I’m not even supposed to be here today.

Today is the opening day of Shibaricon in Chicago. I was supposed to be there as a vendor, selling my wonderful rope to all those horny rope fanatics. Sadly my supplier flaked out and the last batch from Romania was far below my quality standards. Running out of time and unable to locate good stock I was forced to bow out of the event. Major bummer.

On a brighter note. This weekend I am one of the featured artists at TEASE, an erotic art show at New Horizons, probably the worlds greatest swing club. Selling art to swingers is a dicey proposition. While they are more than happy to plunk down 70 bucks at Lover’s Package for a substandard flogger, ask them to pay that much for a piece of art and they balk. That and kink frightens them. Sure, on leather night they may parade around in chaps and collars, but you should see them turn pale when I show off the photo of cedar where her labia were sewn shut.

Yeah I think I’m going to fuck with their heads this weekend. Show off beautiful photos of awful things. I have some terrific shots of great beauty… peppered with just the right amount of blood and snot. I may not make much money, but it will be fun to see them squirm a bit.

Yeah I'm a bastard.
-m

So I took some photos of my friend. She is about 9 months pregnant; now lots of my friends who have kids ask me to photograph them right before their due date. It is a common thing, this is a huge time in your life, your body has radically changed and your life has too. Well what happens when a kinkster wants photos taken? Two words. Baby Bondage. Not only did she want the traditional photos, but she also asked me to being along some rope. Ok, I can do that. Just need to make sure to lay the ropes properly across her belly. Then there was the whole baby moving thing. Sorta reminded me of that scene from Alien….

Yesterday was one of those days where, yes, the strangest things seem suddenly routine.
 

While my brain is otherwise engaged in upcoming performances and my next gallery show, please enjoy something from the vaults.
-monk

He is me.

Let me start this off with a statement. I believe in nothing. There is no God, no Buddha, no afterlife, no ghosts, no spirits, nil…nada…zilch. For centuries mankind has lied to himself. Telling himself that we are more than just clever monkeys who figured out that the trick was to bang the rocks together. There is no here after, no eternal reward for good service. This life is all we have.

That said, so beings my tale.

I have 2 brothers. You have probably heard me talk about my brother Danimal; he has been my best friend, mentor and enemy. Although he plays part in this tale, this story is not about him. This story is about my other brother, the one I never met until this summer, John Clark.

After the birth of Danimal, my mother announced that there soon be another mouth to feed. Born with a lung disease that we can now cure, John Clark lived for 7 days. In those 7 days I don’t know if he ever got to see his mothers smile. I know he never got to fall in love, never ran or laughed… Danimal sorta remembers the funeral.

May years had passed Danimal, now 8, was the apple of his grandparents eye. Retched (my elder evil sister), whom they adopted 4 years earlier kept mom and dad on their toes, as any good 4 year old can. My mother announced that there would be another mouth to feed, again. But this announcement was not met with cheers, rather with worry and concern. Would this one live? They had not planned for me and worried that I, like John Clark and the miscarriage a few years later, would end up a marker on a cemetery hillside.

If you’re reading this then you probably already know how the story turned out. 27 years ago Danimal and Retched found themselves with a new sibling.

Flash forward to 1997. Danimal and I left the service, solemn and reflective. We had just buried or grandfather. We stood there watching my father, a pillar of strength, bury yet another loved one. Danimal and I skirted the crowd, watching from a distance as friends and family paid there last respects to the old man.
“Want to visit John’s grave before we head off to the reception?” suggested Danimal.
“Sure…” I shrugged, “I’ve never seen it”

I have had a vague recollection of John Clark. I remember mention of him, but never had I seen where this brother I never knew was laid to rest. That would soon change.

His headstone was on a small hill, under the shade of a grand tree, who’s mighty branches form a canopy over his and many other small markers. It took us a while to find it, Danimal had not been there in years, and there were so many names. So many children were buried there, so many little marker stones… We finally found John Clark, located next to twin girls (it runs in the family I guess). I have said earlier in this tale that I do not believe in any god or even in the idea of ghosts or souls, but what hit me as I stood over that little stone marker I cannot explain. I have tried to rationalize it, examine it, debunk it, but I can’t. All I can do is re-tell what happened.

Standing there, looking at a stone with a name on it, a name of a brother you never had the chance to know, scared me. Danimal was also uneasy, but all I could do was stand there unmoving like the stone that marked his grave… looking at that name “John Clark W____”, Danimal brought from the car 3 beers and placed one in my shaking hand. The next he opened for himself.
Kneeling close to the stone, “John, your almost 31 now. I think you can have one too” he said as he opened the third and poured it over the stone. I mumbled agreement and drank a toast to the name carved in the stone, and to the brother I never knew.

