(via thebristolboard)
Page from the original black-and-white version of V for Vendetta by David Lloyd and Alan Moore, from Warrior #26, published by Quality Communications, February 1985.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Welcome Home
(via thebristolboard)
Page from the original black-and-white version of V for Vendetta by David Lloyd and Alan Moore, from Warrior #26, published by Quality Communications, February 1985.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Reminder: Creative Sex Play For Dr. Amy Marsh's Sexuality Salon
(from M.Christian's Classes & Appearances)
This is going to be a LOT of fun: a discussion/class on Creative Sex Play for the fantastic Dr. Amy Marsh's Sexuality Salon on February 22nd.
Here's a quickie write-up on the event ... hope to see you there!
Creative Sex Play
"Even the most experienced sexual adventurer may run short of ... shall we say 'inspiration'? In this wild and provocative seminar participants will not just learn al kind of new techniques and sexual worlds to explore – and do that exploration safely (both physically as well as emotionally) but they will also have lots of fun with various techniques to expand their basic imagination muscles: picking up new and enjoyable games to help them add a lot more to their lives – and not just their bedroom play."
About M. "Chris" Christian:
"As M. Christian I am - among many things - an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites. I'm the editor of 25 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, The Mammoth Book of Future Cops and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi) and Confessions, Garden of Perverse, and Amazons (with Sage Vivant) as well as many others. I'm also an Associate Publisher for Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions (premier publisher of BDSM erotica). I'm the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and Coming Together: M. Christian; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. My professional site is at www.mchristian.com"
Don't forget to purchase food and drink from the Cafe, which is so generous in providing this space for us!
This is going to be a LOT of fun: a discussion/class on Creative Sex Play for the fantastic Dr. Amy Marsh's Sexuality Salon on February 22nd.
Here's a quickie write-up on the event ... hope to see you there!
Creative Sex Play
"Even the most experienced sexual adventurer may run short of ... shall we say 'inspiration'? In this wild and provocative seminar participants will not just learn al kind of new techniques and sexual worlds to explore – and do that exploration safely (both physically as well as emotionally) but they will also have lots of fun with various techniques to expand their basic imagination muscles: picking up new and enjoyable games to help them add a lot more to their lives – and not just their bedroom play."
About M. "Chris" Christian:
"As M. Christian I am - among many things - an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites. I'm the editor of 25 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, The Mammoth Book of Future Cops and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi) and Confessions, Garden of Perverse, and Amazons (with Sage Vivant) as well as many others. I'm also an Associate Publisher for Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions (premier publisher of BDSM erotica). I'm the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and Coming Together: M. Christian; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. My professional site is at www.mchristian.com"
Don't forget to purchase food and drink from the Cafe, which is so generous in providing this space for us!
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds!
(from M.Christian's Meine Kleine Fabrik)
Here's a treat: the article that (that originally appeared on Dark Roasted Blend) about those Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds - that's now in my book. Welcome To Weirdsville - and thatthe subject of a very cool video by the great folks at Renaissance E Books/PageTurner Editions ... and the brilliant Bill Mills!
Scientists love a mystery. Biologists used to have the human genome, but now they have the structure of protein. Physics used to have cosmic rays, but now they have the God particle. Astronomers used to have black holes, but now they have dark matter.
And then there’s the puzzle, the enigma, the joyous mystery that dots the world over: the riddle of what’s commonly called Mima Mounds.
What’s an extra added bonus about these cryptic ‘whatevertheyares’ is that they aren’t as miniscule as a protein sequence, aren’t as subatomic as the elusive God particle, and certainly not as shadowy as dark matter. Found in such exotic locales as Kenya, Mexico, Canada, Australia, China and in similarly off-the-beaten path locations as California, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, and especially Washington state, the mounds first appear to be just that: mounds of earth.
The first thing that’s odd about the mounds is the similarity, regardless of location. With few differences, the mounds in Kenya are like the mounds in Mexico which are like the mounds in Canada which are like the … well, you get the point. All the mounds aer heaps of soil from three to six feet tall, often laid out in what appear to be evenly spaced rows. Not quite geometric but almost. What’s especially disturbing is that geologists, anthropologists, professors, and doctors of all kinds – plus a few well-intentioned self-appointed "experts" – can’t figure out what they are, where they came from, or what caused them.
One of the leading theories is that they are man-made, probably by indigenous people. Sounds reasonable, no? Folks in loincloths hauling dirt in woven baskets, meticulously making mound after mound after … but wait a minute. For one thing it would have been a huge amount of work, especially for a culture that was living hand-to-mouth. Then there’s the fact that, as far as can be determined, there’s nothing in the mounds themselves. Sure they aren’t exactly the same as the nearby ground, but they certainly don’t contain grain, pot shards, relics, mummies, arrowheads, or anything that really speaks of civilization. They are just dirt. And if they are man-made, how did the people in Kenya, Mexico, Canada, Australia, China, California, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, and especially Washington state all coordinate their efforts so closely as to produce virtually identical mounds? That’s either one huge tribe or a lot of little ones who somehow could send smoke signals thousands of miles. Not very likely.
Next on the list of explanations is that somehow the mounds were created either by wind and rain or by geologic ups and downs – that there’s some kind of bizarre earthy effect that has caused them to pop up. Again, it sounds reasonable, right? After all, there are all kinds of weird natural things out there: rogue waves, singing sand, exploding lakes, rains of fish and frogs – so why shouldn’t mother nature create field after field of neat little mounds?
The "natural" theory of nature being responsible for the Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds starts to crumble upon further investigation. Sure there’s plenty of things we don’t yet understand about how our native world behaves scientists do know enough to be able to say what it can’t do – and it’s looking pretty certain it can’t be as precise, orderly, or meticulous as the mounds.
But still more theories persist. For many who believe in ley lines, that crop circles are some form of manifestation of our collective unconscious, in ghosts being energy impressions left in stone and brick, the mounds are the same, or at least similar: the result of an interaction between forces we as yet do not understand, or never will, and our spaceship earth.
Others, those who prefer their granola slightly less crunchy or wear their tinfoil hats a little less tightly, have suggested what I – in my own ill-educated opinion – consider to be perhaps the best theory to date. Some, naturally, have dismissed this concept out-of-hand, suggesting that the whole idea is too ludicrous even to be the subject of a dinner party, let alone deserving the attention and respect of serious research.
But I think this attitude shows not only lack of respect but a lack of imagination. After all, was it not so long ago that the idea of shifting continents was considered outrageous? And wasn’t it only a few years ago that people simply accepted the fact that the sun revolved around the earth? I simply ask that this theory be considered in all fairness and not dismissed without the same serious consideration these now well-respected theories have received.
After all, giant gophers could very well be responsible for the Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds.
Here's a treat: the article that (that originally appeared on Dark Roasted Blend) about those Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds - that's now in my book. Welcome To Weirdsville - and thatthe subject of a very cool video by the great folks at Renaissance E Books/PageTurner Editions ... and the brilliant Bill Mills!
Scientists love a mystery. Biologists used to have the human genome, but now they have the structure of protein. Physics used to have cosmic rays, but now they have the God particle. Astronomers used to have black holes, but now they have dark matter.
And then there’s the puzzle, the enigma, the joyous mystery that dots the world over: the riddle of what’s commonly called Mima Mounds.
What’s an extra added bonus about these cryptic ‘whatevertheyares’ is that they aren’t as miniscule as a protein sequence, aren’t as subatomic as the elusive God particle, and certainly not as shadowy as dark matter. Found in such exotic locales as Kenya, Mexico, Canada, Australia, China and in similarly off-the-beaten path locations as California, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, and especially Washington state, the mounds first appear to be just that: mounds of earth.
The first thing that’s odd about the mounds is the similarity, regardless of location. With few differences, the mounds in Kenya are like the mounds in Mexico which are like the mounds in Canada which are like the … well, you get the point. All the mounds aer heaps of soil from three to six feet tall, often laid out in what appear to be evenly spaced rows. Not quite geometric but almost. What’s especially disturbing is that geologists, anthropologists, professors, and doctors of all kinds – plus a few well-intentioned self-appointed "experts" – can’t figure out what they are, where they came from, or what caused them.
