My moment of film stardom (or: Could Christine O’Donnell secretly be a pussy-loving freak?)

(WARNING: This post is pure fan fiction, meant for adult readers only. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. This post contains graphic depictions of lesbian sexual activity. If you are offended by homosexuality in any way, you are invited to leave this blog immediately and go here: http://www.foxnews.com.

( This post is inspired by the posts of Bachem Macuno (http://ifuckedanncoulterintheasshard.blogspot.com and http://backinanncoultersasssaddleagain.blogspot.com/ and dedicated to the memory of Robert Schimmel, whose politics I have no idea of but who I would like to think would have enjoyed sex-positive content on the Internet or anywhere.)

I was at home watching the Orioles finish the season against the Tigers, actually switching between that and a very important game of Pyramid Solitaire on http://home.iwon.com, when the phone rang. It was Jack, my hair stylist. After we said hello, he said breathlessly, “You know how you said you always wanted to be on the set of a porn video while I was doing the makeup?”

“Yeah?” I was genuinely excited.

“Well, now’s your chance! Can you be at the Belvedere Hotel in a half-hour? We’re in a studio on the fourteenth floor.”

“I’m on my way, bye!” I didn’t even wait for him to say bye back. I slipped into flip-flops, grabbed my wallet and jumped in the car. Jack is my stylist, true, but he also does makeup for weddings and the occasional TV special. What only a few people know, though, is that most of the money he makes doing makeup is for adult videos. And nothing he does is vanilla porn. I’ve met some of the talent in the past, and they are all into fetish porn, she-males, chicks with dicks, stuff like that. Knowing I love makeup, he and I talked about how he’d invite me to the set of a production he was working on, and he’d let me hold the lights while they taped, or maybe even do some basic makeup steps like prepping skin or applying foundation and concealer. Now I was finally getting to do it. I was like a kid going to see Santa Claus!

After some difficulty finding a parking space near the Belvedere, I went in, got in the elevator…and remembered the Belvedere doesn’t have a fourteenth floor. Puzzled, I called Jack back on my cell. He told me to go to the bar on the thirteenth floor and tell the bartender I was looking for him. So I did, and the bartender walked me back through the kitchen and the meat cooler to a small door on the back wall. The bartender swung open the door for me. I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw.

Jack was there all right, along with the usual assortment of crew on a video set: prop stylists, a couple of camera guys holding small videocams, and a couple of our mutual friends who were just along for the view. No women. I assumed it was going to be a gay production. “Robin! You’re here!” Jack exclaimed as he greeted me. We airkissed. “You are gonna have so much fun. We talked about it here, and I convinced them there would be no one better for this part than you.”

“Part?” I replied, surprised. “You want me to be in the video?”

“Honey,” he said, “I wouldn’t want anyone else to be in this one. Meet your fellow cast member.” He gestured behind me with a powder brush. I turned around and saw—well, my mind is still shaking its head over what I saw. There was one other woman in the room, after all.

Christine lay on a queen-size four-poster bed, each poster bearing a bound wrist or ankle. Her hair was partially plastered to her face; her eye makeup was a little smeared, possibly from crying. She had on only duct tape over her mouth and a pair of ordinary nylon panties, pink. She turned to look at me with a blend of terror and disgust, trying to scream through the duct tape.

“Wait: you want me to do her makeup?”

“Honey,” Jack replied, “who said anything about makeup? I said we want you to be in the video. You’ll be the domme and she’s the sub. You can do anything you want to her, and we’ll capture it all. Take all the time you need. With a little luck, the video will go viral by Halloween.” In other words, the weekend before Election Day.

“Oh, man,” I said, “this is gonna be fun…how did you think of this?”

Jack’s friend, Roger, piped up, “We just thought, who could be the most deliciously evil? And your name came up immediately!” I smirked. Roger knew me too well. I got in character immediately.

“Well, you don’t expect me to top this slutty little piece of meat while I’m wearing jeans and lip gloss, do you?” I asked. “Get me into something more…suitable.”

Jack and I went into another room to dress me. Among the costumes they’d brought, I found a black corset with pink trim and a shelf bra that fit me. The garters of the corset held up stockings that matched my legs; in my size I found a pair of black pumps with impossibly high heels to wear. I considered adding a cute pair of black lace panties they had, but thought better of it and decided the bottom half of me would go commando. Fingerless black lace gloves completed the fashion look. Now dressed, Jack poufed up my hair a bit, gave me the perfect smoky eye in black and gray, and added false eyelashes and shiny red lip gloss.  A touch of BeneFit BeneTint applied to my nipples, which peeked out over the top of the corset, completed the look. I toddled out slowly, with a slight swagger, knowing that the only pair of eyes locked on my shaved pussy between the garters and the hem of the corset was Christine’s.

“Hello, Christine,” I said lowly. I was trying to sound menacing. She looked at me with pure hate but said nothing. “Looks like it’s up to you and me to make our own fun tonight.” She shook her head violently and moaned a syllable that sounded like a cross between “nooo” and “mmmm.” “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you,” I intoned. I edged closer to the bed to get a close look at her almost naked. Her skin was surprisingly creamy and smooth, with faint bikini tan lines ; her breasts were graceful and round, with quarter-sized flat pink nipples. The panties she was wearing were probably el cheapos from Target or Wal-Mart, just sheer enough to share hints of a fluffy bush and pouty labia. She hadn’t had a bikini wax, it was evident. I turned to the crew and said, “Got any massage oil?”

“No, but we have this,” Jack replied, handing me a jar of Albolene cream. They no doubt use it to remove heavy makeup. Albolene is terrific for that. It also makes a great, if somewhat greasy, skin conditioner and lube. I set the jar down near the bed for later. “You’re a very lovely woman, Christine,” I said to her, sitting down next to her on the bed. “You look so beautiful lying there naked. Well, almost naked. You know what I mean. What pretty breasts you have. Who knew, under those frumpy GOP suits? So pretty.” I reached out and smoothed my fingertips over her left nipple. “Mmm, what beautiful, lickable nipples you have,” I purred. I rubbed slightly harder, and the nipple sprang to life under my fingertips. She put up no struggle. “Are your nipples always this responsive?” I asked slowly. “I hope that feels good.” She just looked at me.