Excuse me while I fumble through this next bit, I have trouble understanding all of it myself, let alone writing it in a coherent fashion.

What if there really is a soul? Well maybe not a soul exactly, but rather an energy? Or perhaps it is just the possibility of what a person could become. John was given only 7 days here… and I was a mistake, not planned nor expected to live. What if all that John was or could have been, became me? What if his soul or potential or whatever you can call it was handed down to me. Another chance for the entity that inhabited the shell of John Clark to see the sun? What if all these years I was him? What if my whole existence, the unplanned pregnancy, the miracle birth, was just a continuation of John? It still makes me overwhelmed with a sense of grief and confusion… over and over again I ask myself the same question, what if HE IS ME?


I lied earlier… I do believe in one thing. No, more like I hope for one thing. If our universe is truly infinite, then there are worlds where every scenario has a chance to be played out… every possibility is given life. And somewhere out there today John Clark W_____ celebrates his birthday, surrounded by those who love him. Growing older, fatter and loved.

Happy Birthday John,
Your little brother.

There are days that I just have to stop and revel in how great life can be. This morning, as the sun bathes the living room with golden light, is one of those kinds of days. I just finished making coffee for the girls, packed them something nice for lunch and kissed them goodbye as they headed out to catch the bus to work. Ahhhh, life is good.

Of course the house looks like a bomb went off in it, the result of a weekend well spent. How good of a weekend? Let me describe my weekend by giving you a quick tour of the bruises that cover my body this morning.

My left pec is covered in a myriad of mouth sized welts in various stages of the healing process. This is where S likes to leave her “mark” on me. Part of our aftercare ritual. I must have pushed her extra hard this last time, the freshest one is a violent arc of purple. If I look closely I can make out the individual teeth marks. I find myself touching the area unconsciously, feeling the dull pain and smiling, knowing I left far worse on her ass.

The insides of my biceps are stripped with dull red welts. Bites from my new armor. In my other life I wear a partial suit of medieval plate and perform with a group of jousters. The articulation on the 15th century plate steel arms still needs tweaking. I make a note to call my blacksmith and have them adjusted before the performance next week.

Canes leave VERY distinct marks. Unlike other impact toys, the cane is the grand champion when it comes to leaving a welt. Long deep stripes of pink mark my ass. Three? Maybe four… I can’t really see them that well. That’s what I get when T takes a class on Topping psychology and I offer myself up as her stunt butt. She warmed up on S’s bottom then went full tilt with me. I seldom bottom, but when I do it is with her… and she has the makings of a truly wicked top.

Then there is the matter of the hickie over my right kidney…Obviously a product of the puppy pile Saturday night. I think Sandra gave it to me after I let her use her new riding crop out on me. Again, another graduate of Saturday’s “Topping Psych 101” class or as S put it, “Tonight on Fox, when bottoms attack!”

Lastly there is the oddly paw shaped black and blue mark on shoulder. Was it from catching another actor’s pauldron during rehearsals? Hard to tell, when the adrenaline is pumping and your swinging 42 inches of perfectly balanced steel... things happen.

Funny, for someone who identifies himself as a “top” I sure have a lot of welts. I thought I was supposed to be the "welter" not the "weltee"?!

A quick follow up to Matisse’s comment about kilts. Yes kilts do make great sense. Men, and their dangly bits, are best served by a kilt. As a functional piece of clothing, they are fantastic. They do however have a few drawbacks.
Advertisement: While the kilt does flatter a man’s legs and draws the eye of many a girl, they really lack in the display department say compared to a good pair of tight leather pants. In the words of Spinal Tap, “...us with armadillos in our trousers…”

It’s rather hard to stuff a kilt.

Concealment: 2 words, Pup Tent. Guys you know what I am saying. Remember that time in the 3rd grade when you were thinking about Wendy Testiburger in math class, only to be called up to the blackboard? A kilt is worse. You know have this odd pleat in the front of your kilt and find yourself standing funny in hopes of changing the drape of the garment so it is not that noticeable.

Breezes: Sure, in the warm summer months a kilt is a nice cool garment to wear. But in the cold grey Seattle winter, AKA September thru April, it be cold and windy! Nothing sucks more than catching a cold, damp breeze between your knees! Especially when it blows your kilt up and you find yourself doing your best hairy legged Marylyn Monroe impersonation!

That said, I’m not giving my kilt up for anything! I still remember the look of glee and lust in S’s eyes the first time she checked to see if I wore the kilt “proper”.

So can someone please explain the link between kinky men and kilts? I swear, every kinky guy I know has one! Hell I own two! But why? I mean I know why I love mine, and yes I do wear it “correctly”. However, the part I don’t seem to get is why this one clothing item is the must have fashion item for kinksters.