One of the leading theories is that they are man-made, probably by indigenous people. Sounds reasonable, no? Folks in loincloths hauling dirt in woven baskets, meticulously making mound after mound after … but wait a minute. For one thing it would have been a huge amount of work, especially for a culture that was living hand-to-mouth. Then there’s the fact that, as far as can be determined, there’s nothing in the mounds themselves. Sure they aren’t exactly the same as the nearby ground, but they certainly don’t contain grain, pot shards, relics, mummies, arrowheads, or anything that really speaks of civilization. They are just dirt. And if they are man-made, how did the people in Kenya, Mexico, Canada, Australia, China, California, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, and especially Washington state all coordinate their efforts so closely as to produce virtually identical mounds? That’s either one huge tribe or a lot of little ones who somehow could send smoke signals thousands of miles. Not very likely.
Next on the list of explanations is that somehow the mounds were created either by wind and rain or by geologic ups and downs – that there’s some kind of bizarre earthy effect that has caused them to pop up. Again, it sounds reasonable, right? After all, there are all kinds of weird natural things out there: rogue waves, singing sand, exploding lakes, rains of fish and frogs – so why shouldn’t mother nature create field after field of neat little mounds?
The "natural" theory of nature being responsible for the Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds starts to crumble upon further investigation. Sure there’s plenty of things we don’t yet understand about how our native world behaves scientists do know enough to be able to say what it can’t do – and it’s looking pretty certain it can’t be as precise, orderly, or meticulous as the mounds.
But still more theories persist. For many who believe in ley lines, that crop circles are some form of manifestation of our collective unconscious, in ghosts being energy impressions left in stone and brick, the mounds are the same, or at least similar: the result of an interaction between forces we as yet do not understand, or never will, and our spaceship earth.
Others, those who prefer their granola slightly less crunchy or wear their tinfoil hats a little less tightly, have suggested what I – in my own ill-educated opinion – consider to be perhaps the best theory to date. Some, naturally, have dismissed this concept out-of-hand, suggesting that the whole idea is too ludicrous even to be the subject of a dinner party, let alone deserving the attention and respect of serious research.
But I think this attitude shows not only lack of respect but a lack of imagination. After all, was it not so long ago that the idea of shifting continents was considered outrageous? And wasn’t it only a few years ago that people simply accepted the fact that the sun revolved around the earth? I simply ask that this theory be considered in all fairness and not dismissed without the same serious consideration these now well-respected theories have received.
After all, giant gophers could very well be responsible for the Majorly Mysterious Mima Mounds.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
"Love" From Filthy Boys
(from M.Christian's Queer Imaginings)
Just 'cause, here's a story from my recently-released queer collection, Filthy Boys. I have a certain fondness for this story as it was written as a kind of thanks to all the gay men I've known - and who've changed my life for the better.
LOVE
"You could have stayed with me," he'd said the first time I went to Seattle to see him, but stayed in a motel. I hadn't even thought of it, and so the disappointment in his eyes.
I never went back. After he got promoted there wasn't any point.
You could have stayed with me evolves into a fantasy in which those four days play out differently: an invitation made earlier, my discomfort of staying in someone else's house miraculously absent. Fresh off the plane, strap digging into my shoulder (I always over-pack), out of the cab and up a quick twist of marble steps to his front door. A knock, or a buzz, and it opens.
A quick dance of mutual embarrassment as I maneuver in with my luggage, both of us saying the stupid things we all say when we arrive somewhere we've never been before. Him: "How was your flight?" Me: "What a great place."
Son of a decorator, I always furnish and accessorize my fantasies: I imagine his to be a simple one-bedroom. Messy, but a good mess. A mind's room, full of toppling books, squares of bright white paper. Over the fireplace (cold, never lit) a print, something classical like a Greek torso, the fine line topography of Michelangelo's David. A few pieces of plaster, three-dimensional anatomical bric-a-brac on the mantel. A cheap wooden table in the window, bistro candle, and Don't Fuck With The Queen in ornate script on a chipped coffee cup.
Dinner? No, my flight arrived late. Coffee? More comfortable and gets to the point quicker. We chat. I ask him about his life: is everything okay? He replies that he's busy, but otherwise fine. We chat some more. I say that it's a pleasure to work with him. He replies with the same.
I compliment him, amplifying what I've already said, and he blushes. He returns it, and then some, making me smile. My eyes start to burn, my vision blurs, tears threatening. I sniffle and stand up.
He does as well, and we hug. Hold there. Hold there. Hold there. Then, break – but still close together. Lips close together. The kiss happens. Light, just a grazing of lips. I can tell he wants more, but I'm uncomfortable and break it but not so uncomfortable that I can't kiss his cheeks. Right, then left, then right again.
But his head turns and we're kissing, lips to lips again. Does he open his first or do I? Sometimes I imagine his, sometimes mine. But they are open and we are kissing, lips and tongue, together. Hot, wet, hard.
But not on my part. Wet, definitely – in my mind it's a good kiss. A generous and loving kiss. Hot, absolutely, but only in a matter of degrees as his temperature rises and mine does in basic body response.
Not hard on my part, but I am aware of his. Between us, like a finger shoved through a hole in his pocket, something solid and muscular below his waist.
Does he say something? "I want you," "Please touch me," "I'm sorry," are candidates. I've tried them all out, one time or another, to add different flavors, essences, spices to that evening. "I want you," for basic primal sex. "Please touch me," for polite request, respect and sympathy. "I'm sorry," for wanting something he knows I don't.
"It's okay," I say to all of them, and it is. Not just words. Understanding, sympathy, generosity. All of them, glowing in my mind. It really is okay.
I'm a pornographer, dammit. I should be able to go on with the next part of this story without feeling like ... I'm laughing right now, not that you can tell. An ironic chuckle: a pornographer unable to write about sex. Not that I can't write about myself, that making who I am – really – the center of the action is uncomfortable, because I've certainly done that before. I've exposed myself on the page so many other times, what makes this one so different?
Just do it. Put the words down and debate them later. After all, that's what we're here for, aren't we? You want to hear what I dream he and I do together. You want to look over my mental shoulder at two men in that tiny apartment in Seattle.
I'm a writer; it's what I do, and more importantly, what I am. So we sit on the couch, he in the corner me in the middle. His hand is on my leg. My back is tight, my thighs are corded. Doubt shades his face so I put my own hand on his own, equally tight, thigh. I repeat what I said before, meaning it: "It's okay."
We kiss again. A friend's kiss, a two people who like each other kiss. His hands touch my chest, feeling me through the thin cloth of turtleneck. I pull the fabric out of my pants with a few quick tugs, allowing bare hands to touch bare chest. He likes it, grinning up at me. I send my own grin, trying to relax.
His hand strokes me though my jeans, and eventually I do get hard. His smile becomes deeper, more sincere, lit by his excitement. It's one thing to say it, quite another for your body to say it. Flesh doesn't lie, and I might have when I gave permission. My cock getting hard, though, is obvious tissue and blood sincerity.
"That's nice," "Can I take it out?" "I hope you're all right with this." Basic primal sex, a polite request including respect and sympathy, and the words for wanting something he knows I don't – any one of them, more added depth to this dream.
My cock is out and because he's excited or simply doesn't want the moment and my body to possibly get away, he is sucking me. Was that so hard to say? It's just sex. Just the mechanics of arousal, the engineering of erotica. Cock A in mouth B. I've written it hundreds of times. But there's that difference again, like by writing it, putting it down on paper (or a computer screen) has turned diamond into glass, mahogany into plywood.
Cheapened. That's the word. But to repeat: I am a writer. It's what I do. All the time. Even about love – especially about this kind of love.
He sucks my cock. Not like that, not that, not the way you're thinking: not porno sucking, not erotica sucking. This is connection, he to I. The speech of sex, blowjob as vocabulary.
