There are two kinds of people in the world: those who rest their tongues over the top of the ball-gag and those who rest their tongues under the bottom of the ball gag. It’s just one of those things like Coke or Pepsi, Elvis or the Beatles, Ginger or Mary-Anne, Martin Luther King or Malcolm X. At some point you have to choose one and run with it, and in some small way this lets you know who you are in the world
If I had to pick one song to define my life right now, it would be “Screenwriter’s Blues” by Soul Coughing. Because it’s true, we are all in some way going to Reseda. But at the moment I am not going to Reseda to fuck a model from Ohio whose name I don’t know. At the moment I am driving through the suburbs north of the city to be tied up and tortured by a dominatrix I’ve had my eye on for about two years. I’ve just started driving again after eight months of taking the bus. I hate the highway, I hate the suburbs and the trip is taking a short eternity. I always wonder why anyone worth knowing would want to sequester themselves in the suburbs among the bland and the boring. The hood’s where it’s good. I thought you knew.
Any day that you receive a message from God and you end up hog-tied and gagged, face down in a pool of your own spit, is a good day.
God spoke to me this day.
I fucked up and did something pretty stupid. It caused a friend of mine who I hadn’t spoken to in well over a year to leave a two minute long message on my answering machine cussing me out like no one ever has in my life. He basically said he never wants to see or speak to me again. The really fucked up part is, I can’t blame him.
I seethed on this all day and basically walked around feeling like shit. Then, on my way to school I saw Jerry, this homeless guy who I used to check on and help out. I hadn’t seen him in months because I’ve been without a car. He was begging for change to get bus fare to the hospital because the skin graph over his missing ear was getting infected. I could tell it was serious so I gave him money for a cab. He just smiled and said “God is good. God is good.” I just said, “Yes he is.” But he’s not subtle. My friend Conn says, when God throws a pebble at your window, don’t wait for the rock.
I think God put Jerry on my path for a reason: obviously to get Jerry to the hospital, but also to remind me of my capacity for good. I feel like God is trying to tell me something. Maybe not “REPENT!” or “change your ways,” but something… something.
Seeing Jerry took my mind off the drama for all of twenty minutes and then I was seething again, so much so I could barely get any editing done. After school I hooked up with this really sexy Dom I’ve been lusting after for a minute. Long story short: I ended up hog-tied and gagged on her living room floor. She asked if CBT made me nauseous. I just shook my head no, since with the gag in my mouth I couldn’t explain that I’d never let anyone do any CBT to me before. This is really the kind of question one should ask BEFORE inserting the gag. Right about then it dawned on me that I had no safe word (not that it would have mattered with the gag) and no signal to stop the scene (not that it would have matted since my hands and feet were bound together). I thought maybe if the pain got too intense I could bang my head into the floor and get her to stop the scene, but the gag in my mouth was tied to my nipple ring in front of me, strung through my legs and tied to my scrotum behind me. Either way I moved my head I was either sacrificing my nipple or my balls. I was pretty much… fucked! Just before my fingers went numb I started frantically scratching the word “HELP!” into the palm of her hand – complete with exclamation point, but she didn’t get it or chose to ignore it. Just when I thought the pain could get no worse, she pulled out an electric fly swatter and started shocking me with it. At that point, I started laughing. I gave up. I accepted my fate…
Finally, she stopped. When she let me out of the wrist restraints, I could barely feel my thumbs. My nipple ring had gotten pulled apart and the bead had fallen out. My nipple ring was pulled out and my hands were numb, if she had finger printed me and made me wear an orange jumpsuit it would have been just like when I was in jail…
“It’s five a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles.”