Do · you · think · I · meant · country · matters?

Last week the movie The Girl Next Door arrived in its little red Netflix envelope inside my mailbox. This was not the innocous, if rather odd little teen film starring Elisha Cuthbert. No, this is Jack Ketchum's Girl Next Door, based on his book of the same title. Now, all I knew about this movie what that it was supposedly truly awful- not the technical aspects of the film, but the moral aspects. Any film that is described as being "beyond salvation or explanation" I simply had to see.

Let me say that this movie clearly exists to show the explicit torture of a teenage girl. Of course, no film can simply do that without cacooning itself in alledged Meaning. The Meaning here is that beneath the verneer of the suburban world, there lies a hidden sickness. This is truly shocking stuff, assuming you have never seen Twin Peaks or American Beauty or any Lifetime Original Movie ever or, you know, lived in the suburbs. This is not particularly a story that is begging to be told; we've heard it before, if not in this particularly extreme variation. And the very extremity takes off much of the impact of the very Meaning itself. Yes, it's based on a true story</i>, but simply telling a true story doesn't justify exploitation.

So, this is torture porn. ( And this is where you get to enter my heart of darkness.... )

Lately, I have been attempting to compile a playlist of my favorite sex music. I generally don't listen to music when I am having BDSM sort of sex- first of all, I am rarely the one setting the scene, so to speak, and besides, there is little music that is really appropriate. However, one of my lovers is a great fan of musical accompaniment, and asked me to set the soundtrack to our next encounter.

Obviously, the starting point has to be Lovage: Music to Make Love to Your Old Lady By. A collaboration between Dan the Automator, hip-hop producer of note, Mike Patton of Faith No More and Elysian Fields' vocalist Jennifer Charles, you have no doubt already had sex to some song from this album if you were the sort of person who listed "trip hop" as your favorite genre in the early part of this decade. I was that sort of person.
I highly reccomend the rather hilarious video for "Book of the Month", a song which contains some fantastic and odd mixed sexual metaphors. The truly sexiest song on the album, however, is "Sex (I'm A)". Believe it or not, It's actually a cover of a Berlin song. Yes, that Berlin. And uh, the original is not so sexy.

I've already mentioned my love for the sex music of Bjork, and I stand by that. "Venus as a Boy" is a simple, but rather beautiful song. I always enjoy a woman's expression of explicit desire for a man- it is tragically lacking in much of popular music. "Possibly Maybe" is about the failure of a relationship, so it might be the best in the mood department, but it contains some fabulous lines: "Your flirt finds me out/teases the crack in me" and "since you've been gone, I'm using lipstick again/I suck my tongue in remembrance of you."
And then there is "Isobel", but that is probably best left to your alone time.

And then, of course, there is Serge. Serge Gainsbourg, who walks the fine line between revolting and sexy and frequently crosses it with aplomb. But then, he is French, so what else can we expect? "Je T'aime... Moi Non Plus", his duet with Jane Birkin, is the sexiest song of all time. That is just a fact. Maybe the sentiment isn't romantic, but we aren't talking about romance here. Thank God. Romantic songs are awful.
Serge also provides us with "Bonnie and Clyde", "La Javanaise", "Baudelaire"...the list could go on and on. I would discourage you from including "Lemon Incest" on any sex mix you make in the future, however. I suppose it might go well with certain scenes, but still....ew.

The first piece of pornographic literature I ever read was Georges Bataille's The Story of the Eye. Prior to that, the closest thing I had encountered were the works of V.C. Andrews, which, although perverse in and of itself, is really only literature in the broadest sense of the term. The Story of the Eye was in another category altogether.

I believe I was about 15. I had read something about the book on the internet, but all I really knew was that it was dirty. And there it was in the small, but well-stocked pornographic section of my local used bookstore. There were other classics there, which one day I would come to know and love (I remember The Story of O and Anne Rice's Beauty series), but TSOTE was the only want with a cover discreet enough to sneak by my mother.

Now, I am not, as a rule, sexually interested in eggs, milk, distended eyes, bullfighters, murder or most of what takes place during the course of the novel. I should, in fact, find it fairly disgusting. It is really such an odd book that to even call it pornographic seems perverse.