I stay hard. What does this mean? It puzzles me, even in the fantasy. I have no doubts about my sexuality. I am straight. I write everything else, but I am a straight boy. I like girls. Men do not turn me on.
Yet, in my mind and in that little apartment, I am hard. Not "like a rock," not "as steel," not as a "telephone pole," but hard enough as his mouth, lips, and tongue – an echoing hard, wet and hard – work on me.
The answer is clear and sharp, because if I couldn't get hard and stay hard then he'd be hurt and the scene would shadow, chill, and things would be weighted between us. That's not the point of this dream, why I think about it.
So, onto sex. Nothing great or grand, nothing from every section of the menu. A simple action between two men who care about each other: he sucks my cock. He enjoys it and I love him enough to let him. That's all we do, because it's enough.
He sucks me for long minutes, making sweet sounds and I feel like crying. He puts his hand down his own pants, puts a hand around his own cock. For a moment I think about asking him if he wants help, for me to put my hand around him, help him jerk off. But I don't. Not because I don't want to, or because I'm disgusted, but because he seems to be enjoying himself so much, so delighted in the act of sucking me, that I don't want to break the spell, turn that couch back into a pumpkin.
He comes, a deep groan around my cock, humming me into near-giggles. He stops sucking as he gasps and sighs with release, looking up at me with wet-painted lips, eyes out of focus. I bend down and kiss him, not tasting anything but warm water.
I love him. I wanted to thank him. I hope, within this dream, I have. The night that didn't happen but could have.
For me, writing is just about everything: the joy of right word following right word all the way to the end. The ecstasy of elegant plot, the pleasure of flowing dialogue, the loveliness of perfect description. Sex is good, sex is wonderful, but story is fireworks in my brain. The reason I live. The greatest pleasure in my life.
And he has given me that, with nearly flowing letters on an agreement between his company and I, between his faith in my ability and myself. He looked at me, exposed on the page of a book, in the chapter of a novel, in the lines of a short story, and didn't laugh, didn't dismiss or reject. He read, nodded, smiled, and agreed to publish.
Sex cannot measure up to that. Bodies are bodies, but he has given me a pleasure beyond anything I'd felt: applause, and a chance to do much, much more with words, with stories.
He doesn't have a name, this man in my fantasy. There have been a lot of them over the years, and a lot more in the future, no doubt. Gay men who have touched me in ways no one has ever touched me before, by making love with my soul through their support of my writing. Each time they have, this fantasy has emerged from the back of my mind, a need to give them the gift they have given me: passion and kindness, support and caring, and pure affection.
I worry about this. I worry that they won't understand, take this secret dream of mine as being patronizing, diminishing them to nothing but a being with a cock who craved more cock. I've confessed a few times, telling a select few how I feel about them, how I wish I could do for them what they have done for me, to be able to put aside my heterosexuality for just an evening, an afternoon, and share total affection together.
Luckily, or maybe there really isn't anything to worry about, the ones I've told, they smile, hold my hand, kiss my cheek, say the right thing and to this day, even right now, make me cry: "I wish we could too, but I understand. I love you too."
Am I bi? I know I'm physically not – I simply don't get aroused by men – but that doesn't mean I don't adore men, or for the ones I care about, the men who have touched my soul through their support and affection for my stories and writing, I wish I couldn't change. More than anything I wish I could give them what they have given me.
With a cock or a pen, with a story or hours of wonderful sex, it all comes down to one thing: love.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Patrick Califia Likes Rude Mechanicals
(from M.Christian's Technorotica)
This is a very special treat: a blurb from the legendary Patrick Califia - a great writer and an even greater friend. Thanks, Pat!
Here is the latest collection of M.Christian's insightful and original work. Fabulous! I have yet to read anything Chris has written without feeling that my own assumptions were challenged, and I was pushed to think about sexuality, politics, gender, and literature in a whole different way. There aren't enough people who can write from the polymorphous perverse perspective that he seamlessly adopts. He is a genuine ally of sexual minority communities and has walked the walk and talked the talk in dozens of different erotic and edgy experiences. If you'd like to expand your horizons and spread your wings (or your legs, or somebody else's legs), you couldn't have a better guide than the wise, wry, irreverent, and twisted M.Christian.
-Patrick Califia, author of Mortal Companion, Hard Men, and Macho Sluts.
This is a very special treat: a blurb from the legendary Patrick Califia - a great writer and an even greater friend. Thanks, Pat!
Here is the latest collection of M.Christian's insightful and original work. Fabulous! I have yet to read anything Chris has written without feeling that my own assumptions were challenged, and I was pushed to think about sexuality, politics, gender, and literature in a whole different way. There aren't enough people who can write from the polymorphous perverse perspective that he seamlessly adopts. He is a genuine ally of sexual minority communities and has walked the walk and talked the talk in dozens of different erotic and edgy experiences. If you'd like to expand your horizons and spread your wings (or your legs, or somebody else's legs), you couldn't have a better guide than the wise, wry, irreverent, and twisted M.Christian.
-Patrick Califia, author of Mortal Companion, Hard Men, and Macho Sluts.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Orson Scott Card Should Not Be Writing Superman
(from M.Christian's Queer Imaginings)
I don't touch on politics ... much on my blog, but the idea of a homophobic bigot like Orson Scott Card being paid to write Superman - a symbol of liberty, trust, and justice - is completely offensive.
Here's a hyperlink to a petition to get Card fired ... and if you doubt his bigotry just click here (and here's a tease):
I don't touch on politics ... much on my blog, but the idea of a homophobic bigot like Orson Scott Card being paid to write Superman - a symbol of liberty, trust, and justice - is completely offensive.
Here's a hyperlink to a petition to get Card fired ... and if you doubt his bigotry just click here (and here's a tease):
According to science fiction author Orson Scott Card (pictured above), recent court decisions in Massachusetts and California recognizing same-sex marriage mean “the end of democracy in America.” As such, he advocates taking down our government “by whatever means is made possible or necessary."
It’s all there in a truly frightful — and brazenly dishonest — essay that Card published in last Thursday’s edition of the Mormon Times.
I can’t think the last time I’ve read something so offensive and bigoted written by a major media figure. Overthrowing the government because of same-sex marriage? As far as I know, even Pat Robertson doesn’t advocate this. We’re talking Fred Phelps territory here.
And Card is definitely a major figure in the science fiction community, a three-time winner of both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, and a winner of both the World Fantasy and Locus Awards. His novel, Ender’s Game, is considered a classic, one of the best-selling science fiction novels of all time. A major movie version is in the works with a screenplay written by Card himself. Wolfgang Petersen and Warner Brothers had both been involved, though it’s unclear if either still are.
Additionally, at this month's Comic Con in San Diego, Marvel Comics announced that this October they are publishing a six issue miniseries based on Ender's Game.
Some of Card’s arguments against same-sex marriage are straight from the far-right conservative playbook: for example, that marriage is, and must always be, synonymous with procreation. Infertile heterosexual couples are okay because they affirm “the universality of the pattern of marriage” — at least if they adopt. Card seems to grant no credence or respect to heterosexual couples who are childless by choice.
And Card clearly seems to detest gay people.
“When gay rights were being enforced by the courts back in the '70s and '80s, we were repeatedly told by all the proponents of gay rights that they would never attempt to legalize gay marriage,” Card writes. “It took about 15 minutes for that promise to be broken.”
I have absolutely no idea what Card means by this spiteful comment. As long as I’ve been alive and working in gay activism, we gay people have been quite clear about our long-term agenda: liberty and justice for all. It's really not that difficult a concept.
Card spends a lot of time arguing that the availability of same-sex marriage and the open acknowledgement of gay people is destroying the “family,” but our families definitely don’t count. At no point does Card acknowledge, even tacitly, the legal and psychological burden we gay people bear when our relationships are literally made to be illegal. He certainly doesn’t see us as equal citizens and doesn’t even seem to think of us as human.
[MORE]
Monday, February 11, 2013
My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out Was A Treat!