Here is an example of what I mean. Last week, T and I had the fortune to be invited to party at Max and Matisse’s home. Now this was a big deal, we are talking a party at the home of 2 of the coolest kinky people in all of Seattle. Hell for that matter, the entire damn state! Now why, dear readers, did they invite me? That is a story for another day. Let’s stick to the topic at hand, shall we?

Looking to rub elbows, and other bits, with the kinky elite I set out to dress to impress. My best black button down, my “Hi, I’m a film maker” glasses, deep green kilt and of course my knee high doc martens. It was the sort of outfit where I could go out on the town and if anyone gave me shit about wearing a skirt, I could kick their ass and still look fabulous.

Honey, the fab 5 aint got nothin on me!

So we get to the party, an amazing home in a neighborhood that I’ll never afford, and the place is packed. We are talking three floors of kinky people, and every other guy in the place was dressed in a kilt. Either our hosts have a secret thing for seeing the pale legs of guys or we all had the same idea. “I’m so hip and kinky; I think I’ll express my individuality by wearing a kilt.”

Of course not ALL the men were in kilts. There was that cute fellow in the leather straight jacket and the chap dressed in a Spandex tuxedo. But I digress, perhaps when they do an update to SM101 Jay Wiseman can add the line, “…and once you have more than three impact toys in your toy collection you must next go and buy yourself a kilt. Nobody will take you serious with out one.”

Do you know what just dawned on me? Perhaps in 10 years we will look at guys in the scene who wear kilts much like we now look at those guys who show up at events in shinny new leather pants and one of those Marlon Brando biker’s hat?

Till such a time, I’m going to keep my kilt and enjoy the hell out of it. However, the next time I get an invite to a party from Max and Matisse’s (oh please oh please oh please, you guys rock!) I think I’ll go with something different.

Any suggestions?

The following was a conversation over beers today between T, S and myself. Some friends of ours from the swinger world wanted to come to the wetspot and check out how the other half plays.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent, as well as the jokes have been changed to make them actually funny.

M: ok so what is the plan for this weekend? Sandra and Todd want to check out the wetspot this weekend on Friday. Want to go?

T: What is the party on Friday?

M: Erotic City.

T: Bah, if I wanted to watch ugly people have vanilla sex, I’d look in the neighbor’s window.

S: Why don’t we just take them to the party on Saturday?

M: Nah a full blown pan party might be a bit too much for a first visit. Don’t want to scare them off. Besides they will be at New Horizons that night. In fact they invited us to come. Its leather night and they are allowing SM play that night.

T: Oh how quaint, a night of vanilla flogging.

S: Hey at least there will be flogging. Last Erotic City party we went to I would have killed for a good spanking!

T: So let’s just go to the party on Saturday then?

M: But they don’t have any suspension points at New Horizons and I really want to try out this new inverted suspension technique.

S: YES PLEASE!

T: It is her turn next, you know?

M: I know, why else would I suggest going to the party on Friday?

T: So why don’t we do this? You take S on Friday to the Erotic City party and tie her up. Then we can all go to New Horizons on Saturday and scare the swingers?

M: Well that sounds doable, S?

S: YES PLEASE!

M: I think we have a plan. I’ll give Sandra a call and...

S: Could I be in a collar on Friday too?

P.S. to Amy: I promise yours is on the way.

When I was about 6 my parents bought a pig. No, not one of those cute little pigs you see at the end of a very fashionable leash. No, we are talking a 400 pound snorting, shitting, smelly, bacon factory.

Now being the neo-hippies that they were, Mom & Dad had absolutely no idea how to raise a pig. I’m sure they read something about it in a back issue of Mother Earth News, but for the most part I think they were making it up as they went. (remind me to tell you the potato bug and gasoline story sometime) The mammoth swine had come to us via a friend of a friend, for what ever reason the beast was to be ours.

I called him, “Wilbur, the Death Pig”

So what do you feed a 400 pound pig anyways? Well what ever you feed them, it is going to be a LOT. We would buy bags of day old doughnuts from a friend who worked at the local Winchels doughnuts. Every day we fed that beast a giant trash bag’s worth of stale doughnuts. That pig ate more maple bars in a day than most cops will in their entire life.

All things considered this was not too bad of a deal, we got to pick through garbage sacks of doughnuts and pick out the not so stale ones for ourselves. My brother would make it a point of finding the EXTRA stale ones and chuck them at me as part of his own twisted re-enactment of that week’s episode of “Bah, Bah Black Sheep”. Do you have any idea how much it hurts getting hit in the melon with a stale apple fritter?

Then Wilbur began to show his true colors.

