Perhaps even better than the video itself, was the commentary offered by renowned BDSM author, Laura Antoniou.
Here. You wanna have a new freakin’ contest in the kink scene? This. I want to see the quarter-finals for this, and the grand…er…slam. I guess? I want to see folks going all balls to the wall while flinging their johnsons.
I want to hear announcers and color-folk and their coverage.
“And here’s Master Wolfdick, he surprised us all with that Triple Tallywhacker in Tulsa…”
“Oh, what a disappointment for Pup Waggletail! Her Bouncing Boner is *just* outside the target area. That’ll for sure put a knot in her plans to head for the final round.”
“Slave Stoneybutt approaches the line, eyes the course. Hey, is that the new Love Truncheon model from Dicks by Dykes, Sally?”
“It sure is, Jake, available in the vendor space for only $19.99 tonight…”
“Wow, look at that arc! This fucker really knows how to fly! And that’s one bounce – a flip – and it sticks the landing! Amazing!”
“Right on target! that’s some fast fascinus, for sure – I bet we’ll be seeing a lot more of those in future trials. Remember, the Love Truncheon is made in 16 colors and patterns by Dicks by Dykes, an official sponsor of the Northwest Goodfellow Games!”
Antoniou’s commentary was as much fun (for me) as the video itself.
Laura is, of course, the author of the Marketplace series, a true classic in kink literature.
And, she’s no stranger to writing comedy/satire either. Her book, The Killer Wore Leather, is a satirical classic in its own right.
I’d considered writing my own commentary, similar to Laura’s. But, when in the presence of a Master of their trade…
Anyway, I hope it’s all good, eliciting a giggle (or laughter) for you too.
I’m all for continuing sexual education. I honestly believe that a little bit of knowledge can go a long way. It’s like the old adage – give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, teach him how to fish and he’ll eat forever. Learning sexual skills will payback with a lifetime of pleasure.
This blog is, in fact, all about exploring that particular theme . . .
But, I’m not above slaughtering the occasional sacred cow from time to time either. Heck, let’s be honest, I’m probably not content to just slaughter the beast. I’ve got to put it on a spit and roast it too. Tastes good cooked to a nice medium rare, that sacred cow does.
And, I have to be honest, I’m a bit like Captain Ahab. I have a special weakness now for a particular beast. I don’t have an obsession like Ahab, but I do admit to having a specific weakness for a particular personality. My white whale is Midori. I’ve never met the woman. I’m sure she’s charming, talented and charismatic. She has a HUGE following, no less than 4,473 friends on FetLife. She holds classes and demonstrations all around the world.
Heck, I’ve contributed to the phenomena. I own her first book. And, believe it or not, I actually suggested to a Canadian friend who was a marijuana breeder that a cannabis strain be named after Midori. My friend said the weed left him immobilized, almost like he’d been in bondage. I’d just purchased her book, so it was a very short trip for me to go to using her as a name for a strain of medical marijana. So, if you were to do a search including the terms “Mistress Midori” and “marijuana” you just might find statements like this . . .
The most narcotic I’ve tried was Mistress Midori(Herijuana X Black Domina). It was like vicodin weed. So I would try Herijuana or Black Domina, but have a couch nearby.
Midori (the Mistress not the Marijuana) is also over-hyped and over-priced. Thankfully, she’s currently over there1, across the pond, in jolly old England.
Thar She Blows – Midori!
Midori appeared last week at the luxury lingerie boutique, Petits Bisous, in Chelsea, where she gave a demonstration titled How To Thrill A Man With Midori. Here’s the text of the notice for her appearance.
Petits Bisous is once again proud to bring you Midori, the internationally acclaimed educator of fulfilled sensual living, for a series of salons to enhance your pleasures, relationships and personal satisfactions.
Midori returns to London with her acclaimed salon How To Thrill a Man. Join her for this in-depth training on pleasuring your guy with hands, mouth and more! Using delicious practice props (think fruit!) you’ll learn all about the sucks, licks, swirls, strokes and touch secrets that will blow his mind. Midori will even cover tips on how to reduce discomforts or gag reflexes. These sensual tricks promise to blow his mind and make the pleasure last for a long time!
Petits Bisous will be open from 6:30pm for guests to enjoy drinks before the salon starts at 7pm.
The boutique will remain open until 9:30pm, during which time guests can enjoy a 20% discount on all purchases made on the evening.
The cost for the event is £80.00, which converts to $133, at today’s conversion rate. I’m not sure how long the event runs, but if the salon starts at 7pm and the boutique closes at 9:30, it can’t be more than a two hour demo.
Excuse me, but the cost really gets to me. I attend three and four day events here in the states for that price. Events that include classes from multiple educators, and very real demos, not just demos on fruit. The fisting demo at Kinky Kollege actually included a fistee. That’s the direction the best demos are going in these days, real hands on experience for the classroom.
But with Midori, you get to eat fruit.
