Donald Trump is President: Now What?


I observed radio silence for several hours yesterday, which those of you who know me know is uncharacteristic of me. But, I figured, an anxious nation has been wondering, “What does David Wraith think about all this.” Just kidding.

For a while, I was like, “I got nothing. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

In 2015, my wife was diagnosed with cancer, I lost my job after 12 years, and Donald Trump announced his candidacy for president. I said, 2016 has got to be better.

In 2016, my wife’s cancer went to stage 4 and she eventually decided to stop treatment. I quit my most recent job to take care of her. Donald Trump became the Republican nominee. I thought, at least my wife will live to see the first female president.

Today, I wake up, an unemployed black man in America with a dying wife and Donald Trump is president of the united states.

Everything I’ve been working for my entire adult life concerning social justice got defeated in this election. Not by a majority of Americans, thank God, but by enough people in enough states that we are where we are now: President Trump. The words are acid in my mouth, but over the next four years they will become the new normal. The night before the election, I went through the 4,000 plus articles I had saved on Facebook and deleted all the ones about Trump because I thought they’d be irrelevant after election day. In my 43 years, I’ve lived through two Reagan administrations, three Bush administrations [father and son], the L.A. riots, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, and – up close and in person – Ferguson. I’ve never felt anything like this.

From Jezebel: A List of Pro-Women, Pro-Immigrant, Pro-Earth, Anti-Bigotry Organizations That Need Your Support :…

Naked Vacuuming

My sister from another mister, Kendra Holliday.

My aunt, my dad’s sister, wanted to have a relationship with me, so she became my godmother when I got baptized. She knew I loved movies so, as my godmother, she would take me to the cinema and she always let me choose. One of those movies was Working Girl. This was 1988, my freshman year in high school. No one seemed to think it was odd  that a 15-year-old boy would want to see a romantic comedy about women in the business world.
Working Girl

It was an R rated movie, but at the time I wasn’t sure why. Watching the movie with my aunt at 15, I didn’t know why the film had received an R rating. Later, I saw the movie again and I recognized a strange phenomenon. When my aunt would take me to movies as a kid, I simply did not see any sex, nudity or drug use. I just sort of blocked it out.  Case in point, when I saw Working Girl with my aunt, I somehow missed Melanie Griffith vacuuming topless.


However, after seeing the movie on cable, the image of a half naked Melanie Griffith vacuuming became indelibly burned in my mind.  I’m not sure why this scene stood out above so many others. I have to imagine it was the context. The fact that the nudity didn’t feel sexual or presentational. It seemed so unselfconscious.

When I was in my early 20s in the mid 90s, I became a service submissive. One of the first things my dominant assigned me to do was vacuum her floors naked. Serving dominant women while naked is one of my favorite things. Under the circumstances, vacuuming the floor went from a mundane activity to an intensely erotic experience.

Fast forward to the early 2000s: I was engaged to my college sweetheart and I made a real run at being monogamous. However, as a kinky, poly, nudist, negotiating monogamy was not my strong suit. I imagine for vanilla, monogamous  people, the line between fidelity and infidelity is pretty hard and bright. For a former service submissive, not so much. I asked my girlfriend, much to her dismay, if she would consider it cheating if I were to vacuum a dominant woman’s floor naked. For that matter, would she consider it cheating if I vacuumed a dominant woman’s floor with clothes on. It may seem odd, but these were important questions for me.

That brings us up to this morning. My wife woke me up to tell me that our friend and my Sex Positive St. Louis co-founder, Kendra Holliday was on the way over for a visit. After chatting with us for a few minutes, Kendra got up and announced that she was going to undress and start vacuuming. “What?” I was confused. My wife then said something to the effect of, “I told you, Kendra volunteered to vacuum the house naked.” Um… I pretty sure that’s the sort of thing I would have remembered, but okay.

As Kendra was working, I told her the Working Girl story. I said, “For twenty years, when I jerked off thinking about a woman vacuuming, it was Melanie Griffith, but from now on it will be you.”