“Tell me, Christine…does this feel good?” She said nothing, but her look softened. I thought I saw her eyelids flutter closed. My voice dropped an octave and I narrowed my eyes to menacing slits.

“I said, does this feel good?  Answer me!” Though the threat was minimal, she nodded. I spread my fingers to caress her entire breast. It was warm and resilient in my hand. “Would you like me to rub your other nipple? Tell me yes or no.”

And I make a small tactical error: Thinking I’ve softened her up enough, I remove the duct tape from her mouth. What emerges from her throat is not ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ but a high-pitched animal scream of no syllable in particular. Then: “HEEEEEEELLLLLLLLPPPPP! RAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEEE! HEEEEEEEEEL-” I roll my eyes, sigh, and slap the duct tape back on. Muffled grunts seep through the duct tape as she rolls her head back and forth.

“Tsk tsk, Christine,” I glower. “I gave you the privilege of being able to breathe and speak, and you abused the privilege. For that, the tape goes back on. Now: do you want me to rub your other nipple? Nod your head.” Fearing the consequences of saying no, she nods yes.

I straddle her, my moistening pussy pressing on her tummy, and reach forward. Gently at first, then slightly more forcefully, I pinch, rub, massage, strum. She can see I mean no harm or pain to her, and I feel her body relax and see the anger lines on her face soften. Then my whole hand expands to cup her left breast. It’s warm and slightly sweaty. Did I just hear her moan? I do the same with my left hand on her right breast. “Mmmm,” is definitely what I heard from under the duct tape. I rub her breasts in tandem, slowly, gently, first dry, but eventually reaching for the Albolene and applying a small amount to each nipple as I tease and pull them into a flaming red state of erection. Once erect, I take more than a few moments to circle each nipple with my tongue, watching her face as I lick and suck them lovingly. They’re soft and taste slightly sweet. I love nipples. I’m arousing myself; I can feel my labia throbbing and getting wetter with every lick. Softening her up is my goal.

“So,” I say to her as I continue the heavenly breast massage, “you say you’ve never been with a man. I believe you.” Her look turns to one of suspicion. “And yet, no one can be asexual. Sex is God’s gift to us. It’s what we were put on this earth to do. It’s the second most basic urge. Second only to eating.

“You can’t possibly be asexual, a pretty girl like you. …And yet, you’ve never had a cock in your pussy. Or so you say. I’ll do the due diligence on that later.

“I therefore can conclude only one thing.” I sit up, remove the duct tape again, and this time she simply gasps for a breath. “That you’re secretly a slutty little pussy-eating dyke.” Her brown eyes grow wide as saucers as my cunt approaches her lips. I hear a quiet snicker from one of the crew. “Let’s see how much you like it. Eat my cunt now, bitch!”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust and turns her head to the side. I grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head back to face front. “Wrong answer, Christine!” I shout. “Do it now or the duct tape goes over both your nose and mouth.”

The room is deathly silent for a moment. I move not a muscle, nor does she. Then I feel it: the tiniest touch of the tip of her tongue to my clitoris, like a cat checking out a morsel of food. I think this is getting tedious. The next thing I feel jolts me to attention: the tip of her tongue vibrating allegro against my clit, vibrating like a tuning fork, like butterfly wings, like machine-gun fire. It’s faster than anything I’ve ever felt. Like Joshua Bell performing a passage from a Tchaikovsky violin concerto. I suspect she wants to just get me off quickly so I’ll stop riding her face. If so, it’s working. I can feel my labia swelling against her chin as she strums my clit with her tongue. Then I feel her tongue slip down lower, under my clit, between my labia, and the high-frequency vibrations slow into languorous laps of her tongue up and down my slit. Slowing down she is to adagio, tongue actually lingering at the opening of my now dripping-wet vagina. I’m propping myself up against the wall and my thighs are turning to jelly. She’s going to make me come and I might fall off the bed.

People don’t go that slow on wet, juicy cunt unless they mean it. Could she be…enjoying eating my pussy?

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I ask loudly. “Unh-unh!” she moans from between my legs. I push my cunt into her face harder. “Don’t lie to me, you rightwing slut!” I shout at her. ”You eat pussy better than anyone I’ve ever had! You’re tasting me and drinking down all my juice! And you’re loving every minute of it! I see you smiling! Your cunt is probably dripping wet right now, too!” I grind my cunt lips against her smooth skin as her tongue penetrates deeply into my vagina.  ”Admit it! You’re nothing but a pussy-loving dyke, and that’s all you’re good for! Now answer the question again: you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I remove my cunt from her face, but hear only a muffled reply. “What was that?”

“yes…”

“Tell us all what a cunt-loving lesbo you really are, Christine. We’re waiting to hear it.” My labia hover just millimeters from her face.

“Yes! It’s true! I’m a cunt-crazy bitch!” she cries. ”I’d rather eat pussy than anything! Thank you for letting me eat your delicious, beautiful cunt, Mistress Robin! Please let me make you come all over my face! Please!”

“Happy to oblige, slut,” I growl, pushing my clit back into her mouth. She does something curious and imaginative at this point: her whole mouth slides down to envelop my labia and her tongue slips smoothly into the opening of my cunt again, while she actually uses the tip of her nose to stimulate my clit. I’m vaguely aware that the camera lens is but a few inches away from her mouth. The camera will no doubt catch the subtlety of her using her nose on me so she can feel my orgasm throbbing against her tongue. When I do come, it feels like I’m actually ejaculating into her mouth as she wags her head back and forth and moans her pleasure at drinking all my juice.

The cameraman steps away, and I rest against the wall a moment. I can feel the pleasant aftershocks of my labia pulsating against Christine’s cheeks. When the pulsations stop, I climb off. Her face is glistening with come and saliva. I note a dreamy look in her eyes. “Not bad, slave, not bad at all, ” I murmur. “Wow! You really know how to eat pussy. I bet you enjoyed that as much as I did.” I move down to the end of the bed where her ankles are tied to the bedposts. Bending down to get a closer look at her panty-covered crotch, I see that even through her abundant muff, her inner labia are so long and puffy they almost cut through the fabric. The wet spot between them trails down to the bed. “Just as I thought: your cunt gives you away. You’re really turned on right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmurs softly.