Midori – She’s hot & she’s sexy. But, would you pay $133 to see her fellate fruit?
my issues with Midori
One reason I have a problem with this particular demo, is it tends to forward the stereotype that oral sex is somehow dirty or shameful. I mean, there’s no need to use fruit for a demo model unless a person is very squeamish about actual representation of genitalia. Sex educators (at least in my opinion) owe it to our students to teach that oral sex is both normal and natural. It’s my opinion that her students would get a lot more out of a class using anatomically correct models. Sorry Midori, but sucking a banana isn’t going to teach a woman how to tickle her man’s frenulum!
I also object to the fact that Midori’s class is so damned hetero-centric. No men are invited to attend. I understand that her class is working on the same model as Curves International, the fitness chain that only allows women in it’s membership. But, it seems terribly sexist to dismiss an entire gender from a demo, not to mention unnecessary. Did Midori ever consider that some guys out there might enjoy and benefit from a cock sucking demo? Are English birds really that hung up that a bisexual man in the audience would totally squick them out? Frankly, I would never consider teaching a cunnilingus class without a woman present to answer questions, how can a BJ class really cover the topic without a man?
Extensive statements were given by the victim of the suspension fail incident, an experienced Domme in her own right. The story was told in it’s entirety by the victim of Midori’s error at Fetlife. I do suggest you read it there – statement regarding das Ubel Cabaret by Mistress Tokyo, but I will provide an excerpt here for context, as many don’t bother to follow links:
What happened fact by fact is thus; I was tied by Midori in suspension bondage as a human puppet. Midori tied a slipknot on my sole load bearing suspension line, causing me to fall out of suspension onto the bare concrete floor. Thanks to luck, I fell in such a way that the full force of the fall was distributed relatively evenly. Unfortunately, due to the fact that my hands were tied up, I was not able to shield my head from slamming into the ground at full force. On witnessing my fall Midori failed to check in with me, either verbally or physically, and continued with the show. I was in shock at the time, but I believe we continued the show until it was apparent I was bleeding from the head. Upon this, Midori assisted me off stage.
My chin took the brunt of the impact of the fall, resulting in a deep inch long cut. I went to hospital and received three stitches. Cone beam CT scans resolved I had sustained no serious damage to my head, neck or jaw. My front teeth in my lower jaw have been slightly re-arranged, I’ve clicking in my right jaw joint and a permanent facial scar. Essentially, I got off lightly. I can report that Midori has paid my medical expenses. I credit my years of Aikido and Jyujitsu training in break and high falling with saving my neck.
Personally, I strongly feel how this accident was dealt with showed how suspension bondage accidents SHOULD NOT be managed. I feel this situation purveyed the worst response that could be offered in reaction to a potentially grave accident. Additionally, I’d like to distance myself, both personally and professionally, from how this incident was dealt with.
Ouch! So many things wrong there . . .
Midori also wrote about the incident, at Eden Fantasies – The Suspension Accident: It Finally Happened… I’ll quote a portion of Midori’s statement on the issue here as well, for those who inevitably won’t follow the link and read the essay in it’s entirety:
The reality is, I’m simply lucky something like this didn’t happen sooner. One of the things we forget when we get into the play space is no matter how many of those classes you’ve taken (or in my case, taught), no matter how many knots you’ve tied, or how many scenes you’ve negotiated, it never becomes perfectly safe. After twenty years of public and private rope play, I was reminded of a single, brutal truth — a truth of which few dare to speak: if you do kink long enough, you will have a scene go bad, sometimes horrifically bad.
Mountain climbers and motorcyclists alike have their own version of that rule. There are two kinds of bikers; those who’ve crashed their bikes, and those who haven’t crashed their bikes yet. But in the kink milieu, we’re silent about the risk. The workshops and guidebooks become incantations that will protect us from harm with mystical infallibility. Bad things only happen to the newbies and the tourists, not real kinksters who know what they’re doing — so goes the unspoken faith. Because mishaps and accidents reside in the realm of the hypothetical, when it becomes real and personal, we’re often not prepared.
The woman I dropped was my co-performer at a fetish dinner theater; two hundred plus guests in elegant attire were watching us. One minute, she was flying through the air, her graceful arms flowing. The next, she was on the floor. I had a nanosecond of bafflement, and then it hit me:
I dropped her.
That’s a serious fuck-up. Yes, we are human and capable of making mistakes, but simple attention to proper technique prevents problems like securing an entire suspension with a slip-knot!
I certainly take umbrage at the apparently fatalistic attitude Midori exhibits. A person who uses proper technique would never (and I really do mean NEVER) consider an accident like this to be inevitable. To portray this sort of incident as “inevitable” seems like an excellent way to discourage criticism. To be very honest, I see the statement in a different light than most folks.
I was the political equivalent of a “spin doctor” in my previous life. I wrote statements like these so that politicians would appear apologetic and contrite after their mistakes. Usually the reality couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s an art to write those kinds of statements, they are carefully crafted with public relations always in mind. To my eye, Midori’s statement about the drop is an excellent example of that art in actual practice. She appears apologetic and contrite, while actually dismissing her own error as something that was inevitable.
