Almost 20 years, and counting

In the early fall of 1993 I was at college in the way north of New York State. I had just started really partying and my dorm next door neighbor had brought me to a party full of upper classmen and alcohol. It was awesome.

Then, there was that inevitable moment when I thought, "oh god, where's the bathroom?" I headed down the short hallway to a door guarded by two almost identical uptiight sorority bitches who literally put their arms out and blocked my passage to the bathroom. "You can't go in there! T is in there!"

I looked down at the very clean, very sparkly, very expensive looking high heels they were wearing and said, "unless you want me to puke on your shoes, I'm going in." They backed up fast.

The bathroom was standard college fair, two stalls, two sinks, long mirror, unflattering light. What I didn't know was I was going to meet the most consistently important person in my life in that room.

He was leaning up against the edge of the sink trying to explain to some hapless freshman (I was of course a quite confident freshman, sure...) how to get blood out of his shirt. Taller than me (like the vast majority of humanity, and even some dogs), blonde, gentle eyes, being so kind to this other kid... I spent the rest of the party pretty much in that bathroom with C. And he has been my best friend ever since.

I would not have survived college without C, and he says that was mutual. We shared classes, secrets, drunken confessions, boys, sometimes even clothes. We cast each other in performances and writings, we took day trips and went to the strangest gay bar in the North Country. We both had illegal pet cats in our dorms at one time or another. We made out publicly and often, danced and dreamed, cried and cackled and loved fiercely. We talked about growing old together when we couldn't find partners and wondered how many cats makes you a "crazy cat person." We were inseperable.

Then we graduated.

In a big way the intellectual part of my life stopped when I left college. I had my double major in English Writing and Speech & Theatre and no plans. I was married a bit over a year later and have really focused on surviving in the intervening years. There hasn't been time or money and my passions got worn down by stress and strife and heartache. For years C and I were out of touch while he went on and got his Masters and started teaching and I did whatever job I could to pay the bills; bartender, model, secretary, marketing manager/ad specialties procurement, receptionist, veterinary technician, telemarketer, pet sitter, cam model...

Facebook reconnected us. And it was like there was no pause, no lost time. We picked up where we left off, and for me at least, the love and connection was just as strong, just as vibrant. I cannot see a life worth living without my friend C.

Last night we chatted on facebook for four hours, until 3:00am, about anything and everything. Boys, sex, college, tv, movies, Doctor Who, cat puke, dog puke, boys, sex toys, laundry, boys...

We have been friends, best friends, for almost 20 years. It is worth giving up almost an entire night of sleep to have someone like that in your life.

Some friendly advice

My posts have been fairly grim lately. Lots of heartbreak and anger and not much levity. So I'm going to turn the light back to my "day job" which is actually just my "not quite so stupidly late night job," telemarketing.

No matter how much you think you hate telemarketers, if you are a jerk to us, we hate you more.

Let me say that again.

You may hate telemarketers a lot, like a whole lot, but we hate you more.

You see, think of the numbers involved here. Perhaps you did something stupid online and you are getting a "ton" of telemarketing calls for a day or so. Maybe even as frustratingly often as 10 calls a day or so. You finally snap and call the next poor sap that gets connected to you (we DO NOT DIAL THE PHONE OURSELVES) a "stupid fucking dipshit piece of crap why don't you get a real job?" And slam down the phone or hit "end" or however you terminate calls.

Then you go on with your day.

My terminal is connected to hundreds of calls in a day. Hundreds. Not all connect, but many do. I speak to dozens of people in a four hour period. Maybe 2 or 3, sometimes none, sometimes 5 or 6 people are actually nice to me during the shift and I might get leads. The rest are either completely dismissive, or total assholes.

And then there are the ones who stand out.

"Why the FUCK would I need that? Don't you do your FUCKING HOMEWORK BITCH?"

"Didn't you know you are calling a business to dipshit asshole MOTHERFUCKER?"

"NO! I don't fuckin' need anythin' you fucking piece of shit!"

These are all quotes I have actually heard.

I would like to point out something to those who hate telemarketers and like to treat us in the manner illustrated above.

