Let me start off by saying that I am, in no way, an expert when it comes to rope bondage. While yes I make and sell some of the best rope on earth, I’m not about to claim that I know it all. Quite the opposite really, I am astounded by the creativity and beauty that comes out of the rope community. I watch other folks work, I make mental notes, and I try to take every class (beginning and otherwise) I can. So when a friend asked me recently if I could show him, “Some rope stuff” my first inclination was to send him straight to Max for instruction. Now there is an expert.

Unfortunately Max tends to teach public classes in the fall and winter months. So rather than make my poor friend (or his lovely girlfriend for that matter) wait, I figured that at the bare minimum I could prepare him. Teach him the basics and start getting him equipped. That way when classes do start up, he will be well prepared and ready to learn the really good stuff.

His first lesson you ask? Coiling rope. That’s right. He spent 3 hours sitting on my couch turning piles of loose rope into tight, neatly wound bundles. Granted, we did have a huge order that needed to be prepped but before you accuse me of pulling a Tom Sawyer hear me out.

You can tell a lot about a rope top by how they handle their rope. I always tell my customers, “love your rope, and it will love you back”. The more you handle your rope, the suppler and better it will become. One must touch and feel the rope, make a physical connection with it before they apply it to another’s skin. Next time you’re at a play party watch how folks handle their rope. Do they pull handfuls of tangled line out of the bottom of a bag or do they lay out each tightly wound bundle? Do they reach into their bag mid scene, find a line, find its middle and then go about wrapping it around a lover’s body or do they take a previously laid out neatly bound bundle, uncoil it, and pass it through their hands not only feeling for barbs but also building the tension? See where I am going with this?

Rope bondage is a very kinetic tactile thing; the more familiar you are with your tools the better you will use them.

And what of my young student? By the end of the night, as he placed the last bundle of rope away he turned to me and said, “Ya know, that was kinda fun.”
“Cool, now this is a wrist cuff tie. See how you place the knot….”

As promised, Ladies and gentleman may I present to you the very cool, Mistress Matisse.

After seeing some of my work at the recent Seattle Erotic Art Festival as well as online, Matisse asked if I would take some new photos for her website. Of course I jumped at the chance to work with her.

This one is my favorite of her. Not really a planned shot, per se, I don't really plan out my shots. Rather I go into a photo shoot with an idea of what kind of emotion I want to capture.

Working with Matisse, the mood I wanted to capture was "elegant power". How do you think I did?

Opening Day
Galahad shows up on my doorstep and the day is already feeling warm. Too fucking warm. We try and make small talk about the warmth but we both know the truth. Today is going to be hot, ninety to ninety-five degrees. It is 9 am, 3 hours till show.

T piles more food on our plates as we silently try to eat. Our bellies too knotted with preshow stress to be hungry, we force the food down knowing that by day’s end we will be glad we did. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, coffee and water… lots of water. Before the day is over we will have consumed and sweated more than 3 gallons of water.

10 am, 2 hours till show.
We load the gear and do a last check. My armor bag, a huge wheeled suitcase, is loaded down with the tools of my trade. Weapons, armor, medical kit, munchies, and my ever present water skin. It’s an hour’s drive to the show site; a forgotten item now would spell disaster. As we pile into Galahad’s car, T presses bottles of water into our hands. Grudgingly we accept.

We sing along to the radio as we drive to ease the tension. We will drive this route many times over the next 6 weeks, but today is opening day and the drive seems to take forever.

11 am, one hour till show.
Check in with the director, he nervously tells us that the gate is higher than normal. Even with the now oppressive heat, more folks than expected are coming out to see the show. The horses stand off in the shade; riders lovingly brush down their powerful flanks. I make a mental note to be sure I have some extra carrot sticks in my pouch, just in case. Nothing distracts a nervous horse better than a nice treat.
Actor’s call is in 30 minutes. Just enough time to give the gear a last check.
Opening my case I let out an exasperated “fuck, I just cleaned this!” as I stare at my gear. The once shinny armor now peppered with dirty orange rust. Rust, a knight’s worst enemy. I set about with scotch bright pad and wd-40 in a nervous rush to return the gear to some semblance of clean. The “Knight in Shinning Armor” is a myth my friends. An invention of the movie industry. Men wore this to stay alive, not look pretty.

11:30 30 Minutes till show.
Actors call.
We gather around the director as he gives us our last minute instructions. There are 6 of us, 4 on foot and 2 on horseback. It will be our job to entertain the growing crowd. We are the headlining act, the best paid, best fed, and best equipped at the show. The vendors and sponsors are counting on us to wow the crowd so they will come back again, and bring their friends.

“Knight, armor up!”

Every knight has a different ritual for donning armor. Every suit a different ritual. I start with the under layer, the only modern technology we are allowed. Heat reducing under armor, designed for football players hugs me like a second skin. It’s not much, but anything that can keep me in armor and upright longer is welcome. Next the low profile knee and elbow pads. Thin enough to hide under the armor yet still allow for movement, they offer some protection. I make note of the huge purple bruise forming on my elbow and think “gotta find thicker pads”. Next comes the simple cotton tunic with its extra cotton padding sewn into the shoulders. It may not seem like much, but anything to ease the load that comes next. My leg armor weighs 15 pounds each, they attach to my body by way of an over the shoulder harness. I pull the harness’s rigging tight; check to make sure the mount points for the arms and legs are properly aligned. Nothing is more annoying or painful than a strap pressing against a unpadded muscle or worse across a joint. I walk around a bit to make sure the legs are properly strapped and fit, sweat marks bloom through my tunic. By the end of the show I will look like I walked into a shower fully dressed.