One of the reasons I have such a strong, almost unyielding attitude of zero tolerance for sloppy suspension technique is due to my background as a rock climber. I used to teach climbing and rappelling technique, much as I mentor others in the art of BDSM today. The first thing I taught my fellow climbers was that, at the heart of the hobby, we were putting our lives in the hands of the person on the other end of the belay rope. A mere microsecond of inattention, of distraction, could cost a person their life. There was no room for error.
And lets be honest, if a famous rock climber used a slip knot to secure a climbing harness, then dropped their victim on their head due to knot failure, they would suddenly find themselves very short on future climbing partners. That kind of sloppiness has consequences, especially when lives are at stake. And, if the unsafe climber would have dared to say that such an accident was inevitable, the chorus of laughter that ensued would have drowned out the rest of the self serving excuses Mr Slip-Knot might have offered.
So, it has come to pass that Midori, and her continued celebrity, have become a bit of a sore point with me. Personally, I think that a sex educator who drops someone at a demo is more suited to flipping burgers under a pair of yellow arches than to be charging $100+ for a class on sucking off fruit. Excuse the pun, but apparently Midori has rediscovered a universal truth, there really is a sucker born every minute!
EDIT / ADDITION . . .
Yesterday, I was contacted by a fellow blogger who wished to set the story straight on some of the particulars of the classes Midori teaches. Because this post was my submission for e[lust] this month, the comments are full of pingbacks. I didn’t want the note from SheBoppin to get lost among those, so I asked her permission to amend this post, to add her perspective to the piece. She agreed, so here goes . . .
I’m writing in response to your post about Midori. I can’t speak to the parts of your post about the suspension. I do agree that she seemed to be deflecting or not be taking as much responsibility as she should have with her response. But the reason I’m writing to you is to clarify something about Midori’s classes. I’ve worked at several sex shops that host classes with many different sex educators. And of course, Midori’s classes always sell out. But she doesn’t chose the cost. The shop does. I’ve seen the how to thrill a man class many times at different shops. I have never seen it at that price here in the states. But the prices did vary from shop to shop. Midori has her own agreements with the shop and the shop of course is till trying to profit from the classes. I’ve seen that same workshop around $20-35. It is also not up to Midori who gets to attend the class. The shop decides who they are catering to. One time there was a guy who wanted to go to the class last minute, but it was already sold out. Midori was eager to make more space, hoping he could attend. She even made an announcement to the women right before the workshop to bring their guy friends next time. I think Petits Bisous should take more of the fault for the things you mentioned.
Thank you SheBoppin, for the added perspective from an individual who has insight into the business behind the classes.
My perspective, as a business man, is that if Midori wanted to, she could easily choose to set the cost, and set the conditions behind the classes she teaches. She’s the brand name and the product, she could very easily say, “I teach my classes only under the following conditions.” So, ultimately Midori is herself responsible for the conditions she works under – deferring the choice to another is a choice Midori makes, and that does not absolve her of responsibility for the conditions set by the business she is contracted with for the particular presentation.
In other words, Midori could have set the conditions for her appearance at Petits Bisous, she is the presenter. She choose to allow Petits Bisous to set the conditions instead, but she’s still ultimately responsible for the conditions under which she teaches, she’s the presenter. She has the ability to choose the conditions under which she teaches, she chooses not to as a part of marketing her presentations.
Occasionally I go off on a tangent about the odd holiday (or two.) The last time was at my SpiritualBDSM.com blog, and that instance was about National Handcuff Day. Well, it’s a new dawn, and it’s a new holiday too. Today, March 14, 2014, is officially Steak and Blowjob Day.
Like I said about National Handcuff Day:
I wouldn’t kid about such a thing. Really, I wouldn’t. Seriously. I mean, it’s for real.
At the very least, it’s as real as National Handcuff Day too. The day is big enough it was covered by the Huffington Post1. It has a Facebook page. There’s an official Twitter hashtag too – #STEAKANDBJDAY.
And, believe or not, the holiday has a history too!
Some say it was invented by the Romans in 269AD, and institutionalized through St Valentine’s cousin, Claudius Fellatio. Others suggest that when World War II ended in 1945, president Harry S. Truman had the FBI covertly spread the word to act as a “welcome home” for the troops. All we really know, is that Steak and BJ Day is pretty damn awesome.
The overarching theory is one of “Man’s Valentine’s Day.” You know the drill. Every 14th of February men get the chance to display their fondness for a significant other by showering them with gifts, flowers, dinner, and many other romantic baubles. They rack their brains for that one special gift that will show their spouse that they truly care.
Well here’s a little secret: men feel a tad left out.
They’re just too proud or too embarrassed to admit it. Sure seeing that smile on their face is priceless, but that smile is the result of weeks of blood, sweat and consideration. Which is why this very holiday was created.
March 14th is henceforth “Steak and Blowjob Day.” Simple, effective and self explanatory; this holiday has been created so that the ladies can show their man how much they truly care for him. No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town; the name explains it all: just a steak and a BJ. That’s it.
Not only will Steak and Blowjob Day be joyous day of sensuality for the men, but it will even instigate more effort during February for the women! It’s win win, gentlemen and ladies.
