Like a damned cherry tree

She was a fearsome little thing, could not be more than 5ft tall in heels, a pixie I called her. A fearsome, fiery lil pixie, and she wanted to try everything. Laying there, naked and bound open, I could not help but feel like a kid in a candy store. I was not about to pop her SM “cherry”, “I’m pick you like a god damned cherry tree” was what I think I said thru lips that tastes a mix of her, bourbon and the bit of rope I was holding in my teeth while I secured her legs tighter.

We all know the slang around “taking someone’s cherry”, to be the first, usually it refers to sexual intercourse, but when it comes to kink, there are a whole lot of “first times” to be had… if you are lucky. I remember getting my kink cherries “popped”, the first time I took needles in my flesh, my first pegging, the first time I put my entire hand inside another… the list goes on and on. Each time I was lucky to have a partner who took great love and joy in patiently sharing these new, and often terrifying, first times with me. Guiding my hand, quite literally in a few cases, those first mind blowing times.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love an experienced partner, someone who knows their bodies and understands what and how they get off. Lord knows I’ve been lucky enough to have some of my own “top cherries” popped by a very experienced bottom. No, what I want to write about today is that special moment you get when you get to share your sexuality with someone and in that most intimate of moments you can literally see them clicking the “like” button on their mental facebook of sexuality.

But why? Ego? Sure, everyone wants to be “the first”, lord knows my triple Leo personality is prone to such things… but there is more, I think.

In the case of the Pixie? Sure there was the obvious physical response, the way her body went from a nervous shiver to convulsions of pleasure when the candle wax made contact with her skin. The way she shook at her core, of course it may have been that I was so deep inside her I could almost feel her heartbeat through her sex, but you know what I mean. That moment in time, when the eyes roll back, the mouth opens and a smile is plastered so wide on their face that you fear it my cause permanent damage if it gets any wider.

Or is it the way that the mix of desire and fear combine to make an intoxicating smell, radiating off her skin in waves? Like heat off the desert floor, shimmering and warming my wicked, lustful desire to take this person’s trust in me and return it ten fold in pleasure and, if I’m lucky, a new understanding of their sexuality.

That satisfaction when they tell you, that one thing you did? Yeah, as soon as I heal/rest/recover I want you to do that again… and maybe this one thing that I was thinking about but never had the guts to try.

Of course, I have cherries of my own that need popping, but that dear readers is a tale for another day.

Shows and Performances in January!
Jan. 16: Starving Artists on Parade (Seattle)
Come out on a Monday night and see me rig... there will be a dead girl and a body bag. Nuf' said?
http://www.facebook.com/events/251894758201926/

Jan. 21: Art of Restraint (SF)
Bringing my own twist to the combination of art and sm.
http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/213254

Jan. 28: Steampunk Exhibition Ball (Seattle)
I'm returning to MC this event as well as perform.
http://www.steampunkexhibitionball.com/

Feb. 4: La Petite Mort's Dark Cabaret (Seattle)
Blood, boobs and bondage. What more do you need?
https://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/218326


Think suspension bondage is boring to watch? Think again..

Live Performance "Tryst @ Little Red Studio 05/2010" from Twisted Monk on Vimeo.

Twisted Monk at Art of Restraint 3/27 from Twisted Monk on Vimeo.

Lessons on the field of green felt

The men of my family spoke the language of cars and pool. Ask them about a complex emotional or spiritual matter and they would freeze up, stare at you with cautious eyes and wait for your “trap” to fall. Now talk to them about the .60 over bored pistons and double wound cam that I wanted to install in my 1964 Corvair Spyder? Well we could discuss that all night.

We spoke two common tongues, my family and I, that of engines and of pool. Some of my best memories are of my father, guiding me on a lazy Sunday afternoon, thru some complex part of an engine rebuild. We all raced back then a trio of restored Corvairs. Each one sight to behold, from my father’s tricked out turbo to my own, heavily modified “touring” car, speed and power were the goals and we would talk at great length about the complexities of power vs. speed. Was it better to burn rubber at the light, vs. the value of pulling up from behind, to loose your competitor in the curves as they underestimate the skill of the man behind the wheel? If it had an accelerator pedal, we made love to the idea of what it could become.

Pool? We played pool for hours. It was the only thing we all could do with out wanting to kill or get so drunk that we did not have to deal with the other. Soon as my brother nd I were old enough to hold sticks, we were ushered into that dim, smoky world at every chance. My grandfather learned while working in a CCC camp during the depression, he taught my father and he taught my brother and I.

The green of a pool table, its smoky half light in the back of some unknown bar, will always stand out when I think if them. These men were my heroes, my mentors, my definition of what it meant to be a “man”. My granddad would saunter across the table from me, stetting his Olympia tall boy down just long enough to line up a shot. Fingers, stained yellow for years of nicotine would splay across the green of the table as he guided the queue between two broken and malformed knuckles, the result of keeping the engines of industry running.