My chain shirt, (never call it “chainmail” or “ringmail”) a garment made from over 35000 individual rings a beautiful piece made by my much adored wife comes next. I hold it in my hands and feel it’s weight. 35 pounds. Holding it in my hands I take deep breaths, each one quicker and deeper than the next. I imagine this is what a cliff diver does to prepare himself before taking the plunge. With a quick heft I raise the garment and slide it over my head. As I shake the shirt into place I can feel it’s dead weight press back against me.

Galahad, already suited up in his chain comes to help with the next part. Somehow he drew the short straw and wears only his shirt of chain for this show.
“How ya doing cutie?” he asks.
“I’m…” I pause to take a deep breath and shake the chain into place, “ok. Help me with these arms”
Each arm covers me from wrist to the tops of my biceps and weighs 10 pounds. As Galahad cinches them tight I flex and twist my wrists to ensure that they do not rest on any bones or joints. By now the pressure from the weight of the legs and shirt on my shoulders is a lot. Add the arms and every move now causes pain across my back.
The jack of plates, my least favorite armor piece, is a heavy leather vest like garment that goes from neck to knees. In between it’s 2 layers of leather, a network of thin steel plates have been riveted. Lastly the gorget, thankfully the lightest and most useful piece. As Galahad clips it around my neck he grabs me firmly by the shoulders and ask, “Ok, you’re in. You going to be ok?”
“Yeah, let’s do this” I respond as I swipe sweat off my face with gloved hand, thankful to T for plying me with extra water.

10 minutes till show till show:
Quick re-check of all the straps. Quick re-check of the weapons, the sword in my hand feels good. Even under the weight of the armor I move with fluid precision as I do a last minute sword drill. My heart pounds, the knot in my stomach will not let up until we are actually out there doing it. I walk out and place my extra gear, sword, shield, helm, and ever present water skin. I can feel the noon day sun as it warms the steel on my body. With everything else covered in leather and steel, my face sweats profusely. I’m constantly wiping my eyes with the back of a glove. I once described the feeling as “like having the thumb of god pressing down between your neck and shoulders”. Only thing you can do is to push through it.

We help the horsemen into their armor and saddles. We may have it tough, but they have it worse. Add a 2000 pound nervous animal to the mix and you have a recipe for disaster. Already this year we have seen one too many horseman face down in the dirt with his stubborn mount charging back to the stables.

As I hold the lead lines and brace so the rider can get on the beast, I coo in the beast’s ear, “easy big boy, your doing good. Keep this up and I’ll have a nice carrot for you.” The creature responds by rubbing his muzzle against my chain covered shoulder. Little known fact, horse snot is the MOST armor corrosive substance on earth. I cuss under my breath but allow the beast to keep scratching. Anything to keep him calm and in the game.

11:55. 5 minutes till show.
The crowds are gathering, groups of families find shady spots near the perimeter. Rows of tiny pink faces sit along the guard rail. They point and let out “ohhs” as horses and riders take a last minute lap around the field. We gather in the wings, the footmen, and give each other knowing nods.
“Ok, so who has the opening pole arm fight?” someone asks.
“Yeah I got it. You want to win this one?” another asks.
“Sure, you can win the dagger fight in act 2”
“Deal”
Right now we are all friends, brothers in arms, but when the horn blows and we take the field we must convince the audience that we are sworn bitter enemies who would like nothing more to than to cause the other pain.

At this point I should mention that in 1375, the time period we are basing the show off of, the average summer temperature never got above the low 70’s. Dressed in steel and leather we fill our boots with sweat, it is 95 degrees.

Noon. Showtime.
“MY LORDS AND LADIES! GOOD PEOPLE I WELCOME YOU TO THE GRAND TOURNAMENT….”
As the heralder calls out those words we march onto the field. Helmets on, shoulders squared, looking powerful and confident, we carry the banners of our knights. The heralder does his job well, with each introduction the noise from the crowd swells. The trick is to look for the kids, if you can get them on your side they will cheer and scream with wild abandon. By the time the horses take the field, they are cheering like mad.
“LET US START THIS GRAND TOURNAMENT OFF WITH A DISPLAY OF GROUND COMBAT. LET ME HAVE SARGENT MONK AND YOUNG SQUIRE GALAHAD TAKE THE FIELD WITH WEAPONS OF CHOICE”

Galahad and I walk to the center of the arena, swords and daggers drawn. We call out taunts to each other as we approach the perimeter line. This fight is a good one and we want to make sure the kids in the front row get a good show.
“SALUTE YOU THIS DAY THIS AUDIENCE THAT DOTH CHEER YOU ON!”
We turn and bow to the crowds; we are rewarded with a roar of applause.
“TURN AND SALUTE YOUR MOST NOBLE OPPONENT AND LAY ON!”
We turn, face each other and lock eyes. Galahad slightly bows his helmed head and touches sword to forehead. I sneer and slap my sword filled fist against my shoulder. We slowly circle each other, muscles coiled like snakes ready to strike. In lighter armor, he hunches low and circles me with cat like grace. In turn I square off and stare him down, a bull twice his size and in 60 pounds of steel ready to crush him.