Kendra Vacuuming IMG_0015

For Colored Ghostbusters Who Have Considered Grad School

Or, Bustin’ [Stereotypes] Makes Me Feel Good

Let’s get a couple things straight:

  1. I have nothing against people with regular-ass jobs. Neither of my parents attended university. My mom was a nurse and my dad was a general contractor. I spent my formative years covered in drywall dust working alongside my dad.
  1. I love me some Leslie Jones, since long before she was on Saturday Night Live. I’ve loved her stand up for years. Plus the first time I saw her, she was raising her shirt and flashing her titties to Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” on a VH1 video countdown. In other words, she had me at “hello.”


The fact that I fucks with the working class (Feel the Bern) and I fucks with Leslie Jones (Can a bitch get a beef bowl?), doesn’t mean I have to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s been over 30 years, and the black Ghostbuster is still the only one who isn’t a scientist or an engineer.

I don’t have a problem with one of the Ghostbusters being an employee of the Metropolitan Transit Authority (it was an MTA worker who told me how to get from Manhattan to Flushing, Queens when I was alone in Grand Central Station at 3 a.m. and the 6 train wasn’t running). But can we at least discuss the fact that once again it’s the one Ghostbuster of color who’s a blue collar worker? There’s nothing wrong with blue collar workers. There’s nothing wrong with maids, no non-sense black female judges, sassy black best friends, or even the occasional magical negro. But a trope is a trope and a positive stereotype is still a stereotype. My desire for diversity in film and my desire to see Leslie Jones on the big  screen aren’t mutually exclusive from my ability to call ‘em how I see ‘em.

I’m already seeing white people on social media saying that having a black female scientist would be unrealistic. White America: listen to yourself! You’re willing to accept a universe where ghosts are real and ghostbusting is a thing, but a black female scientist? That’s too much suspension of disbelief? I don’t know many scientists. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t know that many black women. But I personally know two black female scientists that I can think of off the top of my head. Meanwhile, I’m 42-years-old and I don’t know a single Ghostbuster. Okay, I know one woman who calls herself a “paranormal investigator” and, no offense Cheryl, but I’m a little bit skeptical about your chosen profession.

Fun Fact: The “Black Ghostbuster” has an Interesting History

Stories floating around Hollywood about the production of the original Ghostbusters differ, but the story I personally believe comes from actor Ernie Hudson who played Winston Zeddmore. Apparently, the part was written with Eddie Murphy in mind and in the draft that Hudson signed on for, Zeddmore had roughly equal screen-time as Bill Murray’s Dr. Peter Venkman, Dan Aykroyd’s Dr. Raymond Stantz, and Harold Ramis’ Dr, Egon Spengler. Hudson and his agent were ecstatic at what read like it would be Hudson’s breakout role.

It was not until Hudson arrived on set  and saw the revised script that he realized how significantly his role had been reduced after Eddie Murphy passed on it. I was coming out of the fourth grade when I saw Ghostbusters, and even as a ten-year-old, I recalled being dissatisfied with the artless way Winston Zeddmore’s character was shoe-horned into the story late in the film. If the writers were trying to make a meta comment on the treatment of black actors in Hollywood, they couldn’t have done much better.

Maybe in the 2035 reboot, we’ll get to have a black Ghostbuster who is a scientist and an original member of the team.

An Open Letter to Mike Huckabee

Dear Governor Huckabee,

I am reaching out to you as a brother in Christ, because I am concerned with your health. While I am not a medical doctor or a psychiatrist, I have observed in you symptoms of a condition that may affect your ability to be elected president or affect your fitness to govern if you are elected.

Let me back up. At first I was confused by your defense of admitted child molester, Josh Duggar. While it is Christian to forgive, and your compassion for a sexual predator was admirable, it seemed like an odd stance in today’s political climate for a man seeking higher office to publicly align himself with a sexual criminal, but now it makes sense why you had so much empathy for him.