“Would you like me to get you off?”

“Yes…I mean no! No! I’m still a virgin!” The look of terror returns to her face. “You’re not going to fuck me with a strap-on, are you?! Please, mistress! Please don’t…devirginize me!!”

“Calm down, slut,” I reply. My nails trace over the wet part of her panties. “I have no intention of  deflowering you.” I rub her clit through her panties a tiny bit. My goodness, she is wet. “Being the lezzie slut you are, you must be aware there are many ways to achieve sexual satisfaction without actually putting a cock in your pussy. …I’m just here to help you explore some of those ways.

“I can tell you one thing, though: these granny panties are good for nothing but getting in the way of what I’m about to do with you. They’ll have to come off.” Since she’s tied up, though, and I have no intention of untying her, and the laws of topology cannot be broken, I can’t just slip them off her hips.

On the table where the props and makeup sit, I spy an implement that might help me, and I’m inspired. I go over to the table and verify that what I’m seeing is a hunting knife with about a six-inch blade and a wood handle, stained dark red and inlaid with abalone. I pick it up and turn back to the bed. Christine begins to emit a scream, then catches herself lest the duct tape go back on her mouth. I have no intention of hurting or cutting her, but let her think I’m going to. A little fear keeps one honest. Wordlessly, I walk back to the bed and in one motion, slice the left side of her panties in two. The nylon falls softly to the bed, and this time Christine’s scream is real and from the deepest part of her diaphragm.

I roll my eyes. “Jeez. I’ll buy you another pair.” And with another smooth, swift stroke, for I truly don’t want to hurt her or draw blood, I divide the right side of the panties. The scream she lets out this time is less energetic, more like a whimper. I pull the cloth out from under her butt and lay it on the bed next to us. I kneel down by her side to get a better look at her now-naked pussy.

Though I could see before that her bush was quite luxurious, I appreciate now that it’s almost a rainforest. Used to shaved or hairless pussies, I’m mildly startled to see a thick thatch of surprisingly dark hair which, it’s evident, has never been shaved or waxed. It spills over her mound and into the crevices of her groin, and hides her clit somewhat. Her inner labia are, however, anything but hidden: they spill out from between the outer labia and protrude almost an inch from her body. Long, meaty, and very juicy, if she weren’t my fuck slave right now I’d have them both in my mouth without pausing to think about it.

Almost absentmindedly, I run the flat edge of the hunting knife across the top of her mound, gently pulling small strands of her hair and rubbing the sharp side of the blade against it. “Oh my god,” she moans. She stiffens visibly.

“Relax, Christine,” I say. “I’m not going to cut off your pubic hair with this knife.” She relaxes a bit. “However, you might consider, in the future, a little trim. Or even a bikini wax.” I set the knife down and tease the outside edge of her labia with the tip of one finger. “You have such a beautiful pussy.” She blushes a bit, but I think I detect a smug little smile also. “It would be a shame for your fellow lesbo pussy-eaters—Laura Ingraham, Ann Coulter, whoever’s licking your yoni these days—who are putting their lips down there not to be able to clearly see your juicy wet labia and rock-hard clit. …It is rock-hard isn’t it?” And with that, I run one finger between her labia, down in the vestibule where it’s really slippery, and slowly draw it up and over the head of her clit. And she is hard. “Look at that,” I murmur. “You are so turned on, your pussy juice is soaking the bed. Your clit is glass-hard. And look at these slippery wet labia of yours.” I grab them both between thumb and forefinger and stretch them away from her body. The camera catches me doing this. “They give you away. You love lesbian sex. You love cunt! I bet this whole night was your idea in the first place.”

“No!” she cries. “They kidnapped me! They put something in my drink! They—”

“Save it,” I interrupt. “I don’t care how you got here. The fact is, you’re here, and you’re going to enjoy everything I do to you in spite of yourself. I can see you’re enjoying this.” “This” is me sliding two fingers up and down her slit, separating her labia and catching the underside of her stiff, swollen clit with every stroke. Under the guise of rubbing her clit, I open her cunt enough to get a view of her hymen. Sure enough, it appears to be in the same shape mine was at age fourteen. As I’m looking there, she actually pushes her hips forward and upward, as if she were trying to catch my fingertips on the upstroke. As if she were trying to come.

I stop.

“Please, Mistress,” she moans. “I was so close! Please, I beg of you, please let me come! I need to come!” Her grimace looks almost desperate.

“I tire of this activity,” I announce, faux-bored. “Let’s see, what else can we do? What other toys are over on the table, I wonder?” I get up and go back to the table. There are a few standard dildoes, a pocket pussy (probably belonging to one of the crew), and some random vibrating toys. I pick up the largest dildo and ask Jack, who I know has an impressive collection, “Got anything bigger than this?

“I know just the thing,” he says, and jumps up to go get whatever it is he has in mind.  I ponder whether he’ll bring back something too big. Jack has shared with me in the past that he likes ‘em big.

I needn’t worry. He brings me a dildo I think I recognize from a catalog, where it was called the King Kong. It’s vinyl, kind of a light opaque lavender color, and must be at least twelve inches long and probably about 4 1/2″ around. As soon as he walks in the room with it, Christine starts screaming her head off: “No! Noooo! Please!  Please don’t! Please let me stay a—”

I’ve heard enough screams for one night. I grab the cut panties, still wet with her melt, and gag her roughly with them so the wet side goes in her mouth. As I tie the cut ends behind her head, she continues to moan and yell through the fabric.

Slightly annoyed, I announce, “I thought I told you, my little lesbo sex slut, in the interest of restoring honor, I promised I would not deflower you, and I am a woman of my word.” She will not shut up, but I talk past her gagged cries. “Conservatives aren’t the only ones who keep their word, you know. You get to keep your cherry. I have no intention of putting this dildo in your vagina. And, I told you I wasn’t going to do you with a strap-on.” Mild relief, but also some puzzlement, crosses her face. “In addition, since you’re so anti-masturbation, I promise that you will come at least once tonight by my hand. If I do it to you, that’s not masturbation, is it?