I know where you live.

Now I am an honorable and reasonable human being and would not retaliate in any way against the poor frustrated souls who treat me with such vitriol and vulgarity. Also I want to keep my job.

But if you just told me that I mistakingly called a business, and then curse me out violently, you better be very very glad you got ME, because I won't Google your phone number to find out what the company is and then Yelp about your fantastic interpersonal skills. If you threaten to come to my house and ruin my dinner with my family, remember that I did not make any direct attempt to call you, it is a computerized system using publicly available information, and while you have no idea from where I am calling, I have your home address in front of me. If you threaten to call the police on me for doing my job, remember they don't like being harassed by drunk jerks who think that somehow their personal lines are sacrosanct. They aren't.

Just remember, next time you take in that deep breath to be a total asshole to a telemarketer, chances are, they know exactly where and who you are. And not everyone is as reasonable and law abiding as I am.

"It is always about Love."

In spite of my recent rejections and associated pain, I had an absolutely a-freakin'-amazing cam night last night.

Trying to salve some of my wounds, I had reached out to a long time member who is always fun, and scheduled a session for later that night. When the time came for us to do what we do, I was not disappointed. He is engaging and appreciative, takes direction well and is easy to please. Everything I needed. Not to mention he likes it when I use my toys, so I am pretty much guaranteed at least one orgasm. This is a very good thing.

After our session, I debated whether or not to continue on and open myself up to seeing other members and possibly being hurt more. Back and forth I wavered, remembering the flung insults from just a few days ago, knowing the pain of losing my friend was fresh right below the surface of the endomorphic rush of orgasm. I did eventually decide to take the chance. The first several minutes were depressing. Several members logging on and off, on and off, silently seeing and leaving, leaving me feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Eventually though, someone stayed.

My new virtual companion was a completely new to me member who was tentative about expressing his particular fetish. Remember though, I am completely understanding. And his need wasn't completely abhorrent to me in the moment, so I decided to give it a shot.

Apparently I did a good job. Five star rating good job.

After that session, members new and old, some I know slightly, some I know quite well, started emerging from the woodwork. There was friendly chatter and very sweet and appreciative comments about my appearance and personality. I relaxed completely. Eventually someone I hadn't seen in a while asked "so how was your day?" I had been asked about how I felt and how my day had been so many times that this final question pushed me over the edge. All night I had been saying "okay" and leaving it at that, but this time, this time I couldn't. Perhaps it was the kindness I had been shown by every single member in the chat room. Perhaps I was simply tired of hiding my pain.

"Well... I am obsessively honest, and truthfully, today sucked."

I actually told these men, some of whom are very new to hanging out with me, that I was hurting because a member to whom I had become close had severed his connection to me.

"If any of you decide to stop seeing me, please do not say, 'I hope you understand.'"

"Eww," one member responded.

Quickly the conversation turned to how what starts as fantasy in this cam world, on rare occasion, turns into intimate connections with the real people behind the handles. That what starts out so radically passionate changes when you remember or realize that there is a "real person" on the other side of the computer. It was truly eye opening and heartening to see these men talk about how special they found me because I was real to them.

Then they started taking me private.

Over and over, sometimes more than one member in the room at a time, giving and taking, asking me to find my own pleasure, giving me time and support and freedom. Eventually I was in a first-time session with a new member and we were partaking in a bit of D/S play. I had controlled him initially and now was relaxing after an orgasm and he said he needed more, to experience more of the sweetness and passion. He wanted to dominate the next part of the session. Asked if I was willing to submit. I said I was, but that I would express it if there was a line I wouldn't cross.

"It is always about Love." he responded.

Yes, it is.

Not necessarily romantic love. I don't meet my members, don't have any designs on them. But in the moment, in the intimacy of a session, I am trusting them with my vulnerability and they are trusting me with their desires. There is Love in that. And when it is reciprocal and respectful and acknowledged, the sessions are outstanding.

Not everyone Loves themselves and their own humanity enough to give it, and they feel hollow to me. As I am sure they do to themselves.

