John082

Ditto! I'll be the one wearing the green baseball cap.

Any particular locales you kidnap from?

Respectfully submitted--The Circus of Trouble might also feature some carnival games, (although some would probably not be so new) such as: Skee-Ball Whack-a-Mole Ring The Bell(s)—where relative success is measured in decibels Fill The Balloon (water gun, clown’s mouth, exploding balloon) Milk Bottle Throw—softballs thrown to knock object off small stand And the crossover sideshow/game: Bang the Bearded Lady Oh, and no sword swallower?

I believe I have sussed out the deep meaning of the photos, and like much that we encounter on a day-to-day basis, fundamental truths lie within the chaos. Brad is, in truth, a recent graduate, stymied by the dearth of job opportunities. The shopping cart contains all that he retained from his undergraduate education, and he stands there replete in all the glory that such an education entails. However, he is jobless and homeless, despite four years or more of hard work. This is all the world, and the current job, market offers Brad. He looks longingly across the street, wondering if his future lies on the other side, but he lacks the courage to make the crossing. Perhaps someday he will. Unbeknownst to Brad, the backpack in the foreground, yet behind him, contains all he really needs to know, but Brad is so busy looking across the street that he cannot recognize that all he needs is passing by his back. In Times Square, Lola the French Maid is the embodiment of all Brad’s notebook doodles. They are the representations of his fractured consciousness spilled out on a naked page. Sure, they were separate on the leaves of his Composition Book—the French Maid, stars, rainbows, and duckies. The French Maid is a long repressed fantasy, although it is unclear whether Brad sees himself in the maid outfit or someone else. The stars are his deep held aspirations, unattainable and forever out of reach because he has cast them at such a lofty height. The rainbows represent the elusive treasure of Leprechauns, forever out of sight and illusory in nature. And the duckies…well, he’ll just have to visit the Fortress to learn about the duckies. The moral to the seemingly random collection of four pictures: there is nothing to be gained in not having the courage to cross the great divide of one’s fears and reservations, and one’s meanderings will cavort in the Boulevard of Dreams, alone and separate from one’s self, if one doesn’t clutch his or her dearly held dreams close to their chest. Never let your dreams go. OR, they could be totally random photos.

After much introspection, I confidently put myself down as a lifelong fetishist. Being in my late forties, this was an engaging memory exercise. If the past is a somewhat reliable predictor of the future, I’m sure some curious engrammic flotsam shall arise over the next few days further supporting my position. Memories: fifth grade, mean homeroom teacher. I had a dream whereby me and all my fellow students were sitting in a banquet hall, and we were supposed to be quiet. The student next to me was talking, and the stern homeroom teacher singled me out for it, although I had been silent. I don’t think he liked me, because I had an independent streak and spoke my mind. I didn't rat out my buddy (fifth grade omertà) , and as a result I was told to come up to the dais, and was beaten with a cotton tablecloth that had a knotted corner with a goblet in it (Catholic school—goblets all over the place). When I didn’t make a sound, the teacher gave me a grudging respect and let me return to my seat. Memories: tenth grade, shapely, raven-haired Italian Chem teacher. She often wore a leather jacket, tight jeans, and moccasin boots. I used to fantasize about her holding me down and forcing me to have sex with her. (All hail hormone-fueled optimism!) Influences: also around tenth grade, was a reading geek—anything not assigned by a teacher, that is. Read through the existing Gor series of books, which at the time I only recognized as being enjoyable. The Gor books are alternate world adventures which I now know are actually thinly veiled BDSM soft-porn. In most books, the women were servants and objects of the warriors, and to a scrawny and shy teenager this seemed like a great set-up! They occupied my mind quite a bit during those years. Thankfully, B. Dalton sold them, so my parents and teachers didn’t recognize what a porn-fest they were for a teenage boy. There was also at least one book where the roles were reversed, and the men were objects. Thoroughly enjoyed that, too. Influences: early eighties, early MTV. One of the first videos to feature a storyline was Golden Earring’s Twilight Zone. At 2:48 or so into the video, the hero of the piece is tied up and being interrogated. Cue the Dancing Dommes. Three girls wearing leather playsuits (or rubber, or PVC, not sure), black gloves, black stockings, thick collars around their necks, and black policeman hats, come dancing into the starkly empty warehouse space and try to coerce the hero into talking. They end up injecting him with truth serum. The lyrics are somewhat telling, featuring: “It’s 2 a.m., the fear is gone…there’s a storm on the loose, Sirens in my head…Help, I’m steppin’ into the Twilight Zone, place is a madhouse…Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?” Definitely strongly aroused by this video (hey, it was the eighties, I was young, and Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet). Through my twenties and early thirties, I remained strongly attracted to such fare, but life intervened, and partners were not so opened minded. I think for my generation one's forties are a breakpoint, in that most people of that age quit censoring themselves as much as they have always done, and tend to care less what people think. Open-minded partners are easier to find in mainstream settings, and of course the proliferation of porn on the internet breaks down some barriers too (gee, there are other people like me! Maybe I’m not such a freak, or maybe being a little freaky is as fun as it looks!) Starting with my late thirties, adventures and indulgences ensued, to much great mutual satisfaction. The seeds, however, were there from long before.

Heavy Metal?

Pshaw on the Local! You correctly intuited that I desired the Express train, and I gleefully boarded (ahem, WAS boarded). The Local—piffle! Take me to town. If anything, I learned I need to start hitting the gym again if I wish to truck with Asian Olympians. And I do! Truth is, I did manage to keep a secret from you. You asked if I have a particular fantasy, and I said no, but that is not entirely true. My fantasy is to be spirited away to a magical lair hidden deep within a city of eight million people and be the hapless plaything of two Asian goddesses both angelic and demonic. The Fetish Fortress delivered all that and more! Next time we should pick up where we left off. With a proper warm-up, I would very much like to become more intimately acquainted with Papa Smurf. You thrust your hips against me when we parted for the evening, and that reinforced what I had just learned to the core of my being—you are a very powerful woman. Aah, next time!

Mistress Chen is an ethereal paradox. She has the hands of an angel, yet they engage in devilish play. Spritely, but with menace, she brought my consciousness to places I’d only thought possible in my imagination. When she first entered the room and asked with a glint in her eye if I was nervous, I was so awestruck by her athletic beauty I could only mumble a “no.” Then she winked and told me, “You should be.” Truer words were never spoken. I rue the wasted days, when I could have basked in her presence after only a simple phone call. I’m a foolish man. Why did I wait so long to call?! My night with Mistress Chen is etched upon my psyche, and I would have it no other way.

The Fortress radiates intelligence. It has everything a discreet visitor could want—professional booking, tight security, strict attention to privacy, careful attention to desires, unbounded imagination, and sublimely skilled practitioners—all proof positive of intelligent design. The cosmic source of this brilliance: Mistress Kang. Mistress Kang possesses consummate expertise in rope-work and the other implements of her vocation; however, aside from her intellect, the most potent weapon at her disposal is her precious mouth. She giggles, she threatens, she cajoles—she rules. I redden; she smiles. I writhe; she smiles. I groan; she smiles. Her smile is captivating, and I found myself enduring ANYTHING to evoke it. And therein lies her wizardry.