And, believe it or not, there’s even a “how-to” video . . .
OK, so admittedly the holiday is at least a tad bit sexist. Isn’t that kind of the point? I mean it is a tongue-in-cheek holiday – in more ways than one, if you’ll excuse my obvious pun. Steak and Blowjob Day is supposed to be a sort of anti-valentine’s day, a day to celebrate the clueless male. And, let’s be honest, most men really are without a clue . . .
Unfortunately, so are a lot of women too. Absolutely. Freaking. Clueless.
Instead of letting boys be boys and have their fun, some of the (so called) fairer sex got their panties in a bunch over this particular invention. For instance, let’s look at what’s being said about Steak and Blowjob Day over at JaneDough.com.
“Steak and Blow Job Day” is the White History Month of holidays; the type of delusional push back based on the idea that men are being asked to do TOO MUCH. Attention S&BJ Day fans: Every day is Steak and Blowjob Day. We live in a patriarchal society; if you’re a man, the way our society is is like a personal Valentine to you.
Whew! Now hold on there sister. Apparently somebody thinks the battle between the sexes is an actual war!2 It doesn’t need to be like that, I promise you!
I’m a Master, my wife is my consensual slave. And, I assure you that every day is not steak and blowjob day, Ms McIntyre. No doubt, my slave is treated better by her mate than you are Colette, but that’s a side effect of her attitude towards her spouse, more than anything. I mean, Colette even seems to think that wearing nice lingerie is some kind of burden that men use to oppress women:
Oh, so is that why in the days leading up to February 14th women are encouraged to go out and buy expensive and tacky sheer bras . . .
Oh goodness! Some generic man-type want’s Colette to look nice . . . The horror! The horror! Perhaps we need to send Marty Sheen up the river to eliminate this terrible affront to our collective humanity3.
Look folks, life is short. There’s too little laughing in life too. Why oh why do we need to turn every little thing into some sexist affront. There’s a lot more similarities between men and women than there are differences. And, the enlightened view is that gender isn’t a binary choice anyway, it’s a spectrum.
About the only thing I agree with Ms McIntyre, is when she says:
Valentine’s Day is also for men! If both halves of a couple aren’t getting something out of a holiday meant to celebrate love then they are both doing it wrong.
I couldn’t agree more! To be honest, we try and live that every day here in my home. Everyday here at House of Samadhi is about celebrating love. Perhaps we show our love in a different fashion than others, but everything we do is about expressing the love (and desire) we feel for each other.
I don’t need Steak and Blowjob Day to balance Valentine’s Day, or any other holiday for that matter. We live our lives, as much as possible, like everyday is a holiday. We don’t need an excuse to celebrate love, but give us one, and we’ll take it!
Let me start by saying that I want to encourage everyone who has been sexually active at any time in their life to get a STD screening for HIV and other sexually transmitted infections. Sexually transmitted diseases are far more prevalent than many assume. Often, there are no physical sign that a carrier is infected, so it’s possible that some people may carry a STD and never even know it. With that in mind, please realize that a guy telling you he’s never had any problems with his equipment, and that he has never been tested, is a guarantee of only one thing – that he’s irresponsible with his health, and with your’s too. Even if you think you know everything about your partner’s sexual history, even if you’ve only ever slept with one person, you really should get tested.
you might need STD screening too
My ex-wife was unfaithful to me, and I wasn’t aware of the fact until after our divorce when I found compromising pictures of her on the internet. At the very least she had unprotected oral sex with a man who frequented sex professionals. Essentially, that was the equivalent of my ex-wife having sex with thousands of men. Without some asshole posting his “trophy” pics of my ex-wife online, I never would have known for sure that I’d been cheated on. Prior to that point I’d always assumed she’d kept her word that our play partners would only be enjoyed in each others physical presence. So, when it comes to STD’s and your health, don’t take your partner’s word. Maybe they are actually telling you the truth, but it’s entirely possible that a former partner may have lied to them too! Some people really will say anything to get laid . . .
In the end, getting tested is the responsible thing to do for our health and for ourselves, as well as the responsible thing to do our partner’s health and their overall well-being too. Don’t let the comedy story I’m about to tell dissuade you in any way from getting a STD screening for yourself, if nothing else, you may get a funny story, or two, of your own to share. And, please do realize the story is comedic in nature. The verbal portraits I’ve painted of local health department workers are deliberate caricatures, and as such, are far from being politically correct.
visiting the public health dept
So, let’s say, hypothetically of course, that you are a responsible straight man who feels the need to make sure everything’s clean and safe. In basic training, soldiers are taught the difference between their “rifle” and their “gun” – so let’s just call this an exercise in “gun control” and hope that the guys from the NRA don’t take it the wrong way. Fellas, this has nothing to do with your rifles, OK? And, for the sake of this story and for simplicity’s sake as well, let’s imagine that I am this hypothetical man, if for no other reason than to allow me to speak in the first person.
