. When the drawing's colored in, I wanna see it.”

I could not resist that offer, and it was that very moment I knew I would have something on my hands. I would have something on my hands even in the wake of the pandemic.

#the artist #the artist fanfic #the artist chapters #prologue #at land's end #at land’s end series #fanfic #fanfiction #chris cornell #chris cornell fanfic #sci fi #sci fi writing #coronapocalypse #corona world order #fan writing #writing #text

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writingdirty2 · 5 years ago

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Eyes and Hands

Of the many strange and wonderful things I’ve seen in the past few years, few were as surprising as the tableau I glimpsed as the elevator doors opened to the party in the penthouse of the fancy downtown hotel. It was amazing, beautiful, decadent, breathtaking, and pretty fucking weird.

Actually, it wasn’t just one penthouse, but three, all opened up to the others to form a sort of club, with a DJ, two different bars, and various sexy and kinky accouterments. Massage tables, a Saint Andrew’s cross, contraptions I didn’t know the names of for tying people to or fucking people against.

I’d been to somewhat similar events, but usually, they were at slightly seedy locals with a crowd that was a mixed bag. This took everything to a new level. The whole place was opulent, clean, organized, and all of the people there were beautiful. Some were waif-like model beautiful, others curved and busty beautiful, others wild hair burner beautiful. There were all kinds of beautiful. Big Chippendale dancer looking beautiful. Assess chap beautiful. Beautiful. (I know I’m teetering into that place where you repeat a word until it has no meaning, but anyway.)

Some of these people were in tuxedos, others lingerie, some in leather or latex. Hell, there was a woman lying on a table wearing nothing but sushi.

I tried not to gawk and hoped my suit was up to snuff. Still as strange as it all was, it was remarkable how quickly I became acclimated to the environment. Within minutes I was touring the place, champagne flute in hand, as if it were an ordinary Saturday evening.

Still, stranger than the whole of the environment, were the little moments it created. Put into an otherworld fantasy, Eyes Wide Shut setting puts you in a particular mind space. The longer you walked around, the further down the rabbit hole you went. Going from room to room seeing people dancing, people kissing, people fucking, people doing naked yoga while someone blew bubbles, it was all so surreal that you felt like an outsider or a narrator, invisibly taking in each scene.

I don’t know if you know this about writers, but for many of us, this is ideal. Emotional distance to just observe and overthink the fuck out of amazing glimpses of the human condition.

One moment that shined the brightest involved nothing more than a glance. There was this dashing Frenchmen, an old acquaintance of mine, who was fucking a pretty girl on a bed in the one of the bedrooms. There was a small crowd of people lining the walls of this bedroom watching. The girl on the bed looked up at me as I passed, and I recognized her. We had been introduced to earlier in the night. I remembered her as sweet, cute, sort of shy, in a longish black dress. Big inky black eyes that seemed to be taking everything in, overwhelmed.

Now she was on the bed completely naked except for black stockings and a garter belt. Her hair was covering most of her face, but one eye was visible, its thick black wing of makeup still perfect, and her fat red lips were still glossy and vivid.

Her skin was a flawless dark tan, her hair black, she was maybe Mediterranean or perhaps Arabic. Her ass was red, with a few perfectly formed handprints overlapping. The gentleman was naked, well built, handsome. He was holding her down by the back of her neck. She was lying on the bed, belly down, and he was straddling her thighs, fucking her in a slow, steady rhythm.

She looked up at me with this smile. It was this opened mouthed smile of pure abandon and joy. It was exhibitionism, flirtation, probably drugs and champagne, and recognition.

It was like, “oh, I remember you! Hi. Look what I’m doing!”

She pushed back against him, I can’t be sure, but it seemed like she was showing off for me. A few strands of her hair stuck to her pretty lipstick. Then, suddenly, the pleasure overtook her, and her eyes flashed. This flash, just before her eyes closed as he fucked her harder, hit me. It was weird that something so visceral, so purely sexual, made my heartache. She moaned loudly, but not a “for show” kind of moan, something uncontrollable, animal, desperate.

I guess it was the authenticity of their pleasure that struck me.

I watched with the rest of the spectators. Perhaps we watched too long, past voyeurism into something else. Some intrusion on the intimacy of the moments after they came, and he kissed her forehead and lips and held her, pulled the sheets around them.

Through the rest of the evening, I kept coming back to that look. That perfect look.

That’s what that night was all about, that look. Oh, and a hand.

There was also a very important hand.

On the other side of the penthouse, my girlfriend Rose and some other friends had created a sort of home base for us in a little back living room. We would all go out and explore, get into little adventures, then come back to kiss and tell.