This is nothing to be ashamed of, Governor, the condition you suffer from disproportionately strikes those of us who, like you and me, are male, heterosexual and cisgender. The fact that you are rich and white puts you at even greater risk. You, sir, suffer from a pathological urge to take your basest desires to sexually exploit those with less power and agency than you, and attribute them to others with less power and agency than you.

Case in point, much like Josh Duggar who publicly accused gay, lesbian and transgender people of being a danger to children while concealing his own past and a child molester, you have come forward with your wish to have pretended to be transgender in order to shower with girls in highschool.

While I’m thrilled that these revelations about you and Josh Duggar are bringing this horrible affliction to light, allow me to dole out some perspective: Your desire to ogle naked, teenage girls has nothing to do with the lives of people whose sincerely held belief (see what I did there) is that they were born the wrong physical gender and are willing to clear the hurdles (medical, financial, societal and other) to correct this fact and live as their authentic selves.

To put it bluntly, Governor Huckabee, you are not a machine that shines light through a transparency to display an image on a screen. So please, stop projecting.

In closing, it is my understanding that you wish to be president of the United States. Allow me to reacquaint you with the job descriptions: the president represents all Americans, not just the ones who think and feel as he does.

Your brother in Christ,

David Wraith

The Facebook Status Update/Open Invite

I’m going to address something that I see quite a bit of on social media, but never hear anyone talk about.

There’s a decent number of  women in my life that I find interesting and want to get to know better, but with whom I don’t have the kind of relationship where we make plans to hang out, and if I were to suddenly try, it might seem like I was asking them out on a date whether I was or not.

At least a couple times a month, one of these women will post something on Facebook like this:

“I’m going for a hike today, who wants to come with me?”


“I’ll be a Black Thorn Pub in about an hour if someone wants to join me for a drink.”


“I’m binge watching Arrested Development on Netflix at my place tonight. Private massage me for the address if you want to swing by.”

Every time this happens, I get excited. I instinctively reach for the keyboard to respond. Here’s a chance to get some social time with this woman I’m interested in. Awesome.

Then the voice in my head kicks in. It says that this is a public post visible to everyone of her Facebook friends, of which she has about a thousand. She wasn’t thinking about me when she made that post. She probably doesn’t even remember friending me on Facebook and forgot I can see her feed. If I respond to this message or show up where she announced she will be, it will look really desperate and she will regret having posted this status update. In fact, the next time she thinks about making a similar post, she’ll remember that time David Wraith showed up and how awkward it was and then decide against it [like the time a guy I really didn’t want to hang out with, showed up at the bar where I was because he saw I’d checked-in there on Foursquare, and for months afterward, I only checked-in places as I was leaving to avoid that happening again].

Then the voice in my head tells me that out of her thousand Facebook friends, there’s probably only about thirty people she really wants to hang out with, and out of that thirty she’s hoping only about half a dozen with respond, and I am not one of those people. Then the voice in my head asks why didn’t she just send a private group message to those thirty people or adjust the privacy settings on her post so only they would see it. Then I’m pissed at her for being lazy and playing with my emotions, and then she and I are in a fight that only I am aware of, and then I’m thinking about unfriending or unfollowing her to prevent her from ruining my day like this in the future.

I can’t be the only person who goes through this, right?


Clothed Female Naked Male

Photo by Molly Algernon

Photo by Molly Algernon

Note: This is a guest blog I wrote on the Clothed Female Naked Male fetish (or CFNM) for

A few years ago I was at a munch and I was complaining that since my first Dom had moved out of state, I was having no luck recreating my ideal situation: providing service to a dominant woman while nude. It seemed like a no-brainer: someone else does your dishes, your laundry, your vacuuming or cleans your bathroom floor, and as a bonus, if you’re so inclined, you get to ogle him while he’s naked. Sounds like a win-win, to me. So why was it so difficult to manifest? “I just want a woman to strip me naked and tell me what to do. Is that too much to ask?”

The Dom I was complaining to looked at me like I was not too swift and said, “Dude, just go online and look for a Dom that’s into CFNM.”

“SEE-EFFIN-What?” I asked.

