 | Don’t Worry, Be Kinky |
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This is a quickie. Because, technically, I’m not here today. Which means I’m not available for calls. So if anybody asks? You didn’t see me.
I did work this weekend and was very busy, so I am having a ME day. Which really hasn’t amounted to much so far. I went to the gym, did a bit of grocery shopping and met a friend for coffee. Tonight I plan on relaxing with The Broken Window, by Jeffry Deaver. If you like thrillers, give Mr. Deaver’s books a try. This particular book has a four plus rating at Amazon … so somebody’s reading him besides me.
I’d been contemplating writing a piece which was going to be called IN DEFENSE OF KINK: Rock On, David Carradine. Because, between you and me? That was definitely a case of kink gone awry. And while I don’t participate in asphyxiaphilia, I know that it is much more common than people let on. BDSMers are quite familiar with this type of edge play and the BDSMers who practice it understand its inherent dangers and adhere to stringent safety practises. But even under the best of circumstances, sometimes things go wrong.
It really pissed me off that the memory of this man whom I so loved in Kill Bill and my parents fondly remember as Grasshopper would forever be sullied because of the salacious headlines and internet chatter about this unfortunate event. I detest that thing in we humans that makes us quick to judge and gossip and smugly condescend when our secrets are still safely in the closet. The only difference between David Carradine and us is that he got caught in a most unfortunate way. And yeah! He happened to be in a wig and fishnet hose … but I’m so used to that, it’s almost vanilla to me. So … no big deal.
I don’t like erotic asphyxiation and wished people didn’t do it, but they do. And probably people you know. If there is one thing I know to the bone … it is that we all have our dirty little secrets when it comes to sex and what gets us going. I just wish we were smarter when it comes to the dangerous and harmful stuff and that we would keep in our heads — instead of acting it out.
Let me tell you a little story about my real estate agent who for some reason has decided I’m a trusted confidant. He stops by for coffee or the occasional margarita now and then, always telling me I have the best-smelling condo in the complex. (I do have a certain affinity for candles, potpourri, incense and scent diffusers.) Incidently, Thomas is very easy on the eyes. He works out obsessively and has even had a bit of cosmetic surgery.
So out-of-the-blue one day Thomas shows up with the local alternative paper tucked under his arm, telling me he has a big secret that just has to tell me. He has a second job that his family (whom I know, as they work out of the same real estate office) doesn’t know about. An avocation of sorts. He goes on to explain that he is a male prostitute by night and to … "please don’t tell my mother! I can trust you, Angela. Right?"
He proves it’s true by showing me his very own Masseur ad offering Discreet Male Massages in that naughty little rag he’d brought with him. Of course I was fascinated and asked a lot of questions. Oh the stories I could tell you. And maybe some time I will.
But what I really want to get to is THE MEN. THE MEN CLANDESTINELY SEEKING A HOMOSEXUAL ENCOUNTER. Thomas told story after story of men who sought out his, ahem, services. His little recondite cottage industry was robust and thriving. He was actually turning down clientele, because of schedule overload. What really fascinated me were the numbers of married men. Doctors, lawyers and Indian Chiefs — they were showing up in droves. Mostly married men on business trips, getting a little of strange on the side while away from the wifey and family.
What I’m trying to say is that everybody has their dirty little secret fantasies — and sometimes realities — and don’t you dare think for a moment they don’t. Most people most likely slide through a lifetime of fantasized or actualized kink and no one is the wiser. Some aren’t so lucky. As sadly seems the case with David Carradine. So, yeah. I was going to write that piece.
BUT! I wanted to get my ducks all in a row before beginning writing and did some serious research, which changed everything. I’m sorry to say that I just didn’t like some of the other stuff I was finding out about David Carradine. It turns out that now, well, I just don’t like him very much anymore. I’m not going into detail … it’s just too smarmy and sad. The bottom line is I won’t be writing about Grasshopper. But you can bet I’ll forever be fighting the good fight In Defense of Kink.
Love ya! Off to read now.
xo, Angela
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Phone Sex Quote of the Day
Ya know, Angela, I was a good boy until I met you. I can’t thank you enough. — Mr. LB, who made me giggle with that remark.
Is there a fraternity that LB and I could form of good boys blissfully released from our selfrestraint by Angela?
Richard Pryor tells a story about his father who passed away in bed with a younger woman. He said that gd must have really loved him. Since he let him cum and go at the same time.
Your real estate buddy should learn to spell. His services aren’t “discrete”. They’re “discreet”.
I tend to distrust the discretion of those who can’t spell the adjectival form of the word.
Oh just shut up, PQS. I was writing on the fly.
Anyway, he doesn’t want to sell you property. He just wants you to suck his cock.
If that’s what he wants to do, he should be discreet about it.
Ang, where are you?
x,
Lyndee
Me thinks your intent of the briefest of blog entries just took on a life of its own, esp in light of the high profile kinky demise of David Carradine and your real estate buddy (gives a whole new meaning to lock box). And, having talked to you many times on the phone, you do smell good (honest, guys, she’s that good).