(From M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)
Thanks so all the great people who came out for My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out it was a thrill to get out and read ... especially for such a great audience.
For all you poor suckers ... I mean 'unfortunate people' who couldn't make it ... here's the story I read: It originally appeared in my fun Renaissance E Books/Sizzler editions anthology BondageBy The Bay Tales Of BDSM In San Francisco
(hint, hint)
I shouldn't have so many. I mean ... hell, I only just turned fifty- one. A few, maybe; but when I think of them there always seems to be far too many.
Far too many.
And they all were in San Francisco ... and if they hadn't then they certainly lived in San Francisco: the city where everything always seems to have happened.
Emphasis on seems to have happened.
I can't pick a favorite – and even if I could I wouldn't. Each one, each time, each frozen-flash-memory-moment of time stands unique and still, coming and going depending on all kinds of irrational and almost whimsical cues: the smell of a certain brand of soap, the way this-or-that kind of fabric feels, the unique flavors of ... well, unique flavors.
Sunlight, for instance: not just light-from-the sun but when it comes through big windows. Big, but very dusty windows: the way the warm brilliance reveals little eddies and currents of stuff caught in the air. Back when I was living in San Francisco, when all of these memories were made, I seemed to wake up many time in that one front room in that one special house out in the Sunset.
Lisa, my wife at the time, and I had made a lot of friends while we were together. Some of them were vanilla, but most of them understood the other flavor of that word, vanilla, means. If you don't, then you should probably – especially since you may not understand the rest of this.
The biggest shock I felt after dipping my toes and then (ahem) other body parts into this particular pool was how remarkably normal everyone there was. Larry, the lawyer who worked for the city, might have liked to get dressed up as a young girl – pinafores, pink hair bows, stockings, precious little shoes, and all that – but he was also the friend who liked French comedies and sushi. Marty, the chubby programmer, may have been into being beaten – quite severely sometimes – by a cane but he was also one of the best friends I'd ever had, who told the best stories and had the best laugh. Sally, well- tanned and lithe teacher, was certainly a vicious dominatrix with whip, cane, paddle, clothespin – and anything else within reach – but she was also there, with her arms around me, that day when my usual blues were far too deeply blue for me to see the sun.
That house in the sunset, then. That special house in the sunset: the one with the dusty windows; the one I always seemed to wake up in. That one. It wasn't just after a party or such, though there were a lot of those. Sometimes Lisa and I would just be there, watching movies, resting after some parade or event or such. It was one of those places that as familiar as our own home.
Todd worked for the city, though I forget the details of what exactly he did. Not important. But what I do remember is: Todd was a teddy bear, a great laughing ball of a man. In his basement there had been parties, a space he had created and gave to all of his friends to use, but the best memories I have of him are just sitting on the couch in that front room. Women, sometimes topless, sometimes not, and men, sometimes bottomless, sometimes not, stroll past in my memories, stroboscopic flashes of various erotic adventures and sticky orgasms (from me) and loud ones (from women) flicker in and out, mixing up what was real, what wasn't, and how even to tell the two of them apart. But though them all Todd was always there: a sweet and happy smile on his face, a warm hug always there when needed.
Diabetes was his end. Shamefully, memories of my own father's passing too loud and strong in my mind, I was too cowardly to see him in the hospital.
Beth comes, now and again, as well: the memories of her not really
tied to any particular flavor, texture, or scent. Maybe that means she was ... different from Todd. I don't know. But I do know that Beth was special. They all are, to stay with me. But she really was that and more.
We began to flirt ... but then everyone in the scene does. It's just what the people in that world do: a part of the game, a part of the life but most importantly part of the play. But in her case there was an extra dimension to it. I think she knew, and I think I knew, that we were very similar in a very deep down way: that, sure, we could have just played, only whipped or chained or bound or gagged or pierced or whatever together but no matter what we'd done together it would have become something more than just that – play partners naturally and wonderfully becoming lovers.
We didn't, but we came close many times. She was a big girl, a brightly grinning woman round in all the right and happy ways. One time shines a bit more than the others: her, glowing like a cake from the oven, on Lisa and I'd big bed in our little house, her immense breasts out for fingers and lips, the deep moans of her excitement echoing back and forth in the tiny room. It had been a treat, a special birthday surprise for this bottom to be the center of attention for several of her friends. They were there with me, and they each had things to give her – a little of this, a little of that, and much of what she liked, but afterwards, when the other party-goers had left to go into the kitchen for drinks and snacks, we had cuddled together and half-slept.
Cancer was her end. Guilt there as well; that I didn't find out about her passing until it was far too late to be there for her.
Shelly comes to me often. This is not the time, place, pages, for
me, but let me say that I was a late bloomer ... a very late bloomer. Because of this sex is a sacred thing, every contact a tap on the head of a very lonely young man who wanted, more than anything, for a girl, a woman, to want him. Shelly wanted me, and because of that she was special.
Lisa and I were breaking up, each of us stepping into different parts of the San Francisco scene. I had never gone to a party by myself and really didn't know what to expect. I had hopes, of course. But never thought that someone Shelly would happen.
We connected, like something from a badly written porn story: as the organizers held a little pagan-ish ritual to raise the party's sexual energy she looked at me and smiled. Then she moved closer to me.
She was big, but not round or plump but instead was a giantess: proportionally big in all directions. After the sexual energy was raised, we were free to wander, and do, whatever we wanted.
Odd, but even though we wanted to we didn't. A stranger stuck his nose, literally, into our business and as we kissed and I caressed her firm and beautiful breasts he licked her. But our times did not stop there. We became lovers and had a lot of good times together.
Then she called me, telling me something dark and frightening: afterwards she asked me, her voice cracking and faint, if what she'd learned from her doctor would change us. I told her it wouldn't: meaning every word.
Unfortunately, my own life went one way and hers went another. I am still here, to write about the kindness of her soul, the light of her smile, the beauty of her passion and the music of her joy, but she is not.
Cancer was also her end. Again, I was not there to see her off; again, guilt that I wasn't holding her hand when it happened.
Dora arrives with when the sun goes down, stepping into my mind
when the shadows grow so long they mix and merge into the ink of warm night. But not because of her skin, that would be too much of a cliché ... even for me. No, Dora comes because that's when we saw each other the most: visits to – my heart beat-beating with excitement, a firm erection of anticipation – and then from – my mind furry with post-bliss natural chemicals, the tug of bed after a wonderful roll of orgasms – one of the rent-by-the-hour hot tub places in the city.
One memory hangs over them all. Y es, her glorious smile. Y es, her so-sweet soul and her sparkling laughter. Yes, the times that is wasn't just about pleasure of naked skin (mine white, hers black) and sharing bliss and pleasure and sweat and the sounds we make when it gets very good ... very, very good.
This memory was one special night when the stars in that ink warm sky were in just the right step in their dance from dusk to dawn: she had been on top, a slow, musical, magical, magnificent rhythm of hips and body that could have just lasted a few minutes or could have been for hours on end.
I never used to think that sex could be magic. But then Dora came into my life and changed how I thought, and changed my heart as well.
But then I went one way and she went another way.
A heart attack was her end. Not there, of course, to help or just hold her hand. I don't believe it anything beyond this world but that doesn't stop me from looking up at those dancing stars and hoping that somewhere, somehow, she knows that she is still here, in my mind, my soul: a precious jewel of times together, sparkling even after all these years.
Too many ghosts – but not just the spirits of people gone past. A
city, after all, is not just made of bricks and boards and asphalt and steel and wire and pipe and all the rest of it that separates it from the natural world, but it's more than that. I really do feel that certain cities – certain special places – are as alive as the human beings working, living, and traveling through it.
San Francisco is no exception, and it has more than a few dearly- departed landmarks that also drift in and out of my mind. Though in the case of these addresses the bodies of their previous lives is a little more ... well, concrete: what they were overlaid with their modern incarnations.