“However…you’re going to come when and how I say you can come. Not before then.”

I have plans for her. I realize, though, that the current configuration in which she’s tied up is not the best way to effect my plan. “Are your legs sore?” I ask her. Though puzzled at my question, she nods slightly. “I thought so,” I reply kindly. ”It’s a long time to be in the same position without stretching a little.” I untie one of her legs from the bedpost. Wisely, she doesn’t try to kick me, but she does bend her knee. Her leg is free for only a few moments; I grab her ankle and truss up her leg so her ankle is bound to the same bedpost as the corresponding wrist. After I do the same for the other leg, and her limbs are splayed back Slavic-style, we all get a more posterior view. Besides her still-wet pussy exposed to the air and the cameras, I and several of the crew can now see that that thick black bush extends down and tapers off in density somewhat to surround a delicate pink, fully closed anus. Her eyes shift back and forth nervously.

I reach over to grab the jar of Albolene, and put a liberal amount of it on the business end of the dildo. I scoop some more out of the jar and reach down between her legs to apply the oily cream. Her moans and screams, though still muffled, become louder as she realizes where my hand is. “Noooo!” she groans through the panty-gag.

“Oh, yes, Christine,” I coo back. “God, are you going to love this.” And with that, I slide the oiled dildo in one long stroke into her well-greased asshole.

“AAAAANNNGGGHHHHH!” Some of the guys are actually clapping and cheering. I make a “cut” motion with my non-dildo hand. “Gentlemen!” I chide. “A little decorum, please!” I mock-scowl at them. “We want her to remember this moment, don’t we? Don’t we want her to love getting fucked up the ass? Let’s not embarrass her and make this an unpleasant experience, now!” They calm down only a little. I turn my attention to the lovely slave, reduced to a shaking mound of sweaty flesh.

“Enjoy every inch, my little cunt-slut,” I murmur. The dildo goes in and out slowly, lingering on every inch. She’s whimpering and crying, but her pussy is no less wet than it was before. As I pump the dildo in and out, I bring my face close to hers, and I can smell my cunt on her cheeks. I lock eyes with her and murmur, ”I want you to learn to love getting it up the ass…there is a vast underground network of clitoral tissue under the anal area…if you relax, you can even learn to come from it.” Delightfully, she does not avoid my intent gaze, and even returns it, her wide brown eyes fixed on mine without blinking. “I see  your nipples are hard again and your slit is dripping wet, I can see you like it deep down, you want me to fuck you longer, and harder…you’re going to learn to associate orgasms with a full ass when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to come any other way!”

The dildo is in my right hand. With my left hand, I gently rub the underside of her still glass-hard clit. I have a rhythm going now, as the strokes of my fingertips on her hard clit echo the strokes I’m taking with King Kong. Her cries drop in pitch and volume until they sound almost like purrs, her moaning muffled but still unmistakably those of pleasure. Though I’m dying to put one or two fingers inside her vagina, because I want to feel her come on my hand, I keep my promise and leave her hymen intact. Besides, I have only two hands.

Her moans go up a little in pitch, and someone thinks to remove the gag from her mouth so she can moan freely. But we don’t expect the torrent of pleasure words that pours forth. ”Oh, my god, that feels good!” she shouts. “I had no idea it would feel so good! Fuck my ass! Fuck me hard! I’m a lezzie cunt slut and ass slut! I love it! Give me the whole thing! I can take it! Please, Robin! Make me come with my ass full of cock! OhmygodI’mcomingRIGHTNOWWWWW!” Her labia throb and pulsate as the spasms of her orgasm lift her hips up off the bed, removing the dildo from my fist for a moment before I can grab it again and continue my thrusts and clitoral massage. I enjoy the view of her pretty face contorted in painful pleasure, her mouth wide open in a blissful moan. I can hardly believe what comes out of her mouth next: “Don’t stop! It feels so good! Keep fucking my ass! I can come again! Please make me come again! Keep rubbing my clit! Don’t stop! Rub harder! Fuck meeeeeeee……aaaaahhhhh!” Her second orgasm causes those long lovely labia of hers to twitch, drool, and radiate warmth and a marshy, musky aroma I enjoy as I watch her multiple climax up close.

It’s over. I slow down and eventually stop what I’m doing. Christine’s exhausted. Head thrown back, eyes closed, slight relaxed smile…I’m satisfied I’ve satisfied her. I leave the dildo firmly embedded in her ass (firmly, because the Albolene was absorbed by her skin and rectal tissue a while ago) and get up to release her shapely legs from their flung-up position. She flexes her knees, as well she should. Her breaths are still deep and heavy, and her bangs are plastered to her forehead.

“Mistress, may I be untied now?” she asks plaintively.

I ponder for a moment. “No,” I reply, “as a matter of fact, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to tie down your legs again.” I grab the twine that was holding down each ankle and retie her legs to the bedposts. I don’t want her moving for what I’m about to do. “I’m not quite done with you yet. I have one other thing left to do.

“You intend to remain a virgin, yes?”

“Yes, of course!” she cries with almost religious fervor.

“So that means you won’t be having sex with anyone else.”

“No, mistress!”

“Good, because I want to make sure your pussy belongs to me and only me.” I get up again and bring back some equipment I noticed when I went for the hunting knife. Jack and a couple of the other guys in the group are into piercings. One of them has brought along a forceps, piercing needle, and a bunch of assorted jewelry—barbells, captive rings, plain rings, and a few other pretties. Christine takes one look at the hardware and for the first time, actually tries to get free of her bonds. She can’t, of course.

I rub an alcohol pad on her labia. “This is to make sure you keep your vow,” I intone flatly.  Swiftly, I grab both her inner labia with the eye of the forceps, and slide a hollow needle through both of them.  The scream this time is genuine and legitimate.

Just as swiftly, I slip the jewelry I’ve selected through the holes. And I step back to admire my handiwork.

Tears stream down Christine’s cheeks, but I know that will be temporary. I grab the jewelry between my thumb and forefinger and speak directly to her. “This is to insure that no one takes you but me,” I say. What the jewelry is is a tiny gold padlock. Right now, her cunt is locked shut until I unlock it. “You will wear this lock unless and until I say you may remove it. Or when I choose to remove it.”  The gold lock does look striking against her magnificent bush.