It is essentially a series of scenes involving the two most sexually degenerate teenagers in the history of the world- Simone and some unnamed boy. The first half of the book is about their mutual pursuit of Marcelle, a mentally fragile teenage girl, "who had an unusual lack of willpower" (to say the least). The second half details their relations with an English nobleman, Sir Edmund, who, uh, expands their already bizarre collection of sexual experiences.

There is little plot. The sex is constantly accompanied by the odd, recurrent obsessions of the Simone and the boy. When I say odd, I truly mean that. I am not just referring to urolagnia or facials, which seem completely vanilla compared to some of the things these two get up to. It involves corpses, the body parts of both humans and animals, and oh, the eggs.

I honestly don't remember being shocked by this book. Reading it now, I feel like I must have been. I mean, I don't think I was aware that urine could be sexual for anyone in the world, much less, you know, disembodied eyeballs. I should have found the book disgusting, but, although parts of it repulsed me, it was also incredibly fascinating. Even at that young age, I didn't take it be a realistic depiction of anyone's sexuality, but instead the extreme, nightmare version of eroticism that it was intended to be.

I certainly have a fondness for extremes in my pornographic tastes. I like it to be slightly over the line from what I want to or actually do in real life. That's the point of fantasy, as far as I'm concerned. And my real life is pretty odd, so my fantasy life is even odder. It's interesting to me that even at 15, before I had done practically anything (I do remember I read this book for the first time after I had lost my virginity, but that was not actually an intense erotic experience, by any means), I apparently had a taste for what remains probably the most extreme thing I have ever read.

Supervert generously has provided electronic version of the book for your perusal.

Anyway, thinking about this caused me to also download Bjork's "Venus as a Boy", a song I was very fond of at the time. The video involves a lot of egg fondling and sexualized food, not unlike the book, which happens to be one of her favorites. I think she is often infantalized in the media and by casual observers, because of her looks and her accent, but in fact, a majority of her songs are about sex. Or masturbation (which is a kind of sex). But that is a topic for another late, late night....

I never know what to call the people I sleep with. Sexual partners is too on-the-nose. Fuck buddies or friends with benefits is childish.

Boyfriend or girlfriend doesn't seem accurate, either. I go on dates regularly with some of them; with others, we just fuck. But I don't have any kind of commitment with any of them, certainly not monogamy. Boy/girlfriend seems to imply all manner of things that do not apply to them- a boyfriend or girlfriend is the person I would bring to a family wedding or who would have dinner with my mom when she was in town. I suppose it's a more public word then really applies to my current situations.

Lover is also very uncomfortable. It always reminds me of that SNL sketch...you know the one I mean. Some of the people I sleep with I love, some of them I don't. I'm emotionally intimate with some, some of them I am not. It varies widely.

Perhaps that is the whole problem with this business. I have multiple relationships and they all are different. There is no one word that can describe each one, and there is really no word that can explain to outsiders what we are to each other. Maybe I will stick to "adventures". That's a fun word.

Anyway, my latest adventure is turning out better then I could have imagined. I am quite, quite fond of our interactions. He's incredibly hot; it took me awhile to figure out who it was he reminded me of, and the other day I finally thought of it: Alan Tudyk! But with the voice of James Spader. And yes, that's as amazing as it sounds.

I'm not much of a romantic. I dislike flowers and chocolate makes me sick. Massages and rose petals do nothing for me. Candles can be nice, although only when put to a more practical use then just creating atmosphere.

Most love poetry, likewise, makes me completely nauseous. Erotic poetry is generally not much better. But when a poem does get to me, it gets me good. Like certain songs, I tend to attach certain poems to certain partners. If I've been away from them, or our time together is over, I can just read the poem again, and all the feelings, physical and otherwise, that he or she brought out in me can become crystal clear again.

Naturally, BDSM themed poems are few and far between in the Western canon. Fortunately, I am expert at reading between, around and under the lines to wring the meaning I want out of the poor poet's words. My latest infection is this sexy number by Williams Carlos Williams:

Queen Anne's Lace

Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth - nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand's span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over--
or nothing.