At this moment, the world becomes very small. Only Galahad and I exist.
We have done this particular dance many times before. Our fight is one of the show piece fights, something flashy and dramatic to hook the audience early. Built over the course of 5 weeks, every move, every blow is calculated and perfectly timed.

In a fury of clashing steel we begin our dance. Weapons swinging, bodies moving like seasoned dancers. This is why we are here. The sun shines off our swords as they swing at each other, right now we must trust each other completely. A misplaced blow or late block could cost us a finger. We both wear scars from such mistakes, but not today. Swing, duck, swing, parry, block. With fluid precision we work, building the fight till its climactic ending.

In that moment, as I lay flat on my back, Galahad poised over me, his blade ready to pierce my chest, that is when my hearing comes back. I can now hear the crowd cheering. They scream and holler their praise.

As I take Galahad’s hand and stand up, I realize we are both shaking. The burst of adrenalin that fueled our previous speed now gone. Panting, we collect the weapons and armor strewn about the field from our spectacle. Locking eyes one last time before we depart to our respective sides, we give each other a mental pat on the back. Good job.

As I reach my corner of the field a hand offers me cold water. Shaking, I gulp it down and try to regain my breath. Only 50 more minutes of show to go.

The rest of the show is much the same, horses charging and kicking up dust, men in armor swinging weapons at each other, crowds cheering.

The last 5 minutes are the hardest for me. By that time the mixture of heat, weight, and physical exertion have taken their toll. All I want to do is fall down somewhere shady, but not yet. Now is the best part. We stand at the edge of the perimeter, weapons in hand, and answer questions. My chest is pounding; I know we must smell horrid by now. A mixture of horse and sweat, but they don’t care. Little kids, stare up at us in awe. They reach out tiny hands to touch the armor and feel the chain. In small exited voices they tell parents, “I wanna be a knight when I grow up!”

In that moment I no longer feel the armor. In that moment the heat really isn’t so bad. Sure, tomorrow I’ll be covered in bruises and unable to move, but in that single moment I’m 9 feet tall. In that moment I am a hero.

Well it is Monday again so I thought I would post another one of your e-mails. Yes, I know strongbad does this too (and much better than I) but while I wait for the ibuprofen to dull the pain in my shoulders and the coffee to kick my brain into gear, you will just have to wait to hear about my opening weekend in 60 pounds of armor and 95 degree weather.


i just have to say,… i think your wife is one of the most beautiful and passionate women i have ever observed. ... i'm sure you know all this, but i just thought i would give you a somewhat objective observer's viewpoint.
-P
Seattle, Wa

I showed this letter to T yesterday. Her response, “wow you have some awesome readers” Thanks P, you made her day (and mine). I have often said that with out T, none of what you read here could happen. She is the paperweight that keeps my world being scattered away in the breeze.

Now if you will excuse me, I think I’ll go see if she would like some coffee and snuggles.

Conversation over coffee.
This morning, as the sun cooked our little living room. T and I sat sipping coffee talking.
Gently touching the deep bags under my eyes she asks, “So? You got in late last night”,
“Yeah, like dawn”, I respond in a dull monotone. My body weary from far too few hours of sleep.
“Wow! Well? How was your date with Dancer?” Her tone is a mix of concern and anticipation. I think she has been looking forward to this date as much as I.

After a long pause I look deeply at her, this woman I love, and respond. “In a different age, nations would have gone to war over a woman like her. That is all I’m going to say about it right now.”
She blinks, taking in what I just said. Then with a knowing smile she asks,”would you like some more coffee hon?

Never out the talent.

For the porn company I once worked for, that was rule #1. Most of the folks who “stared” in our films were everyday folks, folks with careers kids families and all the rest. The owner of the company threatened us with bodily harm if we EVER bumped into a former model and said, “Hey, I have been looking at your ass all week!”

Now if they choose to say hi to you? Well then that is another story.

So why am I telling you this? Well earlier today T and I were doing the grocery store thing. As I was picking out some nice radishes for tonight’s salad a woman caught my eye. Yes, I like to check out women at the grocery store. But this one was different. I had to pause and watch her out of the corner of my eye as she walked past. She looked… hot? Yes. Available? Maybe. Familiar? VERY. Shaking my head in a vain attempt to rattle loose where I knew her from, I turned back to my vegetable selection. I *knew* I knew her from somewhere, but I could not for the life of me place it.

Then while picking out some champagne for my date tonight I saw her again. This time it was from behind. BINGO! She used to pose for me. It’s been a few years, but yeah I recognize the ass. The monk NEVER forgets an ass. Now I know where I know her from, but what is her name?!