As I walked back there, still high on that perfect look, I bumped into an amazon of a woman in a corset, stockings, and nothing else. The tops of the cupid bow of her lips were sharp matte red. Her eyes outlined in black, cheekbones severe, haughty scowl that gave her the look of Maleficent.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my ears since I hadn’t spoken for all the time I was exploring the party.

She looked me up and down dismissively and then walked around me.

Rose watched me as my eyes opened wide, and my jaw grew slack. I groaned with want. It came from the very center of my chest. Sometimes, somethings just hit all my buttons at once. The confidence of her stride, her big ass, panty-less under her corset. Thick thighs, powerful calves.

“That’s Maria, but don’t bother, she’s kind of a bitch,” she said with a roll of her eye but a good-humored smile.

“I know, it’s super hot,” I whispered.

I don’t think Maria heard, but she looked back at me for a second, cut her eyes, gave me a plump pout before she turned the corner.

I didn’t exactly follow her, but I decided I would explore the party some more, maybe, you know, in the general direction she headed in.

I immediately noticed that the party had somehow moved to a new level. There were fewer spectators as everyone seemed to get in on the action.

I kept my eye out for Maria and saw her flirt with a tall, athletic-looking man with a shaved head, make out with a woman who looked like her twin sister, and giving a schoolgirl a spanking on the balcony. After that, I lost her, so I went back to home base.

Rose and I had planned beforehand to mingle separately during the beginning of the party, then meet up at the home base just after one in the morning.

It felt good to fall into her familiar arms after so much strangeness. We kissed, and the sights I’d seen swirled with the familiar desire for her. We smiled at each other. We didn’t need to tell each other stories about what we had seen. Not yet. We didn’t need to explain, just revel in them.

Our little home base was empty as we flopped onto the large bed and kissed. Our hands hungry for each other.

I wasn’t so much for public sex. I mean, having it, not watching, but our seclusion and the excitement pushed through the uncomfortableness. I wasn’t even phased as people started coming into the room.

A man in a white suit with long dreads came smiling in, leading two nearly naked women. He had a slight Caribbean accent, as well as an overly serious manner, and that left Rose and me hiding our snickers. It was fun having more people there. A little dirtier, a little more risqué.

With him was a thin, bespectacled woman in her early twenties with the wide eyes of someone who had never been to this sort of party. The other woman, I realized, was Maria.

Some others came in as well; an older man and woman sat on a couch nearby, she on his lap as they watched us and the threesome. I saw more faces at the door of the room, one friend smiled knowingly from the crowd.

Maria and her two friends didn’t really acknowledge Rose and me. They laid on a nest of pillows that were just next to the bed and started whispered negotiations and seductions.

Rose kiddingly cut her eyes at me, knowing I had a crush on the girl in the corset. We laughed it off and then fell into more kisses.

There was something profound in how new kisses between long time lovers could be. In a room crowded with other people kissing and onlookers gawking and whispering, we were both putting on a show and trying to shut out the distractions.

We quickly took off the clothing that were blocking the important parts. She slipped off her panties and pulled up her dress. I pulled my pants off. She slipped her breasts out of the top of her bustier, and I immediately touched and kissed them.

She bit my lip, and I pulled her hair. We smiled as we wrestled, and my cock rubbed against her.

I heard the familiar sound of a Hitachi start next to me. The three on the floor moaned and kissed and shifted to find a better angle.

Just as I slipped into Rose, the woman in the corset stood up and sat down on the bed next to us. She didn’t engage with us, she was directing the scene on the floor, but she simply sat down on the bed to get a better angle.

The thing was, she sat down right on my hand.

I was slowly fucking Rose. We continued to kiss and whisper dirty things to each other and, in general, enjoy fucking in a room full of strangers.

I wondered if Maria was aware she was sitting on my hand. She had to be. I don’t have small hands. I thought perhaps it was just incidental. Something that happens when a bunch of people are fucking in the same room. I wasn’t that experienced in orgying.

As I thought that, and Rose wrapped her legs around me, Maria pushed her ass down and ground against my hand. She looked over at me for a second, with no real smile or acknowledgement, and then bit her extra fat bottom lip and slid back a little, so that my hand was no longer under her ass, but between her thighs.

Rose’s head fell back and her eyes closed as I pounded into her. She looked more than lovely, hair a splash of black curls against the pillow, breasts pushed out and nipples hard. She felt perfect, tight and wet, as I fucked her.

Meanwhile, the girl on the floor writhed and gasped as the Hitachi buzzed away.

Maria leaned forward and kissed the pretty girl on the floor. As she did, her pussy pressed against my hand. I carefully turned my hand, cupping it. She looked back at me as she kissed the girl. A mix of pleading and contempt in her eyes.

She was really working the bitch thing.