“C.F.N.M.…” she searched my eyes for any recognition. She found none. “Clothed Female Naked Male.”

Well I’ll be damned, I thought. My whole adult life I knew that I was into being naked in the presence of clothed women, but I had no idea there was a name for it, let alone an acronym. It was just this thing I liked to do. Who knew it was “a thing?”

When I first got involved with BDSM, it was the mid-90s. The internet existed, but not like we know it today. There was no such term as “social media.” There was no Fetlife, no CollarMe, no Adult Friend Finder. I found my first lifestyle dominatrix by answering a classified ad in a newspaper. A lifestyle Dom was looking for a service submissive and, after a brief interview, she accepted me.

It was great at first. I got the same nervous rush the first few times I entered the home of a relative stranger to be bossed around and pressed into servitude. It usually involved me performing some simple household chores, then getting on my knees and giving her a foot massage.   But after the first few times, the novelty wore off and it just felt like helping out a friend around the house. Something was missing. It just didn’t feel submissive enough.

I was somewhat shy back then, so it took some effort on my part to work up the nerve to request what I really wanted, but I asked if I could serve her in the nude. To which she responded, words to the effect of, “Hell yeah!” The enthusiastic yes was important. Of course, if she had just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sure… I guess… if you want to…” I still would have done it, but the fact that she seemed excited about receiving my naked service made it all the more exciting for me.

From that point on, whenever I arrived at her home, the first thing she did was order me to take my clothes off, then she gave me my chores for the day. The simple act of disrobing became a meaningful ritual. Every moment that I was naked in her presence was charged with erotic energy. I felt like I was truly submitting to her. Some people get this from being beaten, some from being collared, some from being tied up, and yes, all those things work for me too, but the moment I took my clothes off for her was like instantly going into subspace.

I can’t say for sure what my Dom got out of the arrangement. Perhaps she just enjoyed the sight of my naked body. Perhaps she got turned on by the visual representation of her power over me. (After all, it would be years before I ever saw my Dom out of her clothes. Sometimes, in those early days, she would wear short skirts with no panties, sit with her legs open and order me not to look.) Or maybe she just enjoyed having access to any part of my body whenever she wanted. I’d like to think it was all of the above. Being naked at all times meant that in between formal scenes, if she just wanted to dig her fingernails in to my back and claw me from shoulder to waist while I was dusting, she could. If she wanted to slap my bare ass while I was vacuuming her rug, she could. If she wanted to sneak up behind me while I was doing the dishes and flog my balls – while also ordering me to keep scrubbing the plate that I had clutched in both hands for fear of dropping and breaking it – she could. And she did.

Then there was the humiliation and objectification aspect of it. Once I had become comfortable being naked when my Dom and I were alone, she started inviting other people over while I was serving her. She would entertain guests and have me serve them tea in the nude.  There were times when my Dom and I were alone and she would send me to another part of the house to perform a chore, and by the time I finished and came back for another assignment, unbeknownst to me, friends of hers would have  arrived and I would walk in the room naked and meet a total stranger. When my Dom began mentoring other young doms, she enjoyed showing me off to them. They’d see me in passing as I worked and say things like, “Hey, nice ass!” the kinds of cat-calls that women dealt on a regular basis, but men almost never did until they found themselves in a situation like mine. Once, my Dom ordered me to masturbate in her living room and wouldn’t let me clean myself off until her young trainee had been called in to admire me, naked on the floor with cum sprayed across my belly.

As a nudist, the most interesting thing to me about the CFNM dynamic is that it feels absolutely nothing like being naked around clothed people in a non-dominance/submission environment. Taking off my clothes as an act of submission completely changes the experience for me, psychologically. I’ve been very fortunate to find dominant women for whom being served by a naked man tripped their triggers the same way that offering naked service trips mine. 

Motif Magazine Covers "Bare As You Dare" (Covers… Get It?)

Katie Lewis of Motif Magazine.

Katie Lewis of Motif Magazine.