South of Market, for instance (SOMA to Bay Area people): it's a lithograph stop now, but when I was putting on my tight black pants, cinching up my waist cincher and stepping out to a Links, Society of Janus, QSM, Black Leather Wing Fairy, or this, that, or other group or event or simply a party With No Name, that place was stale cement, the lingering perfume of mold and maybe even urine. It was hardly elegant but it was still a place that holds some primordial memories: friends naked, friends moaning or shrieking in orgasm, friends with their arms around me, me with my arms around my friends.
Then there was that one special Society of Janus panel. My wife had been the Program Director, picking and choosing this-friend or that-friend to step up and demonstrate a kinky talent or expertise.
That night was cutting, and one of those volunteers had been the Program Director. The cutting had been of a Kris, the undulating Indonesian knife: chosen because of its similarity to my name.
The place is gone, and my marriage ended. But she still has that mark on her back: the literal scars of an old relationship.
In the same area, another place – though I can't remember what it is now I have fond memories of what it once was: a playspace full of leather-this and leather-that, swings and slings and St. Andrews' crosses and even a stock or two. It was in one of those slings where I gave up my anal virginity to my strap-on wearing wife, while a pair of bountifully buxom friends bent over me, nipples dangling in my face and mouth during the whole bout of play.
Over in the Mission is another space, though I've heard that while it still lives and breathes it is closed to the casual, the everyday players: shut to everyone but a select few. It is the Shangri-La of spaces, the wonderland everywhere else is measured against. From the Pink Floyd inspired bathroom to the bubbles of a hot tub set in the middle of a lushly green garden, to the catacombs of its leather-fest dungeon, it's a space that – no matter how old it ever gets – will forever glow and sparkle from the energies raised there.
I can't begin to say how many times I'd been there, how many orgasms and experiences had been enjoyed in the framework of its walls. I do know that, even after my first marriage, it stayed in my life – even beginning another long term, and much happier, time in my life with a new partner.
There are other architectural ghosts, of course: the parade of offices that San Francisco Sex Information occupied, the storefronts that hid spontaneous sex parties, the bash secretly held in a massive public storage place downtown, the galleries that went up at night and down with the morning light, and even the play that happened beyond the walls of a house or a home. The legendary Folsom Street Fair, for instance, will always be in my mind – though it is hardly a ghost as it still lives and breathes to this day.
But to me my favorite times are as invisible and intangible as long- lost lovers or repurposed sex clubs: the Amazonian girl I'd played with for a new months, both of us half-naked, both of us dancing to so techno-or-other and then, when the steam between us grew too steamy, a quick trip to a sacred alley next door to orgasm with mouth and hands between two parked cars; the on-again, off-again partner pressed against me in the swelling crowd, laughter and giggles all around as I playfully unzipped her latex catsuit, laughter and giggles more when she unzipped it more, pulling my head to an already erect nipple.
These places, those times, are still there even if they are not really there: a drive through the streets of San Francisco turning me into a tired, old tour guide, pointing over there with a wistful commentary: "Right over there this or that happened..."
Far too many. Yes, it feels like far too many of them: phasing in
and out of my mind when I think about those years in San Francisco. Both the spirits of sadly past friends and lovers, plus the lingering memories of spaces and events having been replaced by chain-stores or locked away behind private and respected accesses.
Far too often the city I knew, the city that seemed to flow as easily and warmly through my body as my own blood or other, stickier, fluids, seems to have gone, died as well. San Francisco, when I move through it now, seems instead to be a place of plastic arrogance, a hipster paradise of hundred dollar t-shirts, obvious and loud non- conformist conformity, without a trace of true creativity, free- spiritness, or the perilous risks of showing true love, lust, or even the glorious stickiness of an orgasm.
Alive or dead, though, I still have my ghosts and while they sometimes drift into my mind unexpected and unwanted, I wouldn't give up the memories, the people who made them: with each visit they remind me of how many of them changed how I see the world, San Francisco, and – most of all – myself.
Thank you, all of you: thank you for reaching out and touching me. Thank you for caring for me. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for being there.
I will never, ever forget you.
*All names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, the fortunate, the unfortunate ... they are all missed
Thanks so all the great people who came out for My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out it was a thrill to get out and read ... especially for such a great audience.
For all you poor suckers ... I mean 'unfortunate people' who couldn't make it ... here's the story I read: It originally appeared in my fun Renaissance E Books/Sizzler editions anthology BondageBy The Bay Tales Of BDSM In San Francisco
GHOSTS*
I shouldn't have so many. I mean ... hell, I only just turned fifty- one. A few, maybe; but when I think of them there always seems to be far too many.
Far too many.
And they all were in San Francisco ... and if they hadn't then they certainly lived in San Francisco: the city where everything always seems to have happened.
Emphasis on seems to have happened.
I can't pick a favorite – and even if I could I wouldn't. Each one, each time, each frozen-flash-memory-moment of time stands unique and still, coming and going depending on all kinds of irrational and almost whimsical cues: the smell of a certain brand of soap, the way this-or-that kind of fabric feels, the unique flavors of ... well, unique flavors.
Sunlight, for instance: not just light-from-the sun but when it comes through big windows. Big, but very dusty windows: the way the warm brilliance reveals little eddies and currents of stuff caught in the air. Back when I was living in San Francisco, when all of these memories were made, I seemed to wake up many time in that one front room in that one special house out in the Sunset.
Lisa, my wife at the time, and I had made a lot of friends while we were together. Some of them were vanilla, but most of them understood the other flavor of that word, vanilla, means. If you don't, then you should probably – especially since you may not understand the rest of this.
The biggest shock I felt after dipping my toes and then (ahem) other body parts into this particular pool was how remarkably normal everyone there was. Larry, the lawyer who worked for the city, might have liked to get dressed up as a young girl – pinafores, pink hair bows, stockings, precious little shoes, and all that – but he was also the friend who liked French comedies and sushi. Marty, the chubby programmer, may have been into being beaten – quite severely sometimes – by a cane but he was also one of the best friends I'd ever had, who told the best stories and had the best laugh. Sally, well- tanned and lithe teacher, was certainly a vicious dominatrix with whip, cane, paddle, clothespin – and anything else within reach – but she was also there, with her arms around me, that day when my usual blues were far too deeply blue for me to see the sun.
That house in the sunset, then. That special house in the sunset: the one with the dusty windows; the one I always seemed to wake up in. That one. It wasn't just after a party or such, though there were a lot of those. Sometimes Lisa and I would just be there, watching movies, resting after some parade or event or such. It was one of those places that as familiar as our own home.
Todd worked for the city, though I forget the details of what exactly he did. Not important. But what I do remember is: Todd was a teddy bear, a great laughing ball of a man. In his basement there had been parties, a space he had created and gave to all of his friends to use, but the best memories I have of him are just sitting on the couch in that front room. Women, sometimes topless, sometimes not, and men, sometimes bottomless, sometimes not, stroll past in my memories, stroboscopic flashes of various erotic adventures and sticky orgasms (from me) and loud ones (from women) flicker in and out, mixing up what was real, what wasn't, and how even to tell the two of them apart. But though them all Todd was always there: a sweet and happy smile on his face, a warm hug always there when needed.
Diabetes was his end. Shamefully, memories of my own father's passing too loud and strong in my mind, I was too cowardly to see him in the hospital.
****
Beth comes, now and again, as well: the memories of her not really
tied to any particular flavor, texture, or scent. Maybe that means she was ... different from Todd. I don't know. But I do know that Beth was special. They all are, to stay with me. But she really was that and more.
We began to flirt ... but then everyone in the scene does. It's just what the people in that world do: a part of the game, a part of the life but most importantly part of the play. But in her case there was an extra dimension to it. I think she knew, and I think I knew, that we were very similar in a very deep down way: that, sure, we could have just played, only whipped or chained or bound or gagged or pierced or whatever together but no matter what we'd done together it would have become something more than just that – play partners naturally and wonderfully becoming lovers.