Like his father, my father taught me. “Just 25 cents a lesson, son” he would joke as he schooled my arrogant young ass at the find art of pool. My gramps would say, “Show me a man who is good at pool, and I’ll show you a boy with a wasted childhood”. Needless to say, both my father and grandfather were astounding at playing the game. The kind of grace you would expect from a top surgeon or concert cellist, they would display on the felt. Fingers, nimble and splayed, eyes fixed on the ball, hands smooth and effortless in their execution.

This was where they taught me grace, just because you can hit that cue ball hard it does not mean you must. Rather, as I leaned over the table, tongue clasped in my teeth and I concentrated on the invisible lines of geometry that imagined across the table, each one predicting a different arc of my shot, was when they did it. My father did it first, placing a hand on my cocked elbow and holding it firm,
“Just cuz you can it that ball hard, don’t. Use some finesse. If you can’t sink it this round, ease it up nice and close so you can do it later… and confound your opponent.”

From them I learned the art of the “kiss”, to not strike too hard or rely in too many complex angles or bank shots. But rather to ease the ball, dare I say seduce it into falling into place, just millimeters from the edge of the pocket. There it would sit, waiting for me, and turning my opponent’s next shot into a profanity filled mish mash of bumpers and too much “English”

I’ve not played with my father in years, nor my brother, not since that dark day when the fates took him from this world. No, today those who love me put up with me as I saunter around the table, pint in hand, and do not roll their eyes at me when I push my glasses down my nose and prostrate myself upon the table. Hands splayed wide like my grandfathers, save this time the fingers are stained blue from rope dyes, but the knuckles are no less deformed, as I take aim and quip to my opponent, “show me a man who is good at pool…

First and foremost, I’m a film nerd.

Specifically, I’m obsessed with the films of the early to mid 70’s and how they reflected our culture’s response to things like Watergate, Vietnam and the whole collapse of the 60’s “free love movement”. In short, I love grind house, exploitation films from the 1970s. Not only as entertainment, but also as a reflection of culture and shifting ideals, in fact I almost got tossed out of film school for arguing about the cultural significance of the x-rated film “Barbara Broadcast… but that is a story for another day.. When a blatantly pornographic film like Deep Throat can gain a mainstream audience and a film like Midnight Cowboy can not only carry the dreaded “X” rating, but also garner an Oscar nomination? Times, they were a changing and I’ve always said that you can tell a lot about a culture based on what it views as “porn”.

But I digress, I love old school porn. Probably my first erotic memories were from seeing the full page advertisements for 8MM loops in the back of the nudie mags I stole from my grandfather. Back then all the penetration was covered by black censor bars, but I remember the sheer volume of sexual images to be overwhelming to my young brain. If I had a time machine, I’d go back to NYC in the 70’s, to walk along 42nd street and experience the grind houses in person. Not for the sexual thrill but for what I call the “meta” to understand who and what made us tick, sexually and to understand why it had such an impact on my young brain

Again, I digress, but when it comes to this topic I can bore the paint off a wall at 20 paces with my thoughts, observations and (worst of all) questions.

Fast forward to the summer of 2011.

I have the unique and wicked pleasure to be traveling in Portland with a companion who is also a fan of the grind house. Much to my surprise, she informs me that in the heart of old town Portland there is an operating grind house theater, still! This is amazing, most of these monuments to rain coats and masturbation were closed down when the VHS tape took off and we could get smut in the comfort of our living room, not some smelly (often sticky) theater in the “bad” part of town. Much to my delight, this theater was still operating. Relying now on the hipsters and anime nerds, but its doors were open for us to wander into one warm summer eve.

(Jesus Monk, quit talking about social impacts of film theory and give the nice people something naughty to read!)

And so, this particular summer’s eve my companion was dressed in a short black dress. Nothing too “complex” to bastardize the great Mel Brooks, but it was what was *under* the dress that mattered. Beneath her simple dress, she wore long, silk stockings, connected to old school garter belts that came up to frame her panty clad ass like a pair of goal posts, guiding you into the in zone of her firm, pert bottom. Not the quasi “retro” kind, but the lace covered, thigh spreading wonders that only the 1970’s could manifest.

Stepping into the theater, we are greeted by an over eager door man. He is more than happy to explain that our presence at tonight’s showing would be free of charge and that anytime we wished (as a couple) to visit the theater it was “on the house”. Hmm, interesting to say the least, but who am I to complain? Sadly they were showing modern porn, not old school stuff that still existed on a reel of celluloid. Someday I hope to experience sitting in a darkened theater, listening to the whir and clatter of a projector as something taboo flickers to life on the screen before me. Again, I digress. Sorry. I’m out of practice at this blogging thing.

The theater it self was a dingy affair. A few hundred seats at most. Spread out in a bowl around a screen. A screen showing some random European girl getting her various bodily orifices stuffed by a number of random, forgettable (and slightly oily) euro dudes. We were soon to find out that what was happening on the screen was not the main attraction…

The usher guides us to the “couples space”, a cordoned off space in the back of the theater. Leather (ish) seats and a very solid looking, waist high fence awaited up as we sat back to take in the show.