My Bare As You Dare clothing optional workshop has been called “life changing.” I think it’s safe to say that writer Katie Lewis of Motif Magazine got more than she bargained for when she attended: 

“My dare this month was to prove that my clothes don’t make the woman by taking the Bare as you Dare clothing-optional workshop at this year’s Fetish Fair Flea.

I figured it would be easy. Get naked and socialize? Piece of cake! But when I entered the workshop, my feelings changed entirely. People of all shapes, sizes and ages entered the room, and clothes started to hit the floor. I wondered, are ALL these people gonna get naked?” Read the entire article here

My Sexual Hang Ups: Assholes

Sexual hang-ups. We all have them. However, whenever I discuss mine, I’m always met with surprise. It’s as if, because of the work I do (as co-founder of Sex Positive St. Louis, as a traveling sex educator and freelance sexual guru) I’m expected to have absolutely no sexual hang-ups at all.

I’m human. I’m not made of wood, people. Prick me; I bleed (except that one time in 2002 when the EMTs couldn’t test my blood sugar because I was so dehydrated that after several needle sticks, I, in fact, did not bleed).

So here’s one of my sexual hang-ups:


Not people who are rude or annoying. Actual assholes. The anus. It grosses me out. Shit comes out of it.

I tried anal intercourse (unsuccessfully) when I was 16, and then not again until 20 years later when, during vaginal intercourse, a partner just took my dick and put it in their ass. I wasn’t even sure what was happening at first. The only other anal intercourse experience I can recall as a top was the time when the condom we were using got completely obliterated without me noticing. I pulled out, looked down, saw the split condom blooming around the base of my dick like flower petals or a gun with its barrel peeled back.

This was followed by the awkward moment when I had to tell my partner that we had just had unprotected anal sex. And this was followed by a trip to the St. Louis Effort for AIDS for HIV testing…

I’ve had anal intercourse as a bottom exactly once and that was shortly after I turned 40. Yeah, I waited a good while on that one. So there you have it. I’m a forty-one-year-old sex educator who’s had anal intercourse about three time. That’s how asshole-phobic I am.

The sad irony is that I love the ass as a concept. But until pretty recently my love of the ass has been confined to the cheeks and maybe (when I’m feeling really adventurous) the crack. The asshole terrifies and grosses me out.

I’m trying to get over this. I’m trying to embrace the ass as a whole, which means embracing the ass as a hole.

Until recently, I had only eaten ass a couple times in my entire life. I’m trying to eat ass more enthusiastically now. It’s quite a leap for someone as squeamish and germaphobic as me (I hate using public bathrooms. Actually, I hate using anyones bathroom but my own). I have to admit that part of what turns me about eating ass is that it feels really dirty and wrong. I’m almost worried that if I overcome my hang-ups about the anus entirely, it will cease to be as much of a turn on, but these are the occupational hazards I’m willing to risk on my road to being a better sexual guru. You’re welcome.

I has occurred to me that my encounters with ass have been so fraught with fear and mystery in part because I’ve never really looked at an anus before. My normal encounters with the asshole have been in the dark, by candlelight or even when under normal lighting conditions, I’m too close and too focused on the job I’m performing to really look at the asshole.

To remedy this, I asked a friend to let me shoot a portrait of her asshole and she agreed. I approached it like any other portrait shoot (aside from the fact that the key light was on a boom, lowered to the floor and pointed up). Since it was a portrait, I used a long lens (250mm) to flatter the asshole and not give it any wide angle distortion.

During the shoot and while reviewing the photos I discovered that assholes are (or at least can be) very cute, and are not nearly as scary as I would have thought.

Oh, and if anyone would like me to shoot a portrait of their asshole, just holla atcha boy. I also gives volume discounts, so feel free to book me for your next asshole portrait party.

The Big Book of Domination Blog Tour: New York, New York!

So, back in November I flew to New York for the release of “The Big Book of Domination” the erotic anthology that my work is included in, from Cleis Press, edited by the awesome D.L. King.