We didn't, but we came close many times. She was a big girl, a brightly grinning woman round in all the right and happy ways. One time shines a bit more than the others: her, glowing like a cake from the oven, on Lisa and I'd big bed in our little house, her immense breasts out for fingers and lips, the deep moans of her excitement echoing back and forth in the tiny room. It had been a treat, a special birthday surprise for this bottom to be the center of attention for several of her friends. They were there with me, and they each had things to give her – a little of this, a little of that, and much of what she liked, but afterwards, when the other party-goers had left to go into the kitchen for drinks and snacks, we had cuddled together and half-slept.
Cancer was her end. Guilt there as well; that I didn't find out about her passing until it was far too late to be there for her.
****
Shelly comes to me often. This is not the time, place, pages, for
me, but let me say that I was a late bloomer ... a very late bloomer. Because of this sex is a sacred thing, every contact a tap on the head of a very lonely young man who wanted, more than anything, for a girl, a woman, to want him. Shelly wanted me, and because of that she was special.
Lisa and I were breaking up, each of us stepping into different parts of the San Francisco scene. I had never gone to a party by myself and really didn't know what to expect. I had hopes, of course. But never thought that someone Shelly would happen.
We connected, like something from a badly written porn story: as the organizers held a little pagan-ish ritual to raise the party's sexual energy she looked at me and smiled. Then she moved closer to me.
She was big, but not round or plump but instead was a giantess: proportionally big in all directions. After the sexual energy was raised, we were free to wander, and do, whatever we wanted.
Odd, but even though we wanted to we didn't. A stranger stuck his nose, literally, into our business and as we kissed and I caressed her firm and beautiful breasts he licked her. But our times did not stop there. We became lovers and had a lot of good times together.
Then she called me, telling me something dark and frightening: afterwards she asked me, her voice cracking and faint, if what she'd learned from her doctor would change us. I told her it wouldn't: meaning every word.
Unfortunately, my own life went one way and hers went another. I am still here, to write about the kindness of her soul, the light of her smile, the beauty of her passion and the music of her joy, but she is not.
Cancer was also her end. Again, I was not there to see her off; again, guilt that I wasn't holding her hand when it happened.
****
Dora arrives with when the sun goes down, stepping into my mind
when the shadows grow so long they mix and merge into the ink of warm night. But not because of her skin, that would be too much of a cliché ... even for me. No, Dora comes because that's when we saw each other the most: visits to – my heart beat-beating with excitement, a firm erection of anticipation – and then from – my mind furry with post-bliss natural chemicals, the tug of bed after a wonderful roll of orgasms – one of the rent-by-the-hour hot tub places in the city.
One memory hangs over them all. Y es, her glorious smile. Y es, her so-sweet soul and her sparkling laughter. Yes, the times that is wasn't just about pleasure of naked skin (mine white, hers black) and sharing bliss and pleasure and sweat and the sounds we make when it gets very good ... very, very good.
This memory was one special night when the stars in that ink warm sky were in just the right step in their dance from dusk to dawn: she had been on top, a slow, musical, magical, magnificent rhythm of hips and body that could have just lasted a few minutes or could have been for hours on end.
I never used to think that sex could be magic. But then Dora came into my life and changed how I thought, and changed my heart as well.
But then I went one way and she went another way.
A heart attack was her end. Not there, of course, to help or just hold her hand. I don't believe it anything beyond this world but that doesn't stop me from looking up at those dancing stars and hoping that somewhere, somehow, she knows that she is still here, in my mind, my soul: a precious jewel of times together, sparkling even after all these years.
****
Too many ghosts – but not just the spirits of people gone past. A
city, after all, is not just made of bricks and boards and asphalt and steel and wire and pipe and all the rest of it that separates it from the natural world, but it's more than that. I really do feel that certain cities – certain special places – are as alive as the human beings working, living, and traveling through it.
San Francisco is no exception, and it has more than a few dearly- departed landmarks that also drift in and out of my mind. Though in the case of these addresses the bodies of their previous lives is a little more ... well, concrete: what they were overlaid with their modern incarnations.
South of Market, for instance (SOMA to Bay Area people): it's a lithograph stop now, but when I was putting on my tight black pants, cinching up my waist cincher and stepping out to a Links, Society of Janus, QSM, Black Leather Wing Fairy, or this, that, or other group or event or simply a party With No Name, that place was stale cement, the lingering perfume of mold and maybe even urine. It was hardly elegant but it was still a place that holds some primordial memories: friends naked, friends moaning or shrieking in orgasm, friends with their arms around me, me with my arms around my friends.
Then there was that one special Society of Janus panel. My wife had been the Program Director, picking and choosing this-friend or that-friend to step up and demonstrate a kinky talent or expertise.
That night was cutting, and one of those volunteers had been the Program Director. The cutting had been of a Kris, the undulating Indonesian knife: chosen because of its similarity to my name.
The place is gone, and my marriage ended. But she still has that mark on her back: the literal scars of an old relationship.
In the same area, another place – though I can't remember what it is now I have fond memories of what it once was: a playspace full of leather-this and leather-that, swings and slings and St. Andrews' crosses and even a stock or two. It was in one of those slings where I gave up my anal virginity to my strap-on wearing wife, while a pair of bountifully buxom friends bent over me, nipples dangling in my face and mouth during the whole bout of play.
Over in the Mission is another space, though I've heard that while it still lives and breathes it is closed to the casual, the everyday players: shut to everyone but a select few. It is the Shangri-La of spaces, the wonderland everywhere else is measured against. From the Pink Floyd inspired bathroom to the bubbles of a hot tub set in the middle of a lushly green garden, to the catacombs of its leather-fest dungeon, it's a space that – no matter how old it ever gets – will forever glow and sparkle from the energies raised there.
I can't begin to say how many times I'd been there, how many orgasms and experiences had been enjoyed in the framework of its walls. I do know that, even after my first marriage, it stayed in my life – even beginning another long term, and much happier, time in my life with a new partner.
There are other architectural ghosts, of course: the parade of offices that San Francisco Sex Information occupied, the storefronts that hid spontaneous sex parties, the bash secretly held in a massive public storage place downtown, the galleries that went up at night and down with the morning light, and even the play that happened beyond the walls of a house or a home. The legendary Folsom Street Fair, for instance, will always be in my mind – though it is hardly a ghost as it still lives and breathes to this day.
But to me my favorite times are as invisible and intangible as long- lost lovers or repurposed sex clubs: the Amazonian girl I'd played with for a new months, both of us half-naked, both of us dancing to so techno-or-other and then, when the steam between us grew too steamy, a quick trip to a sacred alley next door to orgasm with mouth and hands between two parked cars; the on-again, off-again partner pressed against me in the swelling crowd, laughter and giggles all around as I playfully unzipped her latex catsuit, laughter and giggles more when she unzipped it more, pulling my head to an already erect nipple.
These places, those times, are still there even if they are not really there: a drive through the streets of San Francisco turning me into a tired, old tour guide, pointing over there with a wistful commentary: "Right over there this or that happened..."
****
Far too many. Yes, it feels like far too many of them: phasing in
and out of my mind when I think about those years in San Francisco. Both the spirits of sadly past friends and lovers, plus the lingering memories of spaces and events having been replaced by chain-stores or locked away behind private and respected accesses.
Far too often the city I knew, the city that seemed to flow as easily and warmly through my body as my own blood or other, stickier, fluids, seems to have gone, died as well. San Francisco, when I move through it now, seems instead to be a place of plastic arrogance, a hipster paradise of hundred dollar t-shirts, obvious and loud non- conformist conformity, without a trace of true creativity, free- spiritness, or the perilous risks of showing true love, lust, or even the glorious stickiness of an orgasm.
Alive or dead, though, I still have my ghosts and while they sometimes drift into my mind unexpected and unwanted, I wouldn't give up the memories, the people who made them: with each visit they remind me of how many of them changed how I see the world, San Francisco, and – most of all – myself.
Thank you, all of you: thank you for reaching out and touching me. Thank you for caring for me. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for being there.
I will never, ever forget you.