“Do you…do you have the key?” she sniffles.

“Key?” I sneer. “There’s no key. There’s a tiny computer chip inside. It’s voice-activated. No one can open the lock but me.”  The look on her face is one of horror and a tiny bit of  intrigue. This is untrue, of course, but I don’t tell her that. It opens just by pressing a small button on the front of the lock. “You will wear your lock all day, every day…to conventions and speeches…when you go to sleep and when you’re awake, even to fucking Thanksgiving dinner with your family, unless I’m there to take it off you. Do you agree to my terms?” She nods tearfully.

“Very well, then, my lovely little cunt addict. You will grow to enjoy and even become aroused by your new jewelry. You’ll want to show it and your beautiful pussy off to everyone. Too bad you can’t, of course, because you’re now my fuck slave. And no one else’s.”

I depart the room and get undressed and take off my makeup in the adjoining room. Roger, Jack, and the rest of the crew begin packing away the props and cameras. When I come out, back in my comfy jeans and turtleneck, Jack hands me a small envelope. “Thanks darling,” he croons, “that was magnificent! I knew you would come up with something wild, but this was beyond all our imaginations.”

“Aw shucks,” I reply, “I couldn’t have done it without you! …and your costumes, and your jewelry, and your forceps and needles, and your dildo, and, well, you know.” We both have a chuckle as we turn out the light and lock up the room.

I go home and sleep very deeply indeed. The next morning is my first chance to peek inside the envelope: holy shit! There must be ten $100 bills in it. I earned all of it, though. So did Christine.

Christine! Oh my god, we forgot to untie her!

I call Jack, frantic. “Dude, we have got to go back there! We left her there tied up! Omigodomigodomi—”

“Robin, Robin, calm down. We can go over there together. I’ll meet you there. I have the key to the studio.” I jump in my car and drive like a crazy person to the Belvedere. Jack’s already there when I get up to the thirteenth floor.

“Oh noooo,” I wail, “I feel awful! We weren’t supposed to leave her here! Omigodomigod!”

“Okay, okay!” he says, jiggling the key in the lock. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

We walk in to a faint morning light in the room from a single window to the right of the bed. Christine is asleep, but in the exact position we left her in: arms still tied to the bedposts, dildo still eight inches up her ass, padlock still holding her labia together…and a soft smile on her face as she sleeps.

Thank you for adding years to my life

They say that having the blues takes years off your life. If that’s so, Robert Schimmel, who died yesterday at age 60 (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/05/arts/television/05schimmel.html?_r=1 and many other references), has insured I’ll live to be 100.

Despite painstaking attention to the “Recent Deaths” page on Wikipedia, this one escaped my attention until Steve and Sonny Fox broke the news  on XM 150 (Raw Dog Radio) this morning. I was in shock. I just sat there in the car with the ignition off, not believing my ears. It’s probably a good thing that the car wasn’t moving at the time. What a raw way for someone who beat cancer and survived a heart attack and hepatitis to go. I’m sure he wouldn’t say he got a raw deal, living only sixty years as he did, but there was, I’m sure, so much humor left in him. Besides being a front-row persona in my list of hot guys over 50, the oldest on the list in fact (http://shutyoureverlovingpiehole.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/in-praise-of-middle-aged-men/), I’m not ashamed to admit that lately I’ve had a major crush on this guy. Probably that’s emblematic of my inability to form real relationships, but I’ve been susceptible to celebrity crushes my whole life. And it may sound mean to say, but ever since he lost his hair to the chemo, he was sooo gorgeous. My eyes were glued to the TV screen every time I played his DVD or viewed one of his YouTube videos. How can one little (5’6″) sixty-year-old guy be so hot?

Everything he said resonated with me. He was like a BFF—a really, really hot middle-aged BFF—who said out loud everything those of us with X-rated senses of humor are thinking. Nothing shocked him, nothing seemed to bother him, at least not on stage. I love that he hosted the AVN Awards three times (http://avnawards.avn.com/). He was perfect for that event. Sometimes when I was a bit depressed I’d listen to one of the albums I have or his web site and just let his velvety smooth baritone soothe me, if soothing includes such observations as “It’s wrong to fuck your pets. …’Gee, thanks for that tip, Bob.’ ” Other times, I’d be in the car and have to pull over to the side of the road, I was laughing so hard from a bit they’d play on XM150, usually the one about premature ejaculation. It didn’t matter if I’d heard it twelve times before, which most likely I had. He still brought tears to my eyes.

He was at the DC Improv in November, and I blew it off—the District is 150 miles away now, after all. Of course, I’m kicking myself now. Sure, I wanted to meet him, but I wanted him to meet me, too.

So Bob, if you’re watching, and in a Jewish afterlife kind of way I know you are, I just want to say G-d bless you, I love you, and thank you for making me laugh my ass off. See you soon in olam ha’ba.

How not to campaign for public office

The Washington Post ran this article a couple of weeks ago:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/04/13/AR2010041302365.html

(If the above link doesn’t work, try this one:

http://cbs3.com/topstories/Mike.Huckabee.gays.2.1630642.html)

Now, I’m sure Mike Huckabee believes everything he said. And he certainly has the right to say what’s on his mind. But in this event, he manages to piss off a variety of groups whose vote he could certainly use. He must not really want to be President. Or, at least he hasn’t yet learned that you can attract a whole lot more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Many people have deconstructed what he had to say. But I can’t resist throwing in my opinion.