I had the pleasure of staying in the home of author Laura Antoniou and her lovely wife Karen. I knew I was in the right place when I saw the Revenge of the Jedi poster in their guest bedroom (side note, as card-carrying member of the Star Wars fan club, I got a Revenge of the Jedipatch in the mail the year before the movie was released. I’m pretty sure I had already lost it by the time it was announced that the title of the movie would be changed).

My first night in New York I went to a BDSM party at a club called the Parthenon. They were playing really good music from Pandora, but it was the free version, so in the middle of the really intense scene, there would be car insurance commercials, which kinda broke the mood.

After the party we went walking around Manhattan looking for a place to get coffee at 1 a.m. and ended up in a 24 hour McDonalds. The girl behind the counter took one look at my date (six-foot tall in her boots and dressed from head to toe in black leather with matching gloves) and asked, “Do you ride motorcycles or hunt vampires?” Then she looked at me and said, “You must be her sidekick.”

The next day was the reading at Purple Passion. Karen had to drive us from Queens to Brooklyn, to pick up D.L., then from Brooklyn to Manhattan for the reading. The traffic was so bad that we were almost late for our own event. Karen told me the old joke that “no one drives in New York because there’s so much traffic.” In Brooklyn we cut through an orthodox Jewish neighborhood, and since it was Saturday, there was almost no one on the roads. A great time saver if you ever find yourself in the same situation.

We arrived at Purple Passion just in time. On the bill were with me were D.L., Laura, and Rachel Kramer Bussel. Funny story…

So, back when I was a frustrated, unpublished writer of erotica, I submitted a few stories to anthologies edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, and she always rejected my work. So, taking inspiration from 50 Cent’s “How to Rob” (the mix-tape track where the unsigned 50 Cent used each verse to describe how he would rob successful rap and R&B artists), I decided to write a story describing how I would fuck successful erotica writers and editors, sort of positioning myself as the “50 Cent of Erotica.”  In said story, I articulated my desire to fuck Rachel Kramer Bussel from behind while shoving her face first into a plate of gourmet cupcakes. It was independently published in a little anthology sold locally in St. Louis, what were the odds that a New York editor like Rachel Kramer Bussel would ever read it?

…Well, the odds were pretty good as it turns out, because she read the book. And now we were performing at the same reading.

I asked Karen if she thought I should apologize to Rachel now that I would be seeing her in person. Karen’s advice was not to bring it up and all, and I thought that was a brilliant idea.

At the reading, Rachel stepped out of the room for a minute and while she was gone, Laura brought up the story (she’d heard me me perform it at a reading we’d done at Fetish Fair Fleamarket earlier that year). I quickly wrapped up the conversation so that we wouldn’t be talking about it by the time Rachel returned.

The reading went off without a hitch, Laura read her introduction to the book, which was hilarious, D.L. read her story and then introduced Rachel. When Rachel went up, she put in a plug for her her new collection of essays, “Sex and Cupcakes.” She held up a postcard of the cover art which features her… topless, bent over a table full of cupcakes.

I could feel the eyes burrowing in the back of my head as she held up the card, but I just kept my mouth shut and thankfully so did everyone else.   

I just want to say for the record that Rachel Kramer Bussel is a fine writer and, from what I’ve been told, a very forgiving person. Not the type to hold a grudge. You should run right out and buy “Sex & Cupcakes” right after you buy “The Big Book of Domination.”

The Big Book of Domination Blog Tour!

1/17  D. L. King

1/19  Valerie Alexander

1/21  David Wraith

1/23  Giselle Renarde

1/25  Amanda Earl

1/27  Evan Mora

1/28  Angela Sargenti

1/30  Athena Marie

2/1   Anna Mitcham

2/3   Rachel Kramer Bussel

2/5   Zoe Amos

2/7   Olivia Summersweet

2/9   Katya Harris

2/11  Alison Winchester

2/12  Malin James

2/14  Laura Antoniou

From The Web: Polyamorous? There’s an App for That.

Ellie Krupnick of on the new Poly Life smart phone app. Looks pretty cool, but I’m not trading in my Google Calendar just yet. Read about it here.

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