“Fuck me,” Rose whined.

“Oh my god,” the girl on the floor gasped.

My fingers pressed against Maria, finding the outline of her lips, then the bump of her clit. My mind twisted, and I groaned as my finger slipped into her as my cock slipped into Rose. I heard the Hitachi get turned on high, and the girl on the floor cursed and struggled and moaned louder.

Maria leaned forward and held the girl on the floor down while pushing her ass towards me. Two of my fingers just barely fit in her, but she rode them hard anyway.

Rose was building to an orgasm. I knew her sounds and the feel of her body. She held on to me tightly. The sound of the girl on the floor coming and the buzzing of the vibrator and Rose and the girl I was fingering all coalescing with the feel of Rose tightening around my cock and then Maria tightening around my fingers and I felt myself closer and closer.

“Stop, stop, too much!” yelled the girl on the floor as she shot up with a laugh.

We all stopped and, for a moment, looked at each other. The man in the white suit turned off the Hitachi.

Rose looked at me and let out a giggle. Then she looked to her left and saw my hand between the girl’s legs and ground up against me. She smiled and glared.

“Is she wet?” Rose whispered into my ear.

I just whimpered a bit in the affirmative.

“Does it feel to get everything you want?”

“Yes,” I hissed.

Maria eyed us, her pout growing a bit.

“It looks like she doesn’t like it when you stop,” Rose said, biting my earlobe hard.

“You’d better keep going then, but don’t forget you have to keep fucking me,” she said with a wicked grin.

Maria closed her eyes as I finger fucked her, my fingers finding the ridge of her g-spot. Her body rocked against me. Rose slapped me, wanting more of my attention.

When I started to come, I lost my momentum. Maria grabbed my wrist when I slowed and kept fucking herself on my fingers. Rose pushed up against me, riding out my orgasm and hers.

It was all a bit too much. All the sounds and bodies and heat. I tumbled off Rose and away from Maria and laid on the other side of the bed. My body and brain suddenly exhausted.

I saw flashes of movement. Rose and Maria kissing. I felt myself pushed and pulled, then the lightning and thunder of getting slapped across the face.

“You’re not done!” Rose said, roughly grabbing my hair.

“If you are going to finger someone while fucking me you better at least make her come,” she said, a little smile creeping from under her mean face.

Maria smiled a wicked smile.

“Thank you, seriously, I was just getting going,” Maria said to Rose, both of them shifting on the bed around me.

The girl who was on the floor climbed on the bed as well, smiling and glowing with the “I just came” glow. She leaned on one arm and watched us.

Rose pulled my hair again as Maria swung a leg around and straddled my chest.

“He’ll make it up to you. He’s pretty good at this,” Rose explained as she helped Maria straddle my face.

I hadn’t even caught my breath before Maria’s slick, smooth pussy covered my mouth.

Though I could barely hear them with the strong thighs covering my ears, I made out:

“He better be able to get it up again,” Maria said.

“Oh, he will,” Rose said, grabbing my hair and making sure I did a good job.

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minicy · 2 years ago

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[ID. Art. Four dark and inky illustrations of dreams. First, two nude women, their hair like steam, look at each other over a crocodile's back while laying at the roots of trees. Black ink as water pools around them.

Second, a fish in warm colors holds a creature curled in on itself in its mouth. The mouth is filled with white.

Third, a girl with kinky hair holds her hands in front of her, over the maw of a crocodile. The scene is potent, but surreal and uncertain.

Fourth, a person with long hair curls their body around something round that glows with warmth, clutching it near their body as they stand in water framed by roots. End ID.]

I keep dreaming of fish, crocodiles, and roots

#described #art #this one was difficult to interpret so OP's or any other interpretations are appreciated here

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yasbxxgie · 8 years ago

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If even half the stories in Rick James's new autobiography, Glow, are true, then James led one of the most epic rock lives ever. The book, written with David Ritz, was finished posthumously (James died of a heart attack in 2004, at age 56) and is out this week, alongside a digital box set of his Complete Motown Albums.

