February 8th

I've been trying to get back to writing in here for a week or so and just failed. Life has been fine; writing has failed. Sorry.

Last weekend the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival was magnificent. Thousands of people through the door, much more of the art sold than last year, and we got some nice press mentions like this, this, and here. Girlfag wrote about it with her own vision as an artist herself in her 2/6/04 journal entry, and her writings provoked me to think on it more myself.

I didn't see it as an artist, or for that matter as much of a sophisticated art appreciator. For me it was a marvelous and mainstream celebration of dozens of totally different visions of life, love, sex, and what makes one wet or hard. Some of it was fascinating, some was puzzling, some was scintillating, and some was just average. Some spoke to my carnal tastes, some left me cold.


I've had several instances recently where I've begun negotiations with folks of a more vanilla nature than my own. From my point of view it makes as much sense as my negotiating with someone who only likes bondage, or someone who prefers blood sports. I can thoroughly enjoy an evening of only sex, or only bondage, or only needles. In several cases, however, the negotiations have fell through and I'm having to assume - told nothing else - that ultimately folks have felt they weren't comfortable playing sexually with someone they felt - to them - was potentially dangerous. It's unfortunate, and it hurts inside where I'm as fragile as anyone else, but I have to respect their wishes. I am who I am, for better or worse. I'm a big bad tough guy, and I can do some horrendous things when requested. The judgement of those who don't think I can play with them gently hurts, however.


Bridgett has spoken of our fun last weekend, on the Sunday evening of the arts festival. Here is what she had to say in her journal: "Let me begin with the fact that I have never pee'd in scenes so much in my life. I mean that. Between Friday and Monday I only urinated 3 times that did not go inside Lamb, and only 2 of those hit a toilet. The third was sprayed across Peter Throckmorton as he lay beneath me in a bathtub, cock hard, as I straddled over him, popping his piss cherry. His body shook with force, face red, eyes rolled back as he came over and over again, my fingers buried up inside him fucking his prostate, his body sticky with my piss as Lamb passed me more lube." Not much I can add to that.

She and Lamb each had me draw a vial of blood, that they could exchange vials. It all seemed to go well, but now a few days later they've got some twinges where we drew it. I'll be keeping in touch with them on that.


Last night I went to the SOIL gallery on Capital Hill, where a new showing just opened yesterday. Claire Johnson, a friend, had a painting of me there that just took my breath away. It shows me to the waist, blood dripping and eyes brightly elsewhere, the moment after the skin hooks came out last August in the ritual Stephanie, Panther, and Troy and I did. She so captured the moment, I broke down and cried sobbing on her shoulder last night when I saw it. If you're in town please do stop by the gallery and see it. There is one of me and one of Stephanie, on opposite walls facing one another.

I suppose I was feeling a bit vulnerable yesterday. The broken negotiations I've mentioned were on my mind, and I was doing a bit of navel lint inventory, and then the raw moment with Claire, and I was a bit open and at odds when I got to the Wet Spot. A friend - who I had played with before wonderfully, but not since she got a boyfriend - grabbed me as I entered, however, and said, "I just broke up with my boyfriend. I was hoping I'd see you. Can we play tonight?" Previously I've cut her after piercing her, at her request. In several places on her body I've cut four irregular parallel lines that leave behind a light scar reminiscent of an animal's claws. Last night I built a large mandala of needles over the apex of her heart, and then cut four tiny lines in the very middle of the sun design, directly over the control center of her heart. Through the middle of the bleeding lines, I thrust an 18 gauge needle, down into her breast. With the hitachi fucking on her nether bits I fucked the needle in and out of the bleeding lines over her heart as hard and rapid as I could until it had vented as much blood, energy, and emotion as possible. It was such a cathartic release. After, she took me to the back and stroked me as she pounded my prostate, and the tantric breathing worked perfectly that I came back to consciousness, not knowing what was happening, where I was or had been, or why I was out of my body. One of the most powerful kind of orgasms possible. Some serious energy moving around there, between the two of us. I think we were both absolutely depleted as we drove home our separate ways.


As I've said - I am what I am. And life as me continues pretty doggone good overall.

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