Now is where things start to get a bit… odd.

Sitting back to enjoy the pornographic film playing on the big screen, my companion lays her head across my lap as she kneels at my feet. A very natural pose for her this particular weekend of sin. If my count of the heads in front of me is accurate, the theater holds about 30 to 40 patrons. At first they take no notice, then... Well then something odd begins to happen. A few brave souls get up from their seats in the middle of the theater and move to the back wings on the left or right of our position. Staying at what I could only call a “plausible deniable distance” the sat, watching us out of the corner of their eyes while pretending to still watch the feature on the screen.

Others were not so subtle, like prairie dogs we watched as one head after another pops up, turns back and realizes that there is an actual female in the audience. Leaving the well worn seats, they begin to line the barricade that separates our “couples only” space and the rest of the theater. Ignoring the girl as her anus takes not one, not too, but three cocks at once on the screen, they all sit in silent admiration for the girl at my feet. Each one waiting for her to do something, something *real*, not acted on the big screen.

Here is where I must pause and say that I am a sick, sadistic bastard. As the men stared, their eyes penetrating my companion in every possible way, I instructed her to stand. Stand and raise her skirts to the admiring crowd.

Hands slide off the rail and into *other* places as she parades her ass across the room for all the patrons to see. Panties stretched tight and wisps of hair peeking from between her legs, she giggles and shakes her ass with seductive glee before bending over my knee. If I am a bastard, she is a cock tease and enjoying the attention.

My hand rests on her bottom as she closes her eyes and pushes her ass up to meet me. My hand connects with her bottom, making a loud, sharp report. Some of the audience smile, others look with wary concern. This was not the show they were expecting. With growing force and speed, I strike her ass. Raising the skin to a bright, swollen red. Her thighs are aglow as the blood flows to her pale, almost transparent skin.

At my instruction, she stands skirt still up around her midsection and turns to the watching crowd, each one transfixed and staring with jaws agape.

“Show them your bottom, darling” I tell her.

“Now boys,” I say to the pie eyed men watching the scene, “I think you best give her a round of applause for her contribution to tonight’s entertainment”

Awkwardly hands emerge and a round of applause comes from the watchers. My companion blushes and takes a deep bow, showing them the growing wet spot in her panties.

I raise and take my date by the hand. Pushing through the watching crowd and making for the door. A chorus of “thank you”: can be heard from behind me as I steer her through the exit and into the night air.

“You are a mean man, Sir”: she tells me,” Not giving them anything more of a show than that”

“Oh my dear child” I laugh, “All good story tellers know that the best thing is to leave them wanting more….”

And into the warm night we walked, arm and arm.

Snapshots from Dr. Sketchy's Seattle











Some snaps from my rigging session on Sunday, Sept 18 with The Shanghai Pearl for Dr. Sketchy's "anti-art school"

Performance Video, "The Ripper"
Performed at Dr. Rocket's Medicine Show, Seattle 3/24

Somebody finally caught the "infamous" Ripper act on film! Unfortunately they caught the performance where I was just recovering from a 3 week cold and my *favorite* straight razor broke. Oh well, that is the magic of live theater!

Seattle Burlesque Presents:La Petite Mort & Twisted Monk Perform "The Ripper" from Omar Taboada on Vimeo.

It goes with out saying, but I will anyways, this is a *performance* and not intended to be an instructional, how-to video. Suspension bondage is dangerous and potentially lethal. Seek proper, in person instruction before attempting. Also, putting rope around someone's neck is a no-no! The rope I am using is a specially made "break away" prop rope. Play safe kids.

Something worth the wait.

The first video from our newly re-launched youtube.com channel "TwistedMonkStudios". (we will be re-adding the how to clips as bandwith allows, but the racier performance stuff will remain on Vimeo.com) A hardware review of the portable bondage frame, The Tetruss 2. As you may recall, we had a near miss with an early version of the product last year while in Vegas. Since then, the manufacture has redesigned the product, addressed the flaws and sent me this for review.

Here is what is most important. I AM NOT AN ENGINEER. Nope, I'm just another guy who does bondage and wants a safe, reliable piece of hardware. This review is not a paid endorsement, rather I took the approach and asked myself "what would I like to know before making a purchase?". So I took a page from the various tech blogs and did had the manufacture send me a unit, same one that would be shipped to you. We fired up the camera and tore into the unit to see what we could find.




So there you have it, almost 13 months later. It is my firmest desire that you, the consumer, get as much information as possible so you can make the best choices.

My final take? With some modification AND understanding the limits of the product I have chosen to add this truss to my arsenal of hardware.

Remember, suspension bondage is dangerous and potentially life threatening. No hardware is 100% fool proof. Always check your gear, use only the best quality equipment and GET PROPER TRAINING before attempting.