James became one of the leading lights of funk in the late Seventies and early Eighties, but across the years, the singer was equally obsessed with sex and drugs. At one point in the book, he approvingly remembers the SUNY Buffalo English major he hooked up with for a while ("She had a PhD in blow jobs," according to James) who adapted a line of T.S. Eliot's poetry for him: "In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo" became "In the room the women come and go, looking to snort Rick James's blow." Ten other stories from the master of punk-funk:

1. O Canada James dodged the Vietnam War draft by heading across the Canadian border from his hometown of Buffalo, New York. But as soon as he got into Toronto, three drunk white guys tried to beat him up for going AWOL. "A trio of three other white guys saw what was happening and came running to my aid." Two of those three: Garth Hudson and Levon Helm, then playing backup for Ronnie Hawkins, later Bob Dylan collaborators in the Band. He also became friendly with Joni Mitchell (they would stay up all night listening to jazz), and she recommended Neil Young, who joined James in a band called the Mynah Birds. They got signed to Motown and were ready to release a single — but it got shelved when the U.S. armed forces caught up with James for going AWOL and threw him in the brig. 2. The Kind of Girls You Don't Take Home to Mother Some of the women James reported liaisons with: Linda Blair (The Exorcist), Elisabeth Shue (Leaving Las Vegas), Catherine Bach (The Dukes of Hazzard TV show), Ola Ray (the video for Michael Jackson's "Thriller"), Iman (the supermodel), Teena Marie (his protégée), Jan Gaye (the wife of his friend and mentor, Marvin Gaye). 3. Street Songs James scuffled on the periphery of the music business for many years before breaking through, watching friends become famous, making money however he could (including drug smuggling from India and Colombia) and periodically ending up in jail. How he remembered getting busted in Toronto on an old charge of breaking and entering a clothing boutique: "A few seconds ago, my life was perfect — the perfect bitch, the perfect financier, the perfect backup band, the perfect connections to the perfect music scene in L.A. Now perfection had turned to pure shit." 4. The First-Aid Kit of the Lizard King While staying at Stephen Stills' place circa 1966, James woke up to find a young guy sitting cross-legged on the floor, "stoned as a motherfucker," watching blood drip from his wrist, "saying things like 'Isn't the blood beautiful? Isn't that the deepest red you've ever seen?'" Alarmed, James woke up Stills, who said, "Oh, fuck, he's doing it again," and bandaged the young man up. Which is how Rick James met Jim Morrison. 5. Cocaine Is a Hell of a Drug James made his national TV debut on American Bandstand. He performed his singles "You and I" and "Mary Jane" and did a long interview with Dick Clark, who he remembers as "one of the nicest cats I'd ever met." The only problem: James had done so much blow backstage, his nose started running profusely. "I started sniffing and wiping myself until it had to be obvious to Dick and a million viewers what was really going on." 6. I'm Rick James, Bitch James nursed a grudge against George Clinton, who consumed his cocaine but didn't help him get a record deal, and Prince, who stole his thunder (and, James claims, his stage moves). Bringing Prince out on tour didn't go well: "My band was a bunch of friendly down-home brothas loved by everyone. His band was a bunch of snobs who never bothered to acknowledge my guys." Years later, what gave James the push to collaborate with Eddie Murphy was that the comedian had gone in the studio with Prince but felt uncomfortable around him. "There wasn't anything I'd rather have done than write a hit for Eddie — and stick it in Prince's ear," James said. 7. The creation of "Super Freak" It was about three in the morning. We had just put the horn parts on "Give It to Me Baby" when I was sitting in front of the console with my bass. I wasn't trying to write. I was just noodling. This bass line came out of nowhere. Four descending notes. Nothing particularly striking. It was cheesy, but it was also catchy. I couldn't stop playing it. At the same time, I started singing, "She's a very kinky girl…" I was about to stop — the whole thing sounded a little dumb — when one of my cats said, "Cut it, Rick." "You crazy?" I asked. "No man, it's cool. It's hypnotic." I kept playing the riff and realized that it was hypnotic. Right then and there I had the engineer hook up a mic and started singing the story as it came to me — this story of a super freak. I never wrote down a word. Made it up on the spot. 8. The Persistence of Memory James went to a dinner party in Hawaii where one of the other guests was Salvador Dali, who kept staring at him — and finally said, "Senor, I am mad about the way you look. Please allow me to sketch you." Dali spent 15 or 20 minutes drawing a portrait of James on his napkin — and then gave James the napkin. It could have been a priceless memento, except the next morning James smoked a joint and went for a swim in the shorts he had been wearing the night before, forgetting that it still held the napkin. The portrait became an inky blob. 9. Back in the Saddle Steven Tyler of Aerosmith became James's recovery buddy during various stays in rehab — he would even jump on James's back for piggy-back rides. "He's the one cat who can outtalk me and actually makes those meetings fun," James said. "Half of what he says is bullshit, but his bullshit is so brilliant I don't care if it's true or not." 10. Rick James's Inferno In his later years, James was constantly battling his addiction to freebase cocaine, and usually losing. After his mother died, he reported, "there was nothing to keep me from descending into the lowest level of hell. That meant orgies. That meant sado-masochism. That even meant bestiality." No details provided (or honestly, wanted). [x]

#rick james #rolling stone magazine #glow #rip #repost #posthumous autobiography #autobiography #lit #literature #david ritz

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