This will be indelibly be tied up in my mind with my latest adventure. Wherever his hand has lain there is indeed a purple blemish....but they're not quite so tiny....

I love fine art, and one of the finest things about it is, of course, all the naked ladies. Naked ladies are a common enough sight these days, but as modern naked ladies are so often airbrushed, tanned and shaved with in an inch of their plastic lives, I often prefer an old fashioned painted lady.

The problem with fine art, at least prior to 20th century, is the lack of vaginas, lesbians and chubby prostitutes. Fortunately, Gustave Courbet thought to provide us with these things.

I had the great fortune to catch a retrospective of his work at the Met in the Spring, and it was truly delightful. There were a bunch of paintings of peasants and shit, but of more interest to me was, of course, the dirty stuff.

First, ( the vagina... )



Next, ( the chubby prostitutes... )



And finally, ( the lesbians... )

Last night I watched a documentary called Snuff, which is better described by its subtitle then its title: "A Documentary about Killing on Camera". Although it is concerned with so-called snuff films, it is really more of an examination of the various different ways real death is filmed and received then only an exploration of snuff itself. It's fairly uneven, comes to no concrete conclusions and most certainly exploitative, but still a worthwhile watch if you have interest in the extremes of human behavior.

Most unusually, this is the only film or report I have ever seen that seems to conclude that snuff actually exists in any professionally produced, marketed fashion. This is not yet proven in my mind, but it would not shock me if it did. What is more interesting is how the rumors about snuff manifest themselves in America. These mythical movies often seem to come from "dark" countries, places that Americans know little about and can therefore attribute all manner of crimes and depravity to. Malaysia! South America! Russia! And, of course, Japan! All lawless or profoundly perverse nations that are capable of anything!

One of the cases of "real" snuff mentioned in the documentary was this case of a Russian pedophile ring busted in Italy which involved violent pornography. A Google search on the details of the case referred me primarily to anti-Jewish websites, which repeat the article, with the addition that, of course, the perpetrators were evil, baby-killing Jews and that the Jew media is covering it all up. One of these odious sites even has this story in a section entitled Blood Libel, apparently unaware of the dictionary definition of libel. Who would have thought that neo-Nazis would have such a poor command of the English language?

Well, according to a new study, BDSM aficionados are not 'sexually abnormal'. At least Australian ones, that is.
One of the most interesting points in the article isn't expounded upon: the study claims that men participating in BDSM are happier then their vanilla counterparts, however, they don't mention anything about women's happiness levels. The notion is floated by the researchers that this is because the men are more "in harmony" with themselves because of their unusual interests, but wouldn't that hold true for women as well? Unfortunately, it may be true that even women involved in unusual sexual practices may still suffer from fear of their own sexuality and that may undercut said harmony.

Although in general I'm not concerned about being a weirdo, I think it is important for the medical and psychological establishment to change their views on BDSM. The sooner their attitudes change, the better they will be able to provide for their kinky patients and keep them physically and medically sound without trying to "fix" them.

And so, for your mental health, and my own, here is a lovely gagging instruction by Mr. John Willie:



He captures the glassy eyed "gag look" like no one else!

As anyone with Google and a sick mind may have noticed, the internet is just lousy with blogs by submissives. It's just delightful that the modern age has given women a platform from which they can express truths about their sexuality that they otherwise might repress. However, that does not mean I am in any way interested in reading it.

Although there are quite a few sex blogs I like, I have never met a blog written solely by a submissive about her submissiveness that I found in anyway interesting. Frankly, there are only so many paragraphs a girl can read about how wonderful so and so's Master is and how grateful she is for the amazing gift of sexual fulfillment he has given her. I find it maddeningly dull, and so I can assure you, this blossoming journal will be nothing of the sort.

It will, hopefully, contain observations about sexuality in general, pretty pictures, comments on notable movies and literature, and occasional tales from my sex life. It will be a repository for the thoughts that cross my perverted mind that I can not or will not voice in other forums. I certainly like my thoughts; I hope you, future reader, will as well.