*All names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, the fortunate, the unfortunate ... they are all missed
Friday, February 08, 2013
Reminder: I'm Teaching For FantasyMakers Academy
(from M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)
Here's a reminder that this Sunday I'll be presenting a wonderful class for the celebrated FantasyMakers Academy: Making A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters
Here's the info and links for how to register for the class:
February 10, 2013
1pm to 4pm
Doors open at 12:30am
Making A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters
with: M.Christian
Donation: $20
You've got the kinky toys, you've taken classes in how to use them, you have a willing participant ... so what happens next? How do you take your skills and weave them together into a safe, sane -- and even better – a wonderfully erotic S/M scene?
In Making A Scene, participants will learn how to take the technical skills they've learned (from caning to impact play, bondage to edge play) and take the next step and actually put together a complete S/M play experience.
Beginning with the basics of physical and emotional safety then onto negotiation, safewords, then how to structure a scene with a beginning, middle and happy ending that'll give both the submissive and the dominance/the masochist and the sadist not just a great, fun, time but one that will include not just erotic excitement but also the roller-coasted thrill that can come from well-constructed theater.
Among the subjects that will be covered in Making A Scene will include:
Safety, safety, and more safety ... of every kind
What's hot in fantasy – and what doesn't, and does work, in reality
How to leave them not just satisfied but wanting more
Handling problems – and learning to improvise
How to hear your play partner ... even when they aren't saying anything
Expanding your limits as a top, as you explore the limits of your bottom
The important of aftercare – for everyone
Making A Scene is a class about technique, certainly, but its also about the important philosophies that separate a good S/M interaction from a truly memorable one ... the kind of scenes that go from being simply, wonderfully steamy to touching on a deeper, even more profound, level.
About the Presenter:
M.Christian has been an active participant in the San Francisco BDSM scene since 1988, and has been a featured presenter at the Northwest Leather Celebration, smOdyssey, the Center For Sex and Culture, The National Sexuality Symposium, QSM, San Francisco Sex Information, The Citadel, The Looking Glass, The Society of Janus, The Floating World, Winter Solstice, and lots of other venues. He has taught classes on everything from impact play, tit torture, bondage, how to write and sell erotica, polyamory, cupping, caning, and basic SM safety.
M.Christian is also a recognized master of BDSM erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites; editor of 2t anthologies such as the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, and more; the collections Dirty Words, The Bachelor Machine, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and more; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is www.mchristian.com, View his Amazon Page.
Here's a reminder that this Sunday I'll be presenting a wonderful class for the celebrated FantasyMakers Academy: Making A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters
Here's the info and links for how to register for the class:
February 10, 2013
1pm to 4pm
Doors open at 12:30am
Making A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters
with: M.Christian
Donation: $20
You've got the kinky toys, you've taken classes in how to use them, you have a willing participant ... so what happens next? How do you take your skills and weave them together into a safe, sane -- and even better – a wonderfully erotic S/M scene?
In Making A Scene, participants will learn how to take the technical skills they've learned (from caning to impact play, bondage to edge play) and take the next step and actually put together a complete S/M play experience.
Beginning with the basics of physical and emotional safety then onto negotiation, safewords, then how to structure a scene with a beginning, middle and happy ending that'll give both the submissive and the dominance/the masochist and the sadist not just a great, fun, time but one that will include not just erotic excitement but also the roller-coasted thrill that can come from well-constructed theater.
Among the subjects that will be covered in Making A Scene will include:
Safety, safety, and more safety ... of every kind
What's hot in fantasy – and what doesn't, and does work, in reality
How to leave them not just satisfied but wanting more
Handling problems – and learning to improvise
How to hear your play partner ... even when they aren't saying anything
Expanding your limits as a top, as you explore the limits of your bottom
The important of aftercare – for everyone
Making A Scene is a class about technique, certainly, but its also about the important philosophies that separate a good S/M interaction from a truly memorable one ... the kind of scenes that go from being simply, wonderfully steamy to touching on a deeper, even more profound, level.
About the Presenter:
M.Christian has been an active participant in the San Francisco BDSM scene since 1988, and has been a featured presenter at the Northwest Leather Celebration, smOdyssey, the Center For Sex and Culture, The National Sexuality Symposium, QSM, San Francisco Sex Information, The Citadel, The Looking Glass, The Society of Janus, The Floating World, Winter Solstice, and lots of other venues. He has taught classes on everything from impact play, tit torture, bondage, how to write and sell erotica, polyamory, cupping, caning, and basic SM safety.
M.Christian is also a recognized master of BDSM erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites; editor of 2t anthologies such as the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, and more; the collections Dirty Words, The Bachelor Machine, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and more; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is www.mchristian.com, View his Amazon Page.
Please RSVP to Atheris if you wish to attend this class or if you have any questions.
Reminder: I'm Reading At My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!
(From M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)
Just a reminder that I'm going to be one of the featured readers at My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out.
Here's the basic info - with more coming soon!
My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!
Saturday, February 9, 7pm – 10pm
The Center for Sex and Culture
1349 Mission St. San Francisco, CA 94103
For an anti-Valentine's event of epic proportions, two of San Francisco's most celebrated erotic literary events join forces! On February 9, the Center will host the collision of Perverts Put Out and My Sucky Valentine! Come hear some of SF's favorite erotic authors read and tell stories about dirty love, dirtier lovemaking and the train-wreck delights of romance-gone-wrong!
Our three-way of hosts will be Carol Queen, Simon Sheppard and Thomas S. Roche; expect filthy heartache from Bay Area luminaries Charlie Jane Anders, M. Christian, Daphne Gottlieb, Philip Huang, Allison Moon and horehound stillpoint. This event is a benefit for the Center for Sex and Culture and the St. James Infirmary.
Here's the basic info - with more coming soon!
My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!
Saturday, February 9, 7pm – 10pm
The Center for Sex and Culture
1349 Mission St. San Francisco, CA 94103
For an anti-Valentine's event of epic proportions, two of San Francisco's most celebrated erotic literary events join forces! On February 9, the Center will host the collision of Perverts Put Out and My Sucky Valentine! Come hear some of SF's favorite erotic authors read and tell stories about dirty love, dirtier lovemaking and the train-wreck delights of romance-gone-wrong!
Our three-way of hosts will be Carol Queen, Simon Sheppard and Thomas S. Roche; expect filthy heartache from Bay Area luminaries Charlie Jane Anders, M. Christian, Daphne Gottlieb, Philip Huang, Allison Moon and horehound stillpoint. This event is a benefit for the Center for Sex and Culture and the St. James Infirmary.
Thursday, February 07, 2013
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
Taste of "The New Motor" From Betty Came: The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of M. Christian
(from M.Christian's Technorotica)
Here's a teasing taste of my steam-punky erotic story "The New Motor" from both The Bachelor Machine as well as the (very flattering) Betty Came: The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of M. Christian.
It is not our place, via hindsight, to say what exactly happened that one particular night. It’s easy to dismiss, with scorn or even a kind of parental, historical, fondness, that he was just visited by vivid dreams, a hallucinatory fever, a form of 1854 delusion (after all, we smile, frown, grimace, laugh or otherwise, this was 1854), or some hybrid kin of them all: a vision 1/3 unresolved traumas, 1/3 bad meal of steak and potatoes, 1/3 19th century crippling social situation. What we cannot dismiss—because it’s there with minuscule precision, in detailed blocks of blurry type in rag pulp sidebills, in the fine-filigreed pages of the genteel or just the skilled—was that John Murray Spear, a spiritualist of some quite personal renown and respect, did indeed depart Miss August’s Rooming House for Gentlemen of Stature (near the corner of Sycamore and Spruce in Baltimore, Maryland), and go forth to tell anyone who would listen—and some did, as those news- papers reported and those diaries told—about his visitation by the Association of Electricizers.