Finding T I tell her of my dilemma.
“So you see that girl over there, next to the beef jerky?” I ask as I covertly tilt my head in her general direction.
“What? The one with the tattoos?”
“Yeah, her”
“Yeah I see her, nice ass”
“I think, I think I know her”
“Really? From where?”
“I’m pretty certain she used to model for me way back when. Hell I think I have a print of her naked on the wall at home!”
“Oh yeah, the one with the hand cuffs and the dildo, yeah your right that is her.”
“Only problem, I cant for the life of me remember her name!”
“Really?!”
“Yeah, she posed for me almost a dozen times! I must have 300 photos of her naked in my archives. Hell, I think we even sold one to that gallery in New York!”
“Did she recognize you?
“I don’t think so…”

Granted, the last time she saw me I was 20 pounds heavier, had long hair and was not shaped like someone whose idea of fun is to strap on 70 pounds of armor and go sprinting. She, on the other hand, still looked the same. Maybe a little softer around the edges but still a lovely creature.

Now as tempting as it may have been, I was not about to march up to her and go, “Hey, didn’t you once pose naked for me with a giant purple dildo up your ass?” Not a good plan. Like I said before, never out the talent. If she wanted to say hi to me, fine. I’d be happy to catch up on old times and even see about shooting her again, but I was not about to out her in the frozen food isle.

As fate would have it, we ended up in the same checkout isle. She made small talk with the cashier. Pulling my sunglasses up onto my forehead I tried to put on my best “Hi, I’m not a stalker” expression and set about unloading my cart. She looked over a few times, never making eye contact. When it was all said and done, she left with out even a nod of recognition.

As T and I lugged out bags of groceries to the car, T turned and said triumphantly. “Athena!”
“huh?”
“That’s her name! Athena!”
“That’s right! Athena!”
“Wait a sec; didn’t you once take her to New Horizons?”
“Um…yeah.”
“You were gonna hook her up with Timmy…”
“Yeah, I wanted to do a shoot with the two of them.”
“And didn’t you, her and Timmy….”
“Oh yeah, we did do that….”
I smile remembering the fondly that night under the autumn moon.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the rope is done!
Thanks to the help of my good friends Galahad, silk, Kreig, S and of course the tireless T. It may sound trite but I do, in fact, have the best friends in the world. I could not do half the stuff you read about if it was not for them.

Speaking of reading, yes I know the blog has been rather light this week. No worries lots to talk about next week. Let me see, in the next 10 days I’ll…
… have my first play date with Dancer.
…open a 6 week run as entertainment at a Camlann ren faire.
… post photos from my photo shoot of Mistress Matisse.
…deliver the cords to Bridgett Harrington for her handfasting.
…introduce a new color.
…have dinner with Fetish Diva Midori.

And if I’m lucky, get some sleep too.

 


Behold My Awesome Wife.
This photo ran in today's paper. Can I just say how cool my wife is? She took up sword swinging last year as "a good way to get into shape"  and now look at her. Oh and the poor guy in the photo who is about to take a mace in his melon?
That would be me.

There is no try...
 
This is my current personal mantra.  Why? Normally I make about 100-150 pieces of rope a month.  However due to some large orders and an upcoming event, I have made over 100 pieces in the last 7 days.  Right now I am working on about 4 hours of sleep a night.  Sorry if this posting is a bit bleary.  I have 2 more days to fill a bunch of orders and get ready for both a show opening as well as provide stock for Into the Woods.    I keep repeating, “…there is no try, there is no try…” as I work around the clock. 
 
Will I make it?  Of course I will.  Besides I have a date with Dancer this Thursday, so I have to be finished before that.  Lord knows I’ll be worthless on Friday.  So now if you will pardon me, its midnight and I have to whip a few dozen ends of rope as well as learn Middle English before I see my pillow.

Here is one from the “Damn I love this job” files.  Here is an email I recently received from a customer:
 
Dear Monk,
 
 
I’m writing you this letter to let you know how much I enjoyed your rope.  Master bound me tonight in it for the first time.  While this is a wonderful thing, the best part had to be the smell!  It reminded me of the fields in summer; when my childhood playmate would tie me up behind the barn when we played cowboy and indians.   Thank you for reminding me of that.
 
Love
Jules
 
 
 
God I love this job. 

The Magic Lantern Theater      
 
There used to be a theater in my town called “The Magic Lantern” it was a tiny art house theater, stuffed into the top floor of a historic building downtown.  This was the place you went to go see foreign films or touring film festivals.  Even during the multi-plex expansion when all the other single screen houses withered away, the Magic Lantern thrived.  Why?  Mostly it was due to one film, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.   I know, I know EVERYONE went to see rocky when they were in high school / college.  It is a right of passage for most.  But in Spokane, it was an institution.  We often said that growing up in Spokane you had 2 choices for entertainment, teen pregnancy or Rocky Horror.
 
Every Saturday night at midnight we would gather for our weekly fix.  Black fishnets, big hair, and pale make-up we were Goth before we even knew what Goth was.  Between high school and college, T and I saw that movie more than 100 times.  Yes, 100 times.  To this day we can still sing every song by heart.   We even went as far as to bring our parents to the movie so they could meet each other.  In hindsight it makes perverted sense, “Hi, my son… the one dressed in the corset and stockings… is dating your daughter… the one in the French maid outfit dancing in the middle of the isle…”  Sort of set the tone for the rest of our relationship I guess.
 