So, I do a little research, and find that in partnership with the Iowa Department of Public Health, that my local health department does free STD screenings – $10 donation suggested. Now a $10donation isn’t free, but I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth either. It really sounds like a good deal to me. I mean Government Health Care isn’t the darling of the Libertarian crowd I find myself hanging out with these days, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. My new subbie drinks Pinot Noir @ $9 a glass at munches, so Government health care means I can urge her to drink irresponsibly. My free market friends have to appreciate the efficiency of that particular gambit, I’d think!
And, I find myself at the local Public Health Department’s office, and feeling confident that I’m doing the right thing, I step up to the bullet proof glass that separates me from the receptionist. She doesn’t seem to notice me, so I gaze more strongly at her. I’ve got a pretty “heavy” stare, I can usually wake folks up from across the room by simply looking “hard” at them. So I give her “the look”, but Public Health Department receptionist lady is oddly oblivious.
I clear my throat. Nothing. Tap my foot. No response.
Finally a nurse steps behind the counter, nudges Public Health Department receptionist woman, and nearly gets her to disengage from her stupor. If you’ve ever seen the deliberate movements of a Ground Sloth, then you’ve got an idea of the pace Public Health Department receptionist woman was capable of achieving. She made a ground sloth look like an Indy Car!
“Can . . . I . . . help . . . you . . . ?” she finally intones.
“Yes, I’m here for the STD screening,” I say, using my quiet voice.
I usually have a loud voice, it carries very well. I didn’t figure the entire 4th floor of Davenport’s Bi-Centennial Building needed to hear the reason for my visit. Some things should be on a “need to know” basis, ya know?
Apparently not . . .
“Excuse . . . me?” Public Health Department receptionist lady replies. Don’t sloths have excellent hearing? Maybe not, but I thought I remembered that from Zoology – I’m just saying . . .
“I’m here for the STD screening,” I say, stepping a little closer to the slot in the bullet proof glass, hoping to push the vocalization through to Ms. Sloth. Instead, my voice booms down the hall. I swear there was even an echo, “STD . . . std . . . std” carrying my voice all the way to the building’s elevators.
“Are . . . you . . . having . . . any . . . symptoms?” she asks. Great, I think to myself, so the sloth is doing triage too?
“No, I don’t have any current STD symptoms,” I scream at the glass and the sloth. At least if the whole building needs to hear me say “STD”, I want them to know I’m not having symptoms.
WTF – Couldn’t we have had this entire conversation on the OTHER side of the door, ya know where there’s actually medical privacy?
So, I’m given a standard government issue clipboard, pen leashed by ball-chain attachment. I believe there were 7 pages of information to submit. Apparently, because I may have at some point in my life screwed a skank, I now have to give them my Mother’s maiden name, and my place of birth?
I tell public health as much as I know about my most recent sex partners, not having my phone, I can’t give phone numbers, and I really don’t want to give the real name of people I know from fetlife anyway – if there’s a problem I’d know what to do, there’s only one thing that can be done. Full disclosure.
Thinking of disclosure, and the flat voice of a public health official lecturing about hepatitis on the small TV monitor in the Public Health Dept waiting room, I can help my mind from drifting away to Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop . . .
Axel Foley: Tell Victor that Ramon – -the fella he met about a week ago? – -tell him that Ramon went to the clinic today, and I found out that I have, um, herpes simplex 10, and I think Victor should go check himself out with his physician to make sure everything is fine before things start falling off on the man.
Anyway, a few moments later I get the joy of interacting with Ms. Sloth again, and it does appear that she’s been raised from her stupor. She’s contentedly grazing from a package of processed food. Being a bit of a wildlife aficionado, it was instructive to watch an individual member of this species dine in it’s normal habitat. When seen outside their usual domain, at bars and restaurants for instance, they are usually observed traveling in herds or packs, which dramatically effects behavior.
This one’s alert, she sense’s the presence of a predator, so the food is quickly slid into a desk drawer. Then my form is taken. I’m given one sheet and a number in return, so it’s hoped that I’ve cleared the ground sloth hurdle, and am now on to bigger and better fauna.
not how you are supposed to do it
Whew. Soon I get called back behind yet another security door, where a nice African-American social worker took my information there at. I feel as though I’m meeting and talking with a facsimile of Samuel L Jackson. OK, it wasn’t really the F-bomb throwing actor in person who did my intake, but it was a gentleman who was close. He had the look, he had the talk, he even had the confident walk. He may as well have been a character from a movie, I’m sure I’ve seen this same guy in at least a dozen different inner city type movies, usually heading up a methadone clinic. I’ve heard of life imitating art, but this was starting to get more than a little surreal.
So public health intake guy is asking me questions about my sexual activity and history, how many people had I had sex with in the last three months, did I ever meet people form the internet for sex, did I ever pay for sex, did I ever get paid for sex , did I ever have sex with snakes on a plane. . . you know just your standard chatter between guys, like we were around the water cooler . . .
I tell him the truth, that I’ve been pretty careful my whole life, but may have screwed a skank once or twice, not having actually recognized that individual member of the species before it was too late. And I mention that my wife and I had done a bit of experimenting with some folk we weren’t exactly married to, as of late, although I do withhold the tasty tidbits about restraints, blindfolds, whips and chains. Like I said, some things should be need to know!