• “Marriage has historically never meant anything other than a man and a woman. It has never meant two men,…” Gee, for an ordained minister, Huckabee sure doesn’t know his Bible very well. “King Solomon, however, loved many foreign women besides Pharaoh’s daughter—Moabites, Ammonites, Edomites, Sidonians and Hittites. They were from nations about which the Lord had told the Israelites, ‘You must not intermarry with them, because they will surely turn your hearts after their gods.’ Nevertheless, Solomon held fast to them in love. He had seven hundred wives of royal birth and three hundred concubines, and his wives led him astray.  As Solomon grew old, his wives turned his heart after other gods, and his heart was not fully devoted to the Lord his God, as the heart of David his father had been.” (1Kings 11:2-4, all quotes NIV) I am not even gonna get into the Mormons here. Nor current-day Arab royalty. There are plenty of counterexamples to Huckabee’s claim, and he no doubt knows it.
• “I feel homosexuality is an aberrant, unnatural, and sinful lifestyle….” And yet, there it is in, yup, you guessed it, the Good Book itself: “After David had finished talking with Saul, Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself. (1Sam 18:1)…I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother; you were very dear to me. Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than that of women. (2Sam 1:26)”
• “That would be like saying, well there’s there are a lot of people who like to use drugs so let’s go ahead and accommodate those who want to use drugs.  There are people who believe in polygamy, should we accommodate them?” he said, according to a transcript of the interview.” On the first point, the official LP view point is basically, yes, let’s. Using drugs (presumably illegal drugs, not the okay ones like tobacco and alcohol) should be an individual choice, as long as no one else is harmed in the process. On the third point, there are people who do “believe in” polygamy, all over this world. See the first paragraph.
• “There are some people who believe in incest, so we should accommodate them….[Marriage has never meant] a man and his pet, or a man and a whole herd of pets.”These arguments are such huge red herrings, you could cater a whole bar mitzvah with them. The reason you can’t marry your dog, or your preteen daughter or whatever, is that there is a lack of consent involved. Two people—any two people—who consent to the sacraments of marriage should be able to do so. (This, by the way, is also why NAMBLA doesn’t get a pass—boys by definition in our society cannot give consent. Even my gay male friends think NAMBLA is creepy.)
• He also advocated isolating AIDS patients from the general public, saying it was necessary to confine “carriers of this plague.” Apparently Huckabee hasn’t kept up with the news. It is true that throughout the lifespan of the epidemic, the plurality of those infected with HIV have been men who contracted the virus through sex with another man. However, if Maryland is any representative, the largest group now is intravenous drug users:
  (http://dhmh.state.md.us/AIDS/Data&Statistics/NewMDQtrEpi.pdf ) and has been for some time now. When I worked at HERO, eleven years ago, about 80% of its clients had gotten the virus from shooting up. Sadly, one big reason gay men aren’t the largest group of carriers any more is that most of them died before effective treatments were developed.

  As you’ll note from the graph in the PDF document referenced above, drug shooters and good old heteros now far surpass gay men as “carriers of this plague.” If we were to actually do what Huckabee suggests and quarantine carriers of HIV, look whom we’d be quarantining (from http://www.cdc.gov/hiv/topics/surveillance/basic.htm#hivest, about the only time you’ll catch me quoting the government on something):

Transmission Category	Estimated # of AIDS Cases, Through 2007*
	Adult and Adolescent Male	Adult and Adolescent Female	Total
Male-to-male sexual contact	487,695	-	487,695
Injection drug use	175,704	80,155	255,859
Male-to-male sexual contact and injection drug use	71,242	-	71,242
High-risk heterosexual contact**	63,927	112,230	176,157
Other***	12,108	6,158	18,266

That’s over a million people, folks. Where, exactly, does he propose quarantining them to?

So in just a few well-placed sound bites, Huckabee manages to piss off a lot of gays, many of whom are Republican; nearly a million HIV-positive voters; as well as a lot of us gay-friendly types who just want to see our friends/parents/siblings/children/coworkers treated fairly. Oh, well—guess he’s not interested in our votes. And without the votes of open-minded, fair, tolerant adults, he’s got no chance to be President.

Updating the meme (or: In praise of blond guys)

Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s the cliché. All us women are supposed to want that Cary Grant type, or if you’re under 40 that George Clooney type, to walk in and sweep us off our feet.

Being Jewish, it drove my mother nuts that I eschewed this archetype and gravitated instead toward the tall, blond, and handsome. But what can I tell you: de gustibus non disputandum est. Or if you prefer French, chacun á son gôut.

A couple of years ago on Makeup Alley (http://www.makeupalley.com), someone inquired if there are any gorgeous blond guys out there in celebrityland. Not sure why she asked; I’m not going to assume she also was taken in by the TDH meme. Maybe she had a bar bet with someone else. A bunch of us came up with a pretty decent list. Herewith, some of my yummilicious faves (some of these men also made my Babes Over 50 list):

Viggo Mortensen

Troy Aikman

Jeremy Roenick

Craig Kilborn

Reed Diamond

Peter Horton

Ed Harris

Joe Montana

Prince William

Steven Weber

Corbin Bernsen (back when he had a full head of hair, anyway):

Tomas Berdych:

Alexander Skarsgård:

In searching the Web for more candidates meeting these criteria, I came across this blog post, which gets points for its historical framework:
http://futuremd.blogspot.com/2009/02/those-excessively-handsome-blond-men.html

I will be updating this entry periodically.

In praise of middle-aged men

“Brian Williams?” my coworker asked, clearly perplexed.

“Yes!” I replied.

“Wait. …NBC Brian Williams.”

“Yes!” And I probably shouldn’t have said the next thing I did, not to a coworker anyway, but I did: “He is so hot. I wanna fuck him until he can’t walk.”

Ladies, the day is going to come in your lives when you tire of hot young men. For me, that day came when I was 35, and dating a 47-year-old. He was in better shape than men half his age, being the triathlete he was. 6’4″, blond, blue-eyed, huge hands that made me feel like I was really being held. And oh, those kisses.

There is going to come a time in your life when you want a marathoner, not a sprinter, so to speak. You’ll want more from a man than the short-term stamina needed to pound his dick into you at warp speed. When you realize that oiled 6-pack abs don’t make you a better, more intelligent and well-rounded person. When you want a partner who has both the patience and knowledge needed to satisfy you, even though it might take an hour or more, and who doesn’t need a road map to find your clitoris and a page from ehow.com (because he doesn’t own any real books) to tell him when the time is to go after it. The kind of man like the guy in the Just for Men Touch of Gray ad who says, “Now I look like I know what I’m doing…and I can still do it!” Or the Joe Biden lookalike in the Viagra ad. Rowr! These are the men who may or may not actually take Viagra, but if they do, it’s not because they feel they need it to please you. They know very well how to please you without a stiff dick in the vicinity.