Sadly the call of the night children lost its sweetness.  Maybe we had outgrown it, or maybe now that we could legally get into bars we had more entertainment options.  Either way we eventually stopped going all together.   
 
Fast forward a few years, Monk is turning 27 and wants to do something “interesting” for his birthday.  Let’s see, toga party?  Done it.  Orgy?  Done.  Binge drinking and strippers? Yawn, done that too…  Rocky?
 
Now there was a thought!  We could re-live the halcyon days of our youth and do the time warp again!  Of course now we were living in Seattle and Rocky was nowhere to be found in any of the theaters.  T’s solution?  Rent a projector and play it on the side of the house and do it here.  (That would be reason # 238 why I love that gal).  So after properly warning the neighbors, a block in either direction to be precise. We invited all our friends, armed them with toast, rice, confetti, playing cards, plied them with liberal amounts of alcohol and well…. Well let’s just say that when it was all said and done the lawn was covered in a solid foot of debris.  My neighbors did not speak to me for nearly a year and my brother dressed as Dr. Scott, sans pants, racing a wheel chair down the street.
 
I see that they will be hosting “Rockypoloza” at the local art house theater tonight.  I wonder if I still have my chrome motorcycle helmet.

I have a dirty secret to share.  I’m afraid to say it, but this burning secret cannot be held much longer.  I just have to tell someone.  When I am driving alone in my car, I love to listen to bad euro-disco.  There is a small station in Seattle, run by highschool kids and barley powerful enough to get a signal past the city limits, which plays a constant mix of thumping house, drum & bass, and yes even remixed ABBA.  For me, it makes the traffic on a grey Seattle day disappear and transforms my drab commute into my own private rave.
 
There, I said it.
 
You know, you could tell a lot about a person by what they have programmed on their car radio.  A mini snapshot of who they are.  Since we are here, let’s take a look at what else I have on pre-set.

#1 Disco Station (already covered that one)
#2 KEXP. THE cool indie music station check them out at www.kexp.org
#3 NPR.  Yes, I’m a fan of Garrison Kellor and This American Life.  Deal with it.
#4 Generic Corporate Classic Rock Station.  Every city has one of these; they carry syndicated Howard Stern and play old G-n-R for when you want to rock your mullet.
#5 Bizarre Rock Station Run by Burn Outs, Stoners, and Chimps on Crack.  Good for getting your Mtv mindless skateboard rock fix.
#6 Generic Corporate “Alternative” Rock Station.  Oh look how cool I am, I’m jamming to the latest angry young band dujour and old school REM in my car!  Look!  Look!  I’m not a dull thirty something!  I’m hip, really I am!!
 
So there you have it.   Draw your own conclusions.

Wow, what an insane week this has been! The new online store is going hog wild and thanks to a nice gal in the UK, the studio phone has been going non-stop. Of course this is a good problem to have, but it can make one feel a bit overwhelmed.

Now most of my male friends, upon hearing what I do for a living, eagerly offer their services if I, “ever need a hand with the rope stuff”. So in the hopes of getting ahead of this mad rush I decided to take one of them up on their offer. A stout lad who I knew could do the work and frankly could use some extra cash. He was in fact quite eager to help.

He arrived this morning, bright and ready for whatever I could toss at him. A quick learner, I set him loose working the raw hemp while I set about other tasks. After several sweaty hours and several bales of rope, he looks at me with tired eyes and exclaims. “Damn, this is a lot harder work than I expected”
“Huh? I warned you that this was going to be dirty work”, I reply as I heap another pile of rope into the boil.
“Well yeah, but you make bondage rope… I didn’t think…”
“That you would be lugging hundred pound coils of rope?”
“Yeah.”
“What? You thought that I just tied up porn stars and hung out with Pro Doms all day?!”
“…well kinda” He responded sheepishly.
“No, I only get to do that AFTER I do all this heavy work. Think of it as foreplay. Only after doing LOTS of it,if you do it well and your lucky, then perhaps you get some of the fun stuff.”
“oh…”

And back to work we went.

Sigh.

While yes, I do work in the business of pleasure. This is still, in fact, a business. I’m amazed some days at the folks who think that working in the sex industry = high pay and no real work. I think I work harder now than I ever did when I was a research geek at the Big M.

That said. I fucking love this job. Where else can you get praise like this? I keep telling folks that I am taking over the world, one bedroom at a time. Now if you will pardon me, I have a few more hours before I can call it night and a few thousand more feet of rope to cook.

PS to Belle, yes I do make a lovely pink rope and you’re welcome to as much as you like.

What do you get when you add equal parts delicious sushi, suspension bondage and a liberal helping of charisma? You get the monk, in his element, doing what he does best. Creating a feast for both the palate as well as the eyes. So rather than drone on and on about how I practiced the sushi placement with legos and a life size cut out of my model, or how I started making the rice for the event some 12 hours in advance. Let me hit you with the highlights.

The model, my dear friend cedar, was bound to a bamboo frame and then suspended about 4 feet off the ground for the entire event. She was up and naked for well over 2 hours. At one point I asked her if she was going to be ok. Her response?
"Do we look good?"
"Yes my dear, you look amazing"
"Then I can stay here forever."
What a gal.