This is a lesson way beyond the cam and the bedroom and intimate relationships. "Love" makes us better people. More honest, more gentle, more giving, more willing to receive. More open.

Love shared is multiplied. Give a lot of it. You'll get even more back.

"I hope you understand."

"I hope you understand." 

At this point I believe the above statement may be my least favorite conciliatory utterance. Ever.

So many hurts and dismissals are finalized with "I hope you understand" as though those four words automatically make the insult less so, the pain magically diminish, the sting just go away.

It does not work that way.

I understand that I am not that important.

I understand that I am disposable.

I understand that my presence, no matter how slight and virtual, is now inconvenient, for you.

I understand all of this.

I am the most understanding person you will ever encounter.

I will not plead or beg or harass or wreck havoc. I do not need to be coddled and condescended to. I am a grown up.

I understand.

I also hurt. I hear the insignificance of my impact on your life. I feel the mental shutters close. I see the dismissal in each word.

I hope you understand that I have feelings. That simply because I understand your reasoning does not guarantee that I will be at peace with it.

How do I know if I've been dumped?

I think I have made it fairly clear that I do develop feelings for my members. How could I not? We "see" each other during our most vulnerable moments, naked and exposed and seeking approval and release. When there is a connection with someone on an intellectual or emotional level, the experience is better, just like it is in real life. I mean sex is great, we all love sex, but sex with someone you actually like is worlds better, there's just no way around that. But the truth, the cold hard truth, of the matter is I am a luxury expense, a past-time, a stress relief, or a fantasy to most people who come to me on the cam. No matter what they say or type or compose in beautiful emails or hours long exchanges, I am not their girlfriend or their partner or the woman in their life. I am a diversion, a flight of fancy, and I am disposable.

There have been a handful of members over the last six months that have touched me deeply, or at least as deeply as someone you've never actually met can. People who's handles immediately make me sit up straighter, smile brighter, feel happier when I see them sign on. People I think about randomly and hope they are doing well, like you would a friend. People I become attached too.

And then like that, poof, they are gone.

I'm 37-years-old, I'm married, I am a mother. I am not a lovestruck teenager. But damn it if it doesn't hurt to be cast aside without even a "sorry, I just don't have time to spend online anymore" or "I'm working on my relationship and she's not very understanding" or "I'm just not that into you." Something. Anything to let me know what is going on.

Otherwise I keep looking for the handle to appear. Hoping to see my friend. Hear how his day went. Laugh at a silly joke or ridiculous story. Flirt. Have fun.

And it never does.


I wanted to apologize for the long time between posts, but I had a migraine that lasted almost consistently from Saturday morning until Thursday night. It was horrible. But I am much better now.

“by the time you read this I’ll be dead.” (QUOTE!!! NOT ME!)

The world lost a visionary, and egotist, a great mind, and a free spirt on March 15th, 2013. Shannon Larratt, the founder of bmezine, finally succumbed to the degenerative disorder that had been plaguing him for years. Apparently he took his own life, which was his prerogative and I do not fault someone in agony that choice.

I am writing this trying to focus through the later half of a migraine. I am fighting for every key stroke and word and some might not come out right. But this will pass and I will sleep eventually and have pain free days. Shannon did not. 

I don't remember exactly when I found bmezine. I was working as a marketing manager in Whitehouse Station, NJ and had one small terrible tattoo, but this community spoke to me. I became a free member of IAM. I dragged the Husband to a "BME:BBQ" in NJ. I met amazing people. I came home and friended them on IAM. We kept in touch with messages and emails and more events. I found body ritual. I performed flesh pulls and suspensions. I got branded with an electrocautery scalpel in my dining room. 

All of this, every last hook, every scar, every tattoo, can be traced back to becoming part of a community that supports the drive to change and ornament and sculpt and push and celebrate our bodies, our minds and our souls as complete vessels of which we have total autonomy. Holy shit, I typed that correctly with a migraine, I fucking rock!

I remember when he made me a wiki editor he made my password a reference to my language acumen. 

I remember apologizing to his then wife for having sex dreams about him. I have no idea why I did that. 