Everything’s going along great, snakes on a plane guy isn’t dropping any f-bombs, so I figure I must be moving along nicely. We’re both smiling and laughing and pretending he doesn’t have to spend 6 more hours in his sterile, depressing, poorly lit, not to mention shared office that day. It’s all good until he clears his throat . . .
That’s when he tells me that the government isn’t funding these programs like they should. Apparently, screwing an occasional indiscriminate skank that one might otherwise drunkenly mistake for a chameleon, well that doesn’t qualify one for free testing anymore. Getting told I’m really just not a high enough risk candidate to call for HIV testing feels good, but it also means that I’ve cleared the sloth hurdle, but may not make it past snakes on a freakin’ plane.
Kind African-American social /intake worker goes on to say that there are certain groups who get tested, but that with the cuts, other’s simply don’t qualify. Then he starts rattling off the list of people who can get the state funded HIV test . . .
I look across the desk at him, manage to interrupt Samuel L. Jackson for a moment and say, “So you are telling me that the state won’t test me unless I tell you I have sex with men ,or I shoot heroin?”
“That’s basically the story,” Mr African-American Public Health intake worker replies . . .
“Oh,” I say, less then deadpan, “I guess I forgot to tell you that I have sex with men then, huh.”
In the movies, Samuel L Jackson in the role of Mr African-American Public Health intake worker would have dropped the “f-bomb” and told me to get the fuck out of Dodge. I have been walking around in a bit of a dream state lately, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that the reply was almost as good, almost as if it had been scripted . . .
“Damn man, that’s not how you are supposed to do it,” he says to me . . .
“I don’t want to get you in any trouble,” I say earnestly, “But before you mentioned it I’d forgotten that I’d done some experimentation back in 1990, back when my ex-wife and I kept a houseboy in our basement, and only let him our for private parties!”
“Whatever,” says Samuel L Jackson in the role of Mr African-American Public Health intake worker, and fills out the paperwork to get my test.
Now, I have to say that while having sex with the houseboy is a complete invention, the houseboy himself is not. His name was Davey Jones and he didn’t have a locker. Hell, he didn’t even have a foot locker, just a musty old duffel bag with two pair of jeans, some t-shirts, and a few other essentials. He was actually a cross dresser, but one who I never saw cross-dress. I’m told he was quite passable, rather attractive as a woman, I just never saw it. My ex-wife took a liking to him, and when we moved from St. Louis to Rock Island he tagged along as, you guessed it, our houseboy.
Oh, but I do digress . . .
Next, Mr African-American Public Health intake worker got out the special “men who have sex with men” forms that apparently are different from your average run of the mill men who have sex with biological women set of forms. Samuel L Jackson seemed to be a little perturbed to have to do the extra paperwork, but he did take it all in stride.
In the end, he even thanked me for being so polite and easy to deal with. “You’d be surprised at the kind of attitude I get at my job,” he confided in me.
“I can only imagine,” I said politely, praying to God that I really couldn’t imagine.
I sometimes wonder if Purgatory isn’t really a state of being here on earth, and sadly that my new friend, Mr Samuel L Jackson Public Health intake worker, was being punished for the sins of some past life. That, however, would lead one to believe that a stint in Purgatory comes with good medical benefits, and that’s not something my free market friends could ever accept.
Feeling compassion for his plight, I did try to offer my version of a kind word. “There’s no reason I can’t be nice, I mean after all, it’s not your fault I’ve slept with a couple of skanks thru the years, right?”
That made him smile, so I felt better for him. In fact, I felt better for my visit to the whole Public Health Department Sexually Transmitted Disease clinic, the whole experience had just become more positive for everyone involved, except the sloth (of course).
Then, of course, all the reverie, all the comradery, the whole spell that everything was going to be ok, was quickly shattered with Mr Jackson’s brief addendum . . .
“And you have buttsex with men. Right?”
Yeah, that’s right! Thanks for reminding me.
I hope the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane get your ass next time Mr Jackson, at least then you’ll escape purgatory. Right? I’ll stop short of wishing that the aforementioned snakes have butt sex with you, Mr Jackson, because I’m sure you’d have to fill out a extra form then for answering “Yes” to question #13 – “Have you ever had butt sex with snake on a plane?” Jeesh, those public health questionnaires really have become way too thorough, haven’t they?
They did get around to asking if I had buttsex with women too . . . Eventually.
“Yes I enjoy fucking a woman’s ass,” I said to the plump Caucasian nurse who kept using the term “butt sex” which is really way to cutesy for what I consider to be a primal act. She looked a bit like Sally Struthers, not like I remember her from “All in the Family”, but instead as she’s portrayed on the cartoon South Park.
“I assume the first sex partner listed on the form is your wife,” says Sally Struthers.
“Ummmm yeah,” I say, not wanting to belabor the obvious.
“Well, we don’t always know, most people don’t give out their real name when filling in these forms,” she says with a smile.