The fish? As you can see on the shot, a mix of types and styles. Chosen first for their visual quality and second for their taste. First rule of cooking, presentation in 90% of the flavor. The audience must have thought so as well. I restocked the lovely cedar some 4 times as well as sent several platters out into the audience. By the end of the night, she was picked clean. Right down to the picked cucumbers that ring her lovely breasts. The crowd ate EVERYTHING and asked for more. The judge's favorite? The salmon and tuna sashimi mound between her legs. They kept making "smells just like fish" jokes all night.

The competition, dare I say that boy did not stand a chance. Maybe it was the goggles.

So this lovely woman is Kitten, girlfriend of my buddy Galahad. Here she is, armed with back up platters of sushi. Dressed in a summer kimono direct from Tokyo, she had never been to the wetspot before but agreed to be part of the show. What a great gal.

Of course the really interesting part of the evening, and there were lots, was when she was introduced to Max and Matisse. At one point I remember looking over and seeing her earnestly discussing who knows what with the two of them all the while unaware that behind them, hard core anal porn was playing on a TV monitor.

Oh and another interesting moment would be when Galahad, after being offered the last piece of spicy tuna, drew his chopsticks from his belt as if they were a dagger. That boy has flourish!

Then there would be the strange moments, like when T, S AND Dancer were all standing there talking... about me...and what they were going to do to me if I won.

Having a complete stranger walk up to me and say, "Nice topping goggles, dude"

And the best part of the night? Well that just HAD to be the victory kisses. First to congratulate me was Dancer, as I wrapped my arms around her lithe body I called out in my best Ash, "Hail to the king, baby."
Next came S who, to the amazement of the poor sap who was trying to chat her up, called out, "ohh kisses! Goodie! Be right back!" She kissed me with that soft longing that makes my knees weak. Lastly, T swaggers up to me and with a smile and wraps her arms around my neck. With a whisper in my ear, "' so proud of you."
She plants the best kiss of all.

I know, I know you want to hear all about my Iron Chef victory on Friday and my photo shoot with Mistress Matisse on Saturday. I'll tell you all about it AFTER I take a day to relax and marshal my thoughts. Till then here is another one from the archives.

Someone once asked me if I ever tried my hand at writing porn.
Enjoy,
-monk

The warm sun shines down on the hills. Spring flowers, petals open on an
explosion of colors, sway in the soft breeze. We walk together up the
trail.

"Where are you taking me??" you ask, more curious than annoyed.

"You will see soon enough," I reply and smile.

We turn a bend in the trail and emerge from the forest to see what looks
like the edge of a cliff. Smiling, you admire the view; it is stunning.
Before us the whole valley is splayed out. Cars on the highway far
below look like toys, civilization seems an eternity away.

"Wow," you sigh, "this IS impressive."

"Oh wait, there's more," is my reply as I point over the edge of the
cliff, to the pool just below it. You see it's not really a cliff, but
rather an outcropping of rock above a natural hot spring pool. The
large round pool is ringed with flat smooth rocks. Steam rises out of
the pool.

"Oh my..." you stammer.

Taking your hand, I lead you down the trail to the edge of the pool.

"You see, once this pool was considered to have medicinal properties, so
the state protected the entire area from development. Over the years
the location of this pool and the larger set of pools on the other side
of that hill over there has been a well-guarded secret. This pool is
seldom visited; it's called 'lovers' pool' for that reason," I explain
as I remove my backpack.

"Here, sit down." I motion to a bench carved into the stone. "Let me
help you."

I begin by removing your shoes and your socks, carefully tucking them
away so they won't get wet. I gently stroke your feet, getting the
blood flow back to them once your hiking boots are off. As I kneel
before you, you rise and remove your top, your skin shining in the
sunlight. From my angle, the curve of your breasts eclipses the sun and
your nipples stand out hard against the light. I reach up and remove
your shorts and panties... now naked before me, you blush as I look up
and down the length of your body and smile an appreciative smile.

You move to help me remove my clothes, but I step back and take them off
myself. Now both naked, I lower you into the warm pool. Your eyes
widen as the warm water touches your skin, instantly turning it red.

"Ohh, that's warm, but good," you sigh as you begin to lower your hips
into the steaming water. Water rushes into the pool from above us and
keeps the flow of water moving across the pool and cascading down the
other side. You begin to reach for me.

"No, I have something else in mind, " I say, and reach for my bag.
With a quizzical look, you watch me remove a firm loofah sponge, some
sweet-smelling soap and a bottle of what looks to be shampoo.

"All herbal and totally bio-degradable," I assure you as I begin to wet
the soap. I turn you so your back is to me and begin to lather the soap
across your shoulders, neck, and back. You begin to arch your back like
a cat in appreciation. Next, the hard sponge slowly scrubs your
skin... with handfuls of warm water I rinse the soap from your back as
the bubbles float past your breasts and over the side of the pool.

"Here, sit up," I ask.