When not consuming stale pastry items, what does a giant pig hopped up on sugar do during the day? Why they break out of pens. Of course it was not too hard. Somewhere along the line Dad thought that a picket wooden fence would hold in a 400 pound pig hyped up on crème filleds. Right, I’m still not sure if pop was growing more than just potatoes out in the back 40, if you know what I mean. The pig would escape by leaning it’s massive bulk against the fence and supplement his all lard diet with some of the other livestock. That's right, Wilbur ATE the other animals. Well did not exactly ‘eat” them, he would more ‘suck” them down his gullet and all we would find later would be a tell tale feather or bit of fur stuck to the massive thing's snout. At first there only a few small chicks that strayed too far from the coop. Then one of the rabbits went missing.

And now you know where the name came from?

Of course being the tender age of 6 I was a bit scared of the beast. Go out for chores in the morning and there are a dozen chickens in the coop. Come out after school and find a pile of feathers, and 8 really freaked out chickens. My dear brother, sensing my fear of the beast and its eating rampage took me aside and gave me this warning. “You know what he is doing don’t you? He is stretching his stomach out, eating bigger and bigger things till... till he can eat you.”

And I believed him. Hook line and sinker. Every time it escaped, more livestock would disappear into its wrinkled pink maw. The sacks of doughnuts no longer held any joy for me. Each morning as I drug another one down to the pen, the beast would stare at me with it’s dull black eyes. Shaking like a leaf as I emptied the day’s food into his trough I knew what that pig was thinking. He was wondering how I would taste with gravy. The beast’s reign of barnyard terror continued until the pig ate an entire goat. It was a SMALL goat yes, but it was a goat none the less. Being the next largest mammal in the farm food chain, I knew then that the pig had reached his goal. I was next on the killer’s hit list. No more would he be satisfied with mere chickens or rabbits. Wilbur wanted man flesh and I was at the top of the menu.

The next time I heard the all too familiar ruckus of a pig on the rampage I ran like hell into the house, up the stairs and into my room where I barricaded myself in. I reasoned that even if the pig figured out how to work the front doors, the sheer climb up the stairs would surely cause it massive heart failure. Refusing to leave and near hysterics, my parents did what any concerned parent would. They grounded my brother for a month.

Eventually the creature met it’s fitting end… around the same time I discovered just how good fresh bacon tasted.

So I’m sitting in bed typing away at my laptop the other night. T is in the next room.
“Honey, what are the ‘gates of hell’?” T asks. She is filling out a new Yes / No / Maybe list.
“It is a device for CBT dear” , I respond in that married couple talking about gardening tone.
“What’s CBT?”, she calls back.
“Cock and Ball Torture, dear”
“Oh…. So what are the Gates of Hell then?”
“…a really uncomfortable thing you put on your dick”
I hear the sound of laughter from the next room.
“Hmm, better rank that a 3”

Wouldn’t life be so much easier if everything came with a Yes/No/Maybe list? Imagine before starting a job you could fill one out.
Company sponsored sport’s team: Yes/No/Maybe
Socializing with co-workers outside of office:
Company coffee maker or Starbucks:
Eat Lunch at desk:
Selling or buying child’s cookies/candy/band raffle tickets/ etc

Or better yet, next house I buy I am so going to give a list like this to my perspective neighbors.

Long front lawns?
Non traditional color choices?
Large Parties?
Loud music?
After 10 pm?
Loud parties after 10pm involving guests in togas?
Loud parties after 10pm involving guests in togas while projecting The Rocky Horror Picture Show onto the side of the house?
Lawn gnomes?
Setting up a suspension rig in the back yard in order to practice?
Wearing a full suit of armor while walking your dog? (T has been doing this in order to get acclimated to her new armor)
Hearing your neighbors fuck on a Sunday morning while you’re working in the flowerbeds just outside their bedroom window?
Not mowing your back yard for a full year, just to see what happens?


Oh the list goes on and on. Some days I actually feel sorry for my neighbors…. Nah not really.

The TV show pitch

Good morning ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to today’s presentation. I am sure you will find this well worth your while.

We need a new show this fall. Now not just any show, but a show that will capture that elusive audience… the 18-24 yr old single male. As you know, the industry has constantly lost this audience to console gaming and internet porn. Just when you thought that all was lost, we have found the answer.

A cooking show.

That’s right, I did not stutter. A cooking show.

Not just any cooking show.
A show dedicated to helping men get laid.
A show dedicated to demystifying cooking for men.
I call it, “A guy who can cook will get laid”

Impress a woman in the kitchen and she will impress you in bed. Plain and simple, but men need to be shown how easy it really is. Let’s lift the veil and demystify the kitchen. Teach them how to do more than BBQ! Focus on presentation, short cutting, and “chick friendly food”.

The clincher?

At the end of every show our panel of judges, who happen to also be members of the Swedish bikini team, will rate the meal cooked during the show. Based on how well they like the meal, they will express how far a potential suitor would have gotten. Anything from “yeah that was nice” to “Oh I’m so going to fuck this guy!”