WTF??? – I mean seriously – WTF!!! Did someone say that I didn’t have to give me real fucking name? Feeling a bit like the white-bread middle class boy that I am, I realize I don’t know as much about playing the system as I’d thought.
Nowhere did the Government need to have a form saying Michael Samadhi has sex with skanks (and men) – buttsex – Nope! I could have, I should have had, my listed name as John Holmes. That’s right Mr Snakes on a Plane, you can just call me “Johnny Motherfucking Wadd” motherfucker!
Damn, it’s a little late for that now. There’s no closing that barn door after the cows are out.
So, eventually, Sally Struthers starts up some more conversation. “I see you’ve had sex with one women and oral sex with another woman who aren’t you wife, and that’s over the last six months, correct?” she says trying not to sound judgmental.
“Well, the form only had three spaces, and I was too shy to ask the sloth for more forms,” I say.
“Formssssss?” She says, putting unnecessary emphasis on the plural.
“Well, I keep trying to have a one night stand, because I’ve never had one, and I really wanted the experience,” I tell her, trying to remain helpful.
“Why did it take so many women to have a single one night stand?” she asks. Apparently I’ve peaked Public Health Dept Sally Struthers interest.
“Well, they always come back for more,” I say, trying to be matter of fact. I mean, the old catchphrase does go something to the effect – “It ain’t braggin’ if it’s fact!”
introducing Iowa Dept of Public Health to Fetlife
“I don’t want to be judgmental, and I don’t want to sound as if I’m telling you how to have sex . . . “ Sally states, obviously a trained and practiced disclaimer that goes along with the government not being judgmental of folks with open sores on their genitals having sex and spreading disease.
I couldn’t do Sally’s job, and I know it. I couldn’t do Mr Jackson’s job either, for the record. I’m not perfect, and I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I’ve rarely strayed into the realm of absolute self destructive behavior that many of the individuals who come through the clinics door’s represent.
“But, if you are going to be promiscuous you should consider using condoms,” Ms. Struthers states, again a rote line that’s part of her training.
I nod. Smile.
“Do you have buttsex with these women, the ones who aren’t one night stands?” she asks.
I read mannerisms, tone of voice, inflection, and take a good measure of what’s said and unsaid in a conversation. Lots of folks I can “read”, lots of folks I can’t, but the 2nd half of Sally’s question was like sitting in a room full of senior citizens and calling out – BINGO! – It was sure to get lots of attention . . .
Sally Struthers Public Health sex clinic nurse needs to get laid. She’s secretly wishing to find a man who can make her feel all the things she’s read about in romance novels, yet she’s pretty disgusted with men in general, and who can blame her from the class of “gentleman” she likely meets on the job. I’m a nice guy, I don’t break mirrors, and I’m putting of pheromones like nobody’s business because of a new love interest, so putting everything together it’s clear that my reference to women not allowing me my one night stand has peaked her curiosity.
“Only if they ask,” I say with the same grin I use on a lady submissive I might be flirting with.
“And do they?” she asks.
“Do they what?” I say, deliberately being obtuse.
“Do they ask you for buttsex?” she blurts out. I know for a fact this isn’t a question from her sheet.
As I was trying to describe the interplay between a dominant and a submissive recently for a lady who’s new to the lifestyle, I was inspired to use the analogy of the wolf and caribou. Getting Sally Struthers Public Health sex clinic nurse to go off script made my inner wolf take notice. Now I’ve got to be honest, it’s really not a great idea to let the wolf loose in this particular setting, this woman is putting on latex gloves, and about to swab my urethra with q-tip that looks as though it’s been grown on steroids.
“Well yes of course,” I say, “It’s a very common fantasy,” I say, entering my own public sex information officer mode.
“Where do you meet these women,” she asks, “Do you meet them at a website?”
She goes on to quote some site where men go to hook up with other men for (you guessed it) butt sex.
“I’ve never heard of that site before,” I say, truthfully.
“Fetlife!” I said.
“What?” she replied.
“Fetlife,” I repeated.
I spelled it out for her.
“What does the “F” “E” “T” stand for?” she asks.
“Fet is for Fetish,” I add with a grin. “It’s like Facebook for folks who want to get their freak on,” I volunteer.
“Oh” she says noncommittally.
“Do you use your real name there?” she enquirers.
“Would you?” I retort.
“I suppose not,” she states.
“I didn’t think so,” I say, concurring.
taking my blood
Sally Struthers Public Health sex clinic nurse swabbed my urethra, but not before managing to comment that my equipment looked healthy enough from a visual inspection (thank you very much . . . ) She then had me pull my pants up (I’m pretty sure she was as disappointed as I was) before leading me back to yet another Public Health sex clinic worker who would then take my blood.
At this point I was introduced to a middle-aged Hispanic lady who was to be my phlebotomist. To my amazement, my local Public Health Clinic was once again staffed by an individual who seemed recognizable from television, who’d have thought, right? Here, right before my eyes, standing before me with a large needle and a smile, was a dead ringer for Consuela, the laconic housekeeper from Family Guy.
“Ellow Misser Michael” she says.