You stand, still facing away from me. My hands begin at your hips,
working the deep lather across your back and down your ass. With firm
fingers I knead the fold of your buttocks in my hands and continue to
work my way down... again with the sponge I rub your skin and rinse the
soap away... you gently push your ass to my hands as I rinse it with
handfuls of water... undaunted I keep cleaning you, down the back of
your thighs, your calves, even your feet.

"Turn around," I ask.

Silently you turn and look at me. I wink and lather up the soap again.
Rather than stand, you sit up on a rock, your feet in the water, your
glistening wet mound right at eye level, almost daring me to touch it.
I lather up your legs... across the inside of your thighs… Your eyes
close in anticipation of my touching your flower....I move up across
your stomach, narrowly missing your mound. You bite your lip and give
me a look. I smile. Up your stomach and around your breasts…taking
each one in a soapy hand I knead them and lather them in soap till your
nipples look like the snow covered peaks of some fairytale mountain.
Taking your hand, I lower you back into the water....immersing you till
just your head is above it. Again you move to me... touching my
manhood...

"Turn around," I ask again.

Smiling a smile that says, "he is going to slide it in me," you turn.

With both hands I gently grasp the sides of your head and tip it back,
wetting your hair. With handfuls of water I massage your scalp and
begin to wash it with a shampoo that smells of wildflowers and cut hay.
As I slowly circle the base of your neck and work my fingers up the back
of your head you being to shudder. Your breathing comes quicker as I
rinse the soap from your hair. A soft moan escapes your lips as the
water rushes over your face and plasters your hair to your forehead.

Emitting a long, low sigh, you turn and look at me, your cheeks flushed
and lips deep red...

"And what ever can I do to repay you for that?" you sigh.

"Too late," I smile and point my glance at the line of semen floating
away from the tip of my cock and down over the edge of the pool. "You
already have."

Horray For Boobies!
I found myself this week in Portland with a bit of extra time to kill. My client meeting had wrapped up sooner than expected and I had an hour or so before meeting my evil sister for our dinner date. What to do in the city of roses on a fine summer afternoon?

Why just enough time to visit my favorite strip bar, the Acropolis.

Let me just say how much I love Oregon bars. For whatever reason, the morality police here in Washington state seem to think that if you have alcohol and boobies in the same bar they will mix like mater and anti-mater in the warp chamber and cause a rift in the time-space continuum. Thankfully, the fine citizens of Oregon know better. Not only can you imbibe in your favorite drink while watching the pretty naked flesh dance, you can also gamble! Boobies, beer AND video poker, talk about a winning combination.

The Acropolis hosts a something like 60 beers on tap, some of the cutest naked girls on earth and all the while keeping a dark, unassuming air. Yeah, this is hands down my favorite bar in Portland. Once, after an emotionally punishing funeral, my brother and I walked into this place at noon only to crawl out later the next morning, but that is a story for another day.

So there I was, sipping a fresh porter, watching a lovely young woman work her magic on the stage. It must be something in the water, but Oregon girls have a certain... look. Just hippie enough to have all the right curves yet not too crunchy. She was simply delightful with long auburn hair and pale skin, and a terrific set of hips... the monk just loves a nice pair of hip bones. Even with such eye candy in front of me, I found myself more interested in covertly watching the reactions of the other patrons. A side note here. Unless your a hot girl, staring at guys in a strip bar is a sure fire way to get your ass kicked. It was a quiet afternoon so there must have been about a hafl dozen or so men sitting at the bar that circled the stage. Each sat alone, in silence, sipping their respective drinks. As the dancer proceeded to display her god given talents, their eyes were locked on her body. Never daring to look up at her face, they were transfixed by three square inches of her body. Granted, those were an amazing three square inches, but they never dared meet her gaze as she writhed in front of them. Held captive by the mystery between her supple hips, they kept placing dollar bills on the bar. Even when she leaned close thank them for the tips; they would mumble a response and quickly glance up, yet dare not meet her gaze for more than an instant.

Now this got me wondering. Why? Why not look at her face? Would that break the illusion? No longer the object of random sexual desire, but now a human with a face? Yes, we have all heard that argument a thousand times before. Or would they look up and realize that she in fact was the one in complete control. That no amount of money on the table would buy them her love. Sure it might get them more attention and a longer look at her flesh, but in the end they would still be sitting at the bar, alone.

Finishing my pint, I pull a $20 out of my wallet and place it on the bar. As I turn to leave, the dancer picks up the bill and calls out an enthusiastic thank you. Meeting her deep almond eyes, I return her smile and thank her for an excellent show.

Off to my next engagement.

One of the great directors of exploitation films once said, “If we are in fact exploiting anyone here, it is the lonely men who come to see our movies.”

The Mom

Now seems like a good time to tell you all about T’s mom. T and The Mom (as I like to call her) have a relationship that most folks would envy. Rather than that classic mother / child power exchange that most of us have, you know that "I gave birth to you so do what I ask". They are actually friends. I dare say The Mom is T's best friend. Here is just one example of how cool their relationship is. When T was a teenage rock fan, The Mom made her a deal. She would take T to ANY concert she wanted to, on the condition she accompanied her to a show she wanted to see. So for every Night Ranger or Yes show T drug The Mom to, T saw acts like The Doobie Brothers, Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, and even front row center for Wayne Newton. Feel free to give her hell for that one, I do all the time.