Chippendales will bore you. (I just spent a weekend in Vegas and literally yawned at the posters promoting the Chips.) The boy toy who hurries the sex because he needs to undertake the next challenge in World of Warcraft won’t even be on the radar. Orlando Bloom? Colin Farrell? Robert Pattinson? One of these days, you’re going to mutter to yourself, “Yuck.” Or, alternatively, “Shave, for Pete’s sake!”

There has been quite a bit of attention in the media the past few years to attractive women over 40. And may I say, it’s about time. There is even a magazine, More, that celebrates and caters to women 40 and over. For years, it was okay, especially in television and the movies, for a middle-aged or older man to be a little bit gray, even with a few wrinkles. Distinguished. That’s what we said about Cary Grant and Sean Connery when they sprouted a little gray around the temples. But women over 40 were largely invisible, except in minor or evil roles. Certainly not as sex symbols.

Then the pendulum started to swing the other way. Who knows, or cares, when, but it was a good thing. It was okay, liberating even, to ditch the tired old cliché, “A lady never tells her age.” Sharon Stone turned 40. So did Madonna. Candice Bergen turned 60. Lena Horne turned 80, and then 90. Each one of these women, and many more, still hot as cinders. Did the middle-aged men get lost in the shuffle?

Lately, men and boys seem to be taking a beating in certain arenas of life. Maybe that’s the price paid for all those years of a male-dominated culture, but isn’t it time to declare things even-steven?

OK, you’re all thinking, “But, but…George Clooney.” Well, duh. That’s a no-brainer. Time magazine called him “The Last Movie Star” last year (http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1714996,00.html). That was in response to a book, George Clooney: The Last Great Movie Star (http://www.amazon.com/George-Clooney-Last-Great-Movie/dp/155783721X). Yes, at age 48 he’s more drop-dead gorgeous than ever, and he seems like a nice bloke. I wouldn’t mind having him for a friend, but I’m probably one of, like, ten women in America that doesn’t want to sleep with him. We’d probably get into too many post-coital political arguments.

George isn’t the only drop-dead gorgeous man over 40 in the movies, television, or sports. Actually, you could could name a bunch of guys in their 40′s who still make your heart race: Keanu Reeves (turning 45 next week, and still not a line on his face), the ubiquitous Brad Pitt (turning 46 in December; I am sorry but I’ve always thought he was pretty skanky ever since Thelma and Louise), Antonio Banderas (just turned 49 this month), Timothy Hutton (turned 49 this month; actually, I liked his father better),  and the also-ubiquitous Tom Cruise (turned 47 last month). Hell, at my house even Cal Ripken (turned 49 Monday) still makes my heart go pitter-pat after all these years, even though he seems to be gaining weight. All of those, and probably more I’m leaving out, are no-brainers.

I’m going to jack up the bar and give a shoutout to men 50 and over that I can’t take my eyes off of. This is my list. Not yours, not the mainstream media’s.  Not the obvious list. So don’t comment, “you forgot so-and-so,” or “what about so-and-so?”  Blogs are free. You want to put Tommy Lee Jones or David Duchovny on your list, get your own blog.

OK, so we know about Brian Williams (age 51):

One babalicious news anchor!

Come on—how can you look at that fresh, boyish face and not melt?

And further, in the category “Babalicious news anchors over 50 who work for NBC,” Keith Olbermann (age 51):

NBC scores yet again!

Like Clooney, Olbermann loses a tenth of a point with me for his liberal politics. But he gains it back for being willing to skewer the Radical Right, any neocon in fact, the Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter worshipers, and the Bush regime administration supporters. Regardless of what you think of President Obama’s policies, you should give Olbermann big, big props for making Orly Taitz his “Worst Person in the World” for July 15. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3036677/#31931011

Olbermann also gets a point from me by echoing The Huntley-Brinkley Report and opening Countdown with the third movement of Beethoven’s 9th. I suspect our household was in the minority in the ’60′s for TV news, as we were definitely Huntley-Brinkley people, whereas most Americans seemed to be Cronkite watchers. Chet Huntley looked like my grandfather. It didn’t occur to me until many years later that my father, a classical music fan, watched NBC not because the anchor looked like his father but because he liked the out music. Anyway, that third movement is nostalgic for me, and apparently it is for Olbermann also.

Pierce Brosnan—OK, everyone agrees on this one (age 56):

I am sorry but I liked him better as Bond than Connery.

Yes, I like men with dark hair and blue eyes. I have a bunch of them on my All-Babe MLB team—Cal Ripken, Paul Molitor, Brady Anderson, Mike Boddicker…you get the idea.
Pierce, if you’re out there, ditch the beard, or at least put some  Just for Men on it. White facial hair doesn’t do anything for you.

Ed Harris (age 59):

Harris gets a special shoutout for looking like my current beau. When I first told Michael I thought he looked like Ed Harris, his laser-blue eyes got wide as saucers and his mouth dropped open. Apparently someone else totally random had remarked the same thing earlier that week.

Cris Collinsworth (age 51):

Much better than John Madden, thank you

You’re going to be seeing a lot of Collinsworth this fall, as he is replacing John Madden on Sunday Night Football on NBC. On The Dan Patrick Show yesterday, Collinsworth admitted a bit of trepidation at replacing a football legend. I admit I am not going to be listening to a word he says. I won’t be able to take my eyes off the screen.

Bob Costas (age 58):

Proud Syracuse University alum

What is it about NBC? They always seem to score the babes. That includes Clooney. Costas is beginning to look his age a bit, and losing his boyish glow, but he’s still adorable. It kills me that he was just down the road from me, literally, on US Route 11 in Syracuse all those years and I didn’t know it. Of course, I was under 18 so that might have put the kibosh on things a bit.