OK, maybe she didn’t really talk like Consuela, but that’s how I heard her. The whole ordeal was starting to get more and more surreal with each passing moment. I’m well beyond starting to think that a few moments of mediocre pleasure with a skankus americus could be worth feeling like I’d landed in a fuckin’ cartoon.
After strapping a rubber tube around my upper arm, Public Health sex clinic phlebotomist lady begins to dig her needle around in the crook of my arm for a vein. She goes through one into the tissue behind. I swear, she apologizes.
“I’m sorry Misser Michael” she says.
She wiggles the needle around side to side, trying to capture a rolling vein, no luck. I’m starting to think this lady really is a housekeeper, she’s surely not accomplished at the vampire business. I clear my throat. I do it again. A third time. Finally, she gets the hint and stops the needle torture.
“Oh, I’m sorry Misser Michael. Did that hurt?” she says.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park you know,” I say, trying to restrain the sarcasm in my voice. Instead of saying what I really wanted to tell her, I ask politely, “Might it be possible to take the blood from one of the veins on the back of my hand?”
“Oh yes Misser Michael, you like?”
“Yes. I like.”
WTF, now I’m starting to sound like Peter Griffin . . .
clean bill of health
In the end, before it was all said and done, I’d not only had my finger pricked, I’d also had my prick fingered. It wasn’t an bad experience, just a surreal one. And, I left with a mostly clean bill of health. By “mostly” I simply mean that not all results are available the day of testing. I was instructed to call back in a few days for the results of the blood work. When I did, that testing came up clean too. Even though I’d never seen myself as being at high risk, it was good to get confirmation that I’d not compromised my own, or anyone else’s health. And, I not only got peace of mind for myself, and for my current partners, I also got a story to tell.
Serafina didn’t have to tell any lies to get her testing. Apparently my fictional homo-erotic “butt sex” exploits meant she got the full round of testing, no questions asked.
The moral of the story is simply – head on down to your local Public Health clinic, get yourself tested for STD’s. The whole experience might just turn out to be a real adventure.
And remember, you don’t have to give them your real name.
STD germ chasing a condom — original artwork by Serafina Samadhi
Maybe it’s the need to find ways to deal with holiday stresses, perhaps it’s just the need for creative expression, but there’s no denying that it’s the season for all sorts of silliness. The kink community is no different from the rest of the world in that respect I guess, after all we are nothing if we aren’t a microcosm of society. In our community, it’s trussed up turkeys and bondage bears that abound, there’s no escaping them. But maybe, just maybe, you’re the sort who’s already seen enough shiburkey and turkeybari?
Well, don’t despair, and certainly don’t cry out “Ohh, nooo!!!!” in a high pitched voice. I’ve found the answer to your woes over at Dumb Domme’s blog.
Michael: I want to say one word to you. Just one word.
Serafina: Yes, sir.
Michael: Are you listening?
Serafina: Yes, I am.
Michael: Gingerbondage! (My apologies to the writers of the film The Graduate, for my misappropriation of their classic script.)
That’s right, the answer (in case you hadn’t figured it out for yourself) is gingerbondage.
the horror . . . the horror
I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.
~ Shirley Temple
The featured gingerbondage illustration is actually part of an award winning advertising campaign put together by an agency named Zulu Alpha Kilo. The advert was produced for Fangoria, a magazine devoted to horror cinema that’s been around since I graduated from High School. I have to admit the ad is very inventive. I’d think that it’s pretty hard to put horror and holidays together in a tasteful manner, and Zulu Alpha Kilo’s campaign really does it well.
The gingerbondage ad is by far the kinkiest of the series produced for Fangoria, but they all have at least a little fetish value. There’s one that features some extreme gingerabrasion play . . .
Do you find the holidays grating?
And, another showing gingertemperature torture . . .
I’ve got just the thing to warm you up!
Mad Men meet Mr Bill
The “Holiday Horror” campaign (aka gingerbread torture series) really is an award-winning campaign. It recently garnered a bronze medal at the 2013 Epica Awards. While it doesn’t quite strike me as a Don Draper style ad campaign in the best Mad Men tradition, I can easily picture this as being the inspired result of someone like Margaret “Peggy” Olson. And, while pondering such intriguing fictional hypothetical possibilities, I couldn’t help myself from thinking that the inspiration for the series might have come from late night weekend television. I just can’t help seeing a significant resemblance between the concept of gingerbread horror ads and the ubiquitous Mr Bill comedy series from Saturday Night Live.
Surely you remember Mr Bill, his dog Spot, not to mention as his nemesis Sluggo, and the evil Mr Hand? In the late 1970’s Mr. Bill was a national phenomena, and his high-pitched cry of horror – “Ohh, nooo!” became a ubiquitous catchphrase. And, once I recognized the similarity, I couldn’t help myself from making the comparison. Now I can’t shake it. When I see the gingerbread man trussed up on the rack between the rolling pins, I have “flashbacks” to SNL.
Now, if I can only convince Serafina to get out some brightly colored playdough . . . Ohh, nooo Serafina!!!! Look out for Mr Hand!!!!