Close your eyes, metaphorically, and envision the images that might have fluttered through the expansive and trained consciousness of Mr. Spear as he lay, barely waking on a cheap mattress more tick than stuffing, the too-warm embrace of a humid Baltimore summer morning pouring through the thin gauze of the window. Amid the jumble and clutter of a day’s thoughts, they walk—as contemporary A. J. Davis expressed: “spirits with a mechanical turn of mind”—into the far-reaching mind of John Murray Spear. Perhaps gears lit with fairy energies, they turn and tumble through his waking, shining metal honed with eldritch tools, playing inadvertent peg-toss with his sheet- raising morning priapism. Maybe a great churning clockwork con- traption whose complexity echoes Medusa’s curse of knowing equally insanity or death. Or they might have taken the form of a Con-Ed employee in bedazzling ethereal refinements, in a saintly pose of divine grace while the animated logos and mascots of every power company that was, is, and will be flitted around his nuclear halo—commercial cherubs to His crackling, humming, arcing, power.
Their form was something that even escaped Spear himself, for when he spoke of their visitation—and he did, oh yes, he did from his own mount and other less spiritual soapboxes—a 220-watt gaze seemed to consume him and his articulations became less detailed and more abstract: “Their form,” he said to his breakfast companions and, often, for many weeks thereafter to any stranger on the street, “is fast and incorporeal. I don’t possess the mind to express their appearance in words, but their message, dear—” Sir, Madam, Officer, Friend “— is clear and ringing in my ears: Go forth, they spoke, go forth and with these two simple hands bring into the world a machine, a great work of engineering, that would take motive power from the magnetic store of nature, and therefore be as independent of artificial sources of en- ergy as this, our own the human body. Go, this conglomeration of spirits pronounced, and build the Physical Savior of the Race,The New Messiah... the New Motor!”
John Murray Spear did, indeed, say these words: from that rea- sonably expensive boarding house in summer heated Baltimore, to the swampy humidity of the capital, then upwards towards the cooler en- virons of the Northeastern states. He spoke of the visitation of the Elec- tricizers to a shocked and tutting crowd of theosophists in Providence, his hypnotic description of the coming glory of the Motor and how it would bring about a new Age of Man Through Machine ticking out of synch with their slowly shaking, disbelieving heads.
He spoke of the Motor in Boston before a hall not as packed as it had previously been for the spiritualist of some repute, and answered with complete sincerity questions of the Motor’s construction (“things of this earthly sphere coupled with the energies of transcendent mo- tion and ethereal force”), creation (“for a small donation you can speed its manifestation and arrival here, to us”), method of operation (“can one envision a locomotive, some new machine of human use and creation, that might come during the new millennium? The works of the Motor may be visible to some of us with the enriched spiritual vision, but the true powers of it will be as unseen as that machine of ages undreamed”), and patentability (“if the material servants of this, our Government of Country, should grant me the license of its man- ufacture then I see no reason not to accept”).
Coal-and-snow beard, hair wild with his feverish retellings, sup- ple (for a man of his forty summers) body bending wildly with each description of the glory of the Motor and his saving of mankind through its mechanical enlightenment, Spear made himself a sight as he traveled. For some he was a sight that brought smiles, frowns, or sadness at his state of affairs. But as he slowly, town by town, street by street, meeting by meeting, told his tale, made his claims, his en- treaties, he gathered people who listened earnestly to his description of the Mechanical Savior of the Race, the New Motor...
On a weird side note, the tale of the New Motor is based on reality - and you can read about John Murray Spear and his spiritual contraption in my non-fiction collection, Welcome To Weirdsville
Here's a teasing taste of my steam-punky erotic story "The New Motor" from both The Bachelor Machine as well as the (very flattering) Betty Came: The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of M. Christian.
The New Motor
It is not our place, via hindsight, to say what exactly happened that one particular night. It’s easy to dismiss, with scorn or even a kind of parental, historical, fondness, that he was just visited by vivid dreams, a hallucinatory fever, a form of 1854 delusion (after all, we smile, frown, grimace, laugh or otherwise, this was 1854), or some hybrid kin of them all: a vision 1/3 unresolved traumas, 1/3 bad meal of steak and potatoes, 1/3 19th century crippling social situation. What we cannot dismiss—because it’s there with minuscule precision, in detailed blocks of blurry type in rag pulp sidebills, in the fine-filigreed pages of the genteel or just the skilled—was that John Murray Spear, a spiritualist of some quite personal renown and respect, did indeed depart Miss August’s Rooming House for Gentlemen of Stature (near the corner of Sycamore and Spruce in Baltimore, Maryland), and go forth to tell anyone who would listen—and some did, as those news- papers reported and those diaries told—about his visitation by the Association of Electricizers.
Close your eyes, metaphorically, and envision the images that might have fluttered through the expansive and trained consciousness of Mr. Spear as he lay, barely waking on a cheap mattress more tick than stuffing, the too-warm embrace of a humid Baltimore summer morning pouring through the thin gauze of the window. Amid the jumble and clutter of a day’s thoughts, they walk—as contemporary A. J. Davis expressed: “spirits with a mechanical turn of mind”—into the far-reaching mind of John Murray Spear. Perhaps gears lit with fairy energies, they turn and tumble through his waking, shining metal honed with eldritch tools, playing inadvertent peg-toss with his sheet- raising morning priapism. Maybe a great churning clockwork con- traption whose complexity echoes Medusa’s curse of knowing equally insanity or death. Or they might have taken the form of a Con-Ed employee in bedazzling ethereal refinements, in a saintly pose of divine grace while the animated logos and mascots of every power company that was, is, and will be flitted around his nuclear halo—commercial cherubs to His crackling, humming, arcing, power.
Their form was something that even escaped Spear himself, for when he spoke of their visitation—and he did, oh yes, he did from his own mount and other less spiritual soapboxes—a 220-watt gaze seemed to consume him and his articulations became less detailed and more abstract: “Their form,” he said to his breakfast companions and, often, for many weeks thereafter to any stranger on the street, “is fast and incorporeal. I don’t possess the mind to express their appearance in words, but their message, dear—” Sir, Madam, Officer, Friend “— is clear and ringing in my ears: Go forth, they spoke, go forth and with these two simple hands bring into the world a machine, a great work of engineering, that would take motive power from the magnetic store of nature, and therefore be as independent of artificial sources of en- ergy as this, our own the human body. Go, this conglomeration of spirits pronounced, and build the Physical Savior of the Race,The New Messiah... the New Motor!”
John Murray Spear did, indeed, say these words: from that rea- sonably expensive boarding house in summer heated Baltimore, to the swampy humidity of the capital, then upwards towards the cooler en- virons of the Northeastern states. He spoke of the visitation of the Elec- tricizers to a shocked and tutting crowd of theosophists in Providence, his hypnotic description of the coming glory of the Motor and how it would bring about a new Age of Man Through Machine ticking out of synch with their slowly shaking, disbelieving heads.
He spoke of the Motor in Boston before a hall not as packed as it had previously been for the spiritualist of some repute, and answered with complete sincerity questions of the Motor’s construction (“things of this earthly sphere coupled with the energies of transcendent mo- tion and ethereal force”), creation (“for a small donation you can speed its manifestation and arrival here, to us”), method of operation (“can one envision a locomotive, some new machine of human use and creation, that might come during the new millennium? The works of the Motor may be visible to some of us with the enriched spiritual vision, but the true powers of it will be as unseen as that machine of ages undreamed”), and patentability (“if the material servants of this, our Government of Country, should grant me the license of its man- ufacture then I see no reason not to accept”).
Coal-and-snow beard, hair wild with his feverish retellings, sup- ple (for a man of his forty summers) body bending wildly with each description of the glory of the Motor and his saving of mankind through its mechanical enlightenment, Spear made himself a sight as he traveled. For some he was a sight that brought smiles, frowns, or sadness at his state of affairs. But as he slowly, town by town, street by street, meeting by meeting, told his tale, made his claims, his en- treaties, he gathered people who listened earnestly to his description of the Mechanical Savior of the Race, the New Motor...
#
On a weird side note, the tale of the New Motor is based on reality - and you can read about John Murray Spear and his spiritual contraption in my non-fiction collection, Welcome To Weirdsville
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