Sadly The Mom lives in the great white north, we are talking the WAY north, like North Pole north. So she and T spend a lot of time on the phone together. They talk about everything. Invariably I always walk in and catch snippets of the conversation, things that make my jaw drop. Like, I kid you not, the time T told The Mom about hooking up at a swing club. “Yeah it was pretty cool. Monk and I took turns fucking this pretty girl we met on the dance floor…yeah, with a strap on… it was cool!” I could only dream of having this sort of uncensored conversation with one of my parents. Then again I think MY head would explode.

Needless to say, when The Mom officially “came out” as kinky about 10 years ago. Who was the first person she told? You got it, T. Now that was a phone conversation to remember. The Mom confessing to her daughter that she wants to be a 24 / 7 slave and fears the rest of the family will shun her and T, rather than freaking out, calmly responding, “Cool, do you have any one particular in mind?”

Yes, The Mom is one of a kind. Dearer to me than my own genetic parents, she was also my first true BDSM friend. She was the one I came to for advice after my first D/s experience. We have tested floggers on each other at Toys in Babeland, photographed in collar for her master, and even once we got royally stoned together.

She, in fact, gave me my first book on rope bondage.

Naked sushi update:

I must be out of my mind. I’ve turned down play dates with S tonight and Dancer tomorrow just so I can finish prepping for this event. If you miss this, you’re an idiot with no life.

As it stands now, I have offered to my opponent a small bet. Nothing monetary, something a bit more interesting.

The looser must get a public, pants down spanking from Mistress Matisse.

No word yet from my opponent. I think he is too scared to respond.

The lovely Mistress Matisse and I have this little game we play whenever we happen to bump into each other at an event. We call it the “Where is Monk bruised today” game. You see, after reading this posting, she is just fascinated with the welts on my body. Either that or she just likes it when I take off my shirt in public. With a big, evil smile she asked about each mark. Where I got it, from a lover or from a piece of armor.

So after one such show and tell session at a wetspot event she asks, “So how did you get involved with the steel community”

“Steel Community?!”

Now that took me back at first. In the kink world, we refer to ourselves as the “leather community”. Folks go so far as to call their extended kink tribe/family/poly group their “leather family”. Could you call my armor wearing actor friends the “Steel Community”?

Of course it makes sense as I sit here in my living room looking at toy bag and armor bag strewn out in front of me. The toy bag, with its incriminating evidence from lat night’s adventure in hedonism with S, and my armor case’s open and ready today’s rehearsal. Both communities have sanctioned events were members of the community gather; the kinksters have conventions like BONDCON or Kinkfest. The steel folks have ren fairs. Both refer with to outsiders to the community with a bit of distain. Kinksters call them “Vanilla”, Rensters call them “The Danes” (as in mundane). Both worlds encourage the use of costumes, alter egos, and props. Both also require a lot of expensive toys, special skills, and the constant drive to improve those skills.

Oh and both leave such interesting welts…. Which can make for some great conversation.

Now please excuse me, I need recoil my rope and then fix a hole in my chain mail.

Met Lew Rewbens, the webmaster and head rigger, of boundNdetermined.com tonight at the wetspot. Nice enough chap. Looks like I'll be supplying his site with rope soon. Yet another convert in my quest for world domination.

Two Truths and a Lie

Here is a fun game to play at your next cocktail party. A great way to break the ice. Here is what you do, someone makes 3 statements. One of them is a lie. It is up to the rest of the group to ferret out the lie.

So here are mine.
1) I once smuggled a felony quantity of narcotics across an international border.
2) My first paying job in porn was editing gay porn
3) I hold the rank of Eagle Scout.

What one is the lie?

Next week I will be competing in a nude sushi competition. No, there will not be a bunch of naked men cutting up fish! The nice folks at the Wet Spot have asked me and another would be sushi artist to turn some lovely woman into a living sushi platter. While this is a “friendly competition”, it is a competition none the less. Now knowing that my motto in life is “go big or GO HOME! “ You can only guess what my evil brain has in store for that night.

When they asked me to write a brief bio and explain my sushi making background, this is what I sent.

Well you do have an impressive sushi resume. As for me, I guess you could say it all started during that unforgettable summer of 92.

The clear beverage craze was sweeping the nation and we were all knew that we knew not to break his heart, that ackey breaky heart. I was studying in Japan as part of the Yakuza student exchange program when due to a mixed up urine sample I found myself enrolled in at the world famous house of BONG, where I studied under the hard, yet firm, tutelage of sushi master cumofsomeyoungguy.
Yes, those were hard days indeed. Up every morning at dawn, folding your own underpants out of seaweed, and then a full day of rice stirrings and near constant spankings. Some days I thought I would never complete my training, other days I thought maybe I could go for a bit more thud and less sting. Until that fateful day when, after months of failure and embarrassing odors, I too could successfully make a tempura roll using only my nose and a trained squirrel.

On that day, my master gave me my own spatula and said to me these words, “now… go. Spank many bottoms and put fishy delicacies on naked bodies. It’s a great way to meet the chicks”

Yes, truer words have never been spoken.

Next Friday will be a night to remember, I’ll keep you posted.