I haven't had any contact with Shannon or his work in years, but I am still touched by his influence, and now rocked by his loss. I used to think about getting a white ink tattoo of one of the bme logos. As a tribute to all that community gave me. I may have to make that a reality some day. To recognize the indelible mark one man can make on a stranger, with his life, and with his passing. 

I think I will add this heart logo to my body at some point. I'm so glad everything related to BME can be found online. 

A stained canvas

I have become the canvas members paint their fanatsies upon with no regard of the stains left on my life.

I suppose this is a side effect of being a cam model who also listens, cares and feels. I don't know what the other models do to protect their hearts and souls and personal lives. All I know is my own.

I am blessed that many of the people I have "met" through the modeling are quite nice. Not all obviously, but many. They treat me with respect and admiration, perhaps even a distance reflection of love. I am grateful for their time, attention, and of course financial contributions.

Then there those who appear to be helpful or kind and really ave absolutely no interest in me being real. I am a porn magazine page with a pulse and a voice. A fuck doll who moves. They may say pretty things and shower me with praise, but they don't actually see me. What they see is a shadow of their own lust, a puppet they can direct and manipulate.

I have lost nights of sleep and struggled with internal debates after propositions. I have had to have deep and careful conversations with my husband about what we are willing to do in certain situations. I have been promised and cajolled and tempted and teased. And those that do the teasing and tempting and cajolling and promising turn away from their fantasies without a thought of how I may feel when they've gone and changed their minds or recinded a promise or proposal.

I am very lucky that currently my husband and I are doing very well in our relationship and can talk without pain or arguments about traditonally taboo subjects. Otherwise I would be carrying the burden of the stain alone. Rejected and dismissed in the light of the day.

I am always good enought in the dark of the night, but not worth it after the lust is spent. I would think these men would be glad that I am as understanding as I am, as I learn many things, personal things, but would never destroy a life or cause them pain, in spite of the pain I may suffer. I fade back into the dark corners and never infringe upon their lives like they have infringed upon mine.

I was offered a gift this weekend in exchange for my time and attention. I questioned the validity of the offer multiple times during the conversation and was assured it was for real. After a sleepless night and nervous day I told my husband. And we agreed the gift would be extremely helpful during our financial hardship, and would not require too much of my time.

Of course after all this, the sleepless night, the fear of bringing this to my husband, the internal debate... The offer was rescinded.

He will forget and feel confident that he did the right thing. That he is honorable and good and devoted to his life partner. Perhaps he will paint my face or body on his masturbatory sessions once in a while.
With what am I left? How do I wash away the stain of not only considering and discussing this offer, but wanting the gift so badly to help my family?

Apologies simply aren't enough.


I have an online only "Mama friend" I met through La Leche League International's forum when the Wildflower Child was a newborn. We've been Facebook friends for well over three years now. Play games online together, comment on pictures and posts. Care about the trials and tribulations of each other's lives with the distance of never having looked into each other's eyes or given a hug.

She is pregnant with her third child. Today she had a test to find out if the child is a boy or a girl. She will give birth to this child the last week of this month.

And then he or she will die.

Baby #3 has been diagnosed with short cord syndrome. This is a uniformly fatal disorder.

My friend, while I'm sure doing her own private grieving, has been nothing but strong and calm on her Facebook page. She continues to play her games. Has complimented my tattoo pictures. Is the model of resignation and acceptance.

She can feel the baby move.

I remember the first fluttering kicks of the Wildflower Child. I was laying in a warm (not too hot) tub trying to take some pressure of my back, when it felt like butterfly wings or bubbles floating around in my slightly swollen belly.

My heart is breaking for her. I don't know if there will be another baby, those are questions one doesn't ask.

This woman is exemplifying strength to me right now. I wish there was more I could do for her, but I will send messages of love and support, and play games and laugh with her when she laughs, and cry quietly for her loss.

Update: Joshua was born on March 26th, 2013, at home, after my friend had started induction medications. This was not planned. He arrived alive. His heart beat for 2 1/2 hours after birth. My friend came home March 27th. She is the strongest woman I know right now.