Viggo Mortensen (age 51):

So close and yet so far

This one also kills me. Mortensen was also, literally, right up the road, although in this case the road was I-81, and he was an hour away attending high school in Watertown at the exact same time I was attending high school in North Syracuse. Exact same years. We could have been classmates. I think I like the clean-cut, 28 Days Mortensen better than the three-day-stubble, Lord of the Rings Mortensen. And if you were wondering, yes, I am watching Appaloosa on HBO, in order to get my blond babe double shot of Mortensen co-starring with Harris. Yum yum!

Kyle Secor (age 52):

NBC scores yet AGAIN!

Those of us in Baltimore who followed Homicide: Life on the Street collectively drooled over this tall drink of water whose character started as a fresh-faced cop from a cushy assignment on the mayor’s security detail and ended up a more cynical but very astute homicide cop, a multi-layered personality who gradually revealed to us demons from a dark side that included a childhood of sexual abuse at the hands of a relative, and an inability to pinpoint his sexual orientation. The character Tim Bayliss was tormented by the one unsolved murder for which he was the primary investigator. The lines on his face didn’t show up, though, until he was cast as the President’s husband on Commander-in-Chief. If all you know of Secor is old St. Elsewhere reruns, a minor role in City Slickers, or an ep or two of Philly, do yourself a favor and rent a DVD of H:LOTS. Any season will do. I guarantee you you will be staring at the screen and wondering: How can one man be so gorgeous?

Robert Schimmel (age 60):

Funniest man in standup right now

No, this is not a sorbet to cleanse the palate. I told you this was my list. In 1988, Schimmel was one of a handful of young, up-and-coming comedians who got some exposure on a Rodney Dangerfield special on HBO. Dangerfield was great that way. If you go back to some of those specials in that 1988-1990 timeframe, you’ll see Seinfeld, Foxworthy, and a bunch of other household names when they were just starting out. As a youngish, just-losing-his-hair comic with a disheveled suit and loose tie, Schimmel didn’t make you think, “OMG, he is so hot.” Now, having lost the hair as well as the wrinkles in his suit, Schimmel is living proof that bald guys can be elegant. …Until he opens his mouth. Then it’s no holds barred. Nothing seems to bother this guy. Nothing. Especially not after a heart attack,  an ongoing bout with cancer, or losing a child to cancer. You get the feeling he’d do anything to please a woman in bed, or as Dan Savage says in his column, GGG (that’s good, giving, and game).  How many 20-year-olds are willing to do the same? ( For a sample, start here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ux6iCDk1IgQ, warning: this video clip is vintage Schimmel, which means it’s raw, don’t say you weren’t warned)

Dr. Drew Pinsky (age 51):

And he can sing, too!

I had a hard time finding a non-recent pic of Dr. Drew from the Loveline days. That goofy Julius Caesar haircut doesn’t do anything for him. Then again, that haircut doesn’t do anything for most guys.

I will be updating this list periodically. Also, check out this related post on hot blonds: http://shutyoureverlovingpiehole.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/updating-the-meme-or-in-praise-of-blond-guys/

The Most Interesting Man in the World

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing about intelligent small-government conservatives. They do seem to be a disappearing breed. Many years ago, I was deeply in love with one. Guess I still am. Voices like his are being drowned out by the religious wingnuts, the Christofascists, and lately, the conspiracy nutjobs who seem to represent the Republican party.

Sometimes I think to myself, “William F. Buckley must be rolling in his grave right about now.” It took a little poking around on the web to remind me that Buckley wasn’t always that civil. Those of us of a certain age, ahem, might remember when Buckley almost came to blows with Gore Vidal during the 1968 Democratic National Convention: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gore_Vidal#Vidal_vs._Buckley

I admit, being a few days short of ten at the time, can’t say I remember all that much about the event.

Whatever you may think of these two men and their political views, it appears Vidal has the last laugh at age 83. Buckley is pushing up daisies, while Bill Maher says, “You know those Dos Equis commercials featuring the Most Interesting Man in the World? Well, this is the most interesting man in the world.”

http://www.hbo.com/billmaher/episode/2009_04_10_ep149.html

McNair Update

I find myself going over the newly revealed circumstances of the McNair shooting the way some people obsessed over the angles of the JFK assassination. As of right now, the insinuation is that the paramour bought the gun and used it to kill him and herself.

Ballistic tests will prove one way or the other (like DNA, ballistic tests do not lie), but for her to grease him doesn’t make sense. McNair was Sahel Kazemi’s sugar daddy and meal ticket. Supposedly he was going to divorce his wife and marry her. She got lavish gifts from a very rich, still young man. Why would she want to fuck that up?

On another site I posted that the two most powerful forces in society are money and pussy. This whole event, of course, has aspects of both. I am going to go out on a limb here and predict that an autopsy on Miss Kazemi will reveal an early pregnancy.

Steve McNair

A friend and I have a casual game going in which we win $1 off the other person when someone dies on our list of about 85 celebrities each. So I tend to keep track of the deaths of well-known people on an international, a national, and even a local level. The past two weeks have not been good for well-known people. They say these things go in threes. Well, the past ten days have seen it go in sixes—Ed McMahon (okay, old and sick, but he led a good life), Farrah Fawcett (cancer sucks, no two ways about it), Michael Jackson (no comment), Karl Malden (damn! he almost made it to 100. What a big life!), Billy Mays (both Jackson and Mays were within a month of my age), and now Steve McNair. (No, I didn’t forget Fred Travalena, Alexis Arguello, and Jan Rubes; I’m just putting them on Tier B for this discussion.) Of this group, McNair’s death is the one that made me blurt out “Holy shit!” the loudest. Good thing I was at home at the time.

Born on a holiday (2/14/73), died on a holiday, McNair was well-liked and admired by Ravens fans and our community at large. After a string of flubbed quarterback experiments (Stoney Case, anyone?), it was great to see a real QB success in a Ravens uniform. McNair took this team far. It didn’t hurt that a few of his coworkers (Mason, Rolle) came over at the same time he did. The Ravens floundered in the years between their Super Bowl win and McNair’s arrival. I never met him in person, but he seemed like a genuinely nice guy and a great role model for his teammates.

What I as a libertarian would hate to see happen, yet I know it will, is for his death to be politicized as a referendum on handgun ownership and gun control.  Tougher gun laws wouldn’t have stopped the shooter from getting hold of a gun.  They never have.