"Memoire" a post by request, because I listen

In my cam room this evening was a hysterically funny round table discussion based on who the participants would be in the following scenario...

You approach, or start a conversation, with someone on a plane, but for the entire trip, you pretend to be someone completely different from yourself.

Initially I said I'd be Sarah Palin, I mean i can't get more opposite to her. In case you're curious, I'm a proud Liberal, bisexual, pro-choice, vegetarian, animal welfare and gun control advocate who uses real words and understands there are no Death Panels.

But then I started mentioning the most random events I could think of in my life, and a dear freind/follower kept asking "why isn't this in your blog?" Here it is Dear, a random collection of Kir's life events that with more exposition might be a Reader's Digest "Drama in Real Life."

When I was 5-years-old I started having brutal, paralyzingly painful ear infections. They lasted from kindegarten through first or maybe second grade. I lost 80% of the hearing in one ear and 90% in the other. My mother realized how bad it was when my school had a small orchestra come play for us and a local photographer snapped a picture of me laying on my belly on the floor of the gymnasium or auditorium, in the front row, with my hands cupping my ears in order to hear the music, which was being played only feet from where I was laying. Not only was this the first concrete proof she had of my deafness, this was the first of a surprising number of times I've been photographed for local papers.

Oh when I was a baby I was in diapers commercials, Pampers and LUVS, at least one was broadcast nationally, I could get a SAG card if I wanted. My Social Security shows income for 1976 and 1977. All the money I made was apparently borrowed by my grandmother and never paid back.

Due to the chronic ear infections and hearing loss, I learned to face read ("lip reading" is not an accurate description). My mother and grandmother spent hours teaching me a long and involved tongue twister that required me to pay attention to their faces to "hear" the words. Over 30 years later I still have some ability in that department.

I was supposed to have surgery. I was terrified. My mother is a witch. Wiccan to be precise. Gardnerian tradition to be nitpicky. Her coven had a healing ritual. When I went for my preopperative bloodwork, my infections were gone and my hearing was not only restored, it was perfect. In 2007 it was tested when I developed vertigo, it was better than 95% of the population. Although I worry that the headset I wear telemarketing is damaging my hearing.

Skip forward a bit, my parents divorce, my mother immediately (2 days after finalization) marries the spawn of Satan, they have a son (third sibling, of which I am first). The oh so familiar pattern of spousal abuse and child molestation started long before my brother was born. I believe he is the result of rape. When he was a baby and I was ten or eleven years old, I threatened to kill my step-father, to his face, during the xmas holidays. I told him he should kill me because if he made one move toward my siblings (who were cowering together on a couch just to the side of us) or my mother, I would kill him. I said all this while backed into a corner with no way to escape or defend myself. He actually told me to calm down. But at least he stopped throwing my mother around that night.

Around that time, while everyone was asleep, I went downstairs to the kitchen and got the antique Italian steel full tang chef's knife my mother inherited from her grandfather out of the drawer. I got 2/3 of the way up the stairs, knife clenched so tightly I can still feel the slight roughness of the wooden handle in my palm, the startling coldness of the steel tang under my fingers, when the stair creaked and I stopped. I thought about my mother sleeping beside him, about my tiny brother and broken sister, about my cop father seeing his preteen daughter go to jail for murder, and I pivoted on that step, crept back downstairs and returned that perfect knife to its place of honor in the drawer.

I should have kept going.

This is around the time I started beating my legs until my thighs were just continuous bruises (no Daisy Dukes for me!) and sticking myself with pins and needles and burning myself with wires wrapped around batteries. That's all boring.

In high school I started suffering chronic pain and insomnia. Also my life long hallucinations became more common. But I recognize when something I see isn't there, so don't worry about it too much.
Lost my virginity at 14 on Valentine's Day to an 18-year-old who spread the story that I was a "dead fuck." Like I had any idea what the fuck I was doing?

Gave my first handjob to a guy in a blind hallway my freshman year in High School after school. But he wouldn't date me publically. This became a pattern in my life. I'm good enough to fuck, but not date.

I was a published author and photographer in High School. I worked for a local free paper and had to be driven to assignments by my parents. I also helped run my father's photo lab and studio and learned how to work both the "one hour" equipment and digital (first generation) colour enlarger better than anyone. I would also hand touch up antique photos.

I fucked up a lot of High School relationships. Some of them were so important, they have shaped who I am today. Due to one boyfriend, I am a body art enthusiast, even though he never got to see me tattooed or with crazy hair. I never should have hurt him like I did. I'm so sorry B.

I went off to college with my last High School boyfriend and fucked that up so epically that four years later incoming Freshman would meet me and say "oh you're THAT Kir..." If you are going to do something, do it well. I'm so sorry T.

In college I both flourished and floundered, flew and failed. I really got involved in the slice and dicing of my flesh. If you ask I'll show you the scars. They are all quite visible.

I took up acting because one of the professors in my "First Year Program," who was also my early English lit prof, was the only American on the Board of Directors of the Globe Theatre and would have a small travelling Shakespearean theatre company perform at our university annually. They did a class showing acting and line reading styles and my prof chose me to act out the "palms kiss" scene from "Romeo and Juliet," with Romeo.

I got to kiss him, in front of 100 students.


People came up to me for weeks, "are you the girl who kissed that guy?" Yup!

Enrolled in Beginning to Acting the next semester.

My degree is a double major, BA English Writing/Speech & Theater. Thank you Shakespeare.

Also I fucked an actor from that group every single year I was in college. But not Romeo. One guy I went for because he looked ah-fucking-amazing in a dress.

I also tended to sleep with, date, or otherwise fool around with, members of the all-male acapello group on campus. Took three or four virginities just from them.

Met my best friend and soul mate in a bathroom Freshman year. He was telling someone how to get blood out of their shirt while holding onto a sink for dear life. I was considering the pros and cons of puking. We still talk all the time. He's gay in case you were wondering.

I did a lot in college. At one point I was used as an initiation ritual for a fraternity in which I believed I was safe and respected. It may have been retribution for fucking one of the brothers and not accepting his number. I don't know if he was there. I don't remember much until I woke up naked, behind a sheet hung from the ceiling, on a pile of clothing, next to a fresh faced boy who's name I never knew. I remembered this all at once last year when a coworker, being inappropriately "funny" asked "so where does one get roofies anyway?" And I responded "no idea, I haven't had any since that time I woke up in a frat on a pile of clothes." If you could have seen the look on his face. And I'm okay. Honest.

There was the fivesome with a bunch of gay and almost gay guys. The threesome because, well why not? The bet I could get a guy off with head in less then ten minutes, that I lost because he was a freak so I had to fuck his roommate. Rape culture much? The time I made out with a girl while our professor was passed out with his legs over us both. He is gay. I shroomed with him. Did a lot of pot with him too. Wanted very much to fuck him. Couldn't, so I fucked the guys he had crushes on.

Posed nude for art classes senior year. For the professor from whom I was taking a class. That's not awkward at all. Told my dad what I was doing and he said, "moisturize really well so you don't itch while posing." Good advice.

Last year a classmate sent me an email with copies of the nudes he had drawn of me.

The school chaplan found out I was a witch and started inviting me to all the interfaith events. Love being a "token."

Came home to my dorm one night Senior year to find a message on my answering machine threatening my life. It was a girl who's voice I didn't recognize. One of the school security guards offered me his home or a hotel room while they investigated, but I didn't have a car to get to campus. They never found out who it was. I learned how to throw knives in the woods behind campus, just in case.

I survived college. Obviously.

I have continued to pose nude for various artists and a local college since moving to my current area, just not in years. Although I would like to be photographed I think. One artist sold a painting of me several years ago for a few hundred dollars. She had painted me with much bigger boobs.

Since graduating I've been a nude model, bartender, ASPCA shelter manager, secretary, marketing manager, vet tech and now telemarketer and cam model.

No crazy sexy stories since college. But I have hand fed two bald eagles and an albino wallaby. I learned how to handle birds on a great horned owl. I hate cockatiels. I was knocked back into an xray viewing light bank by a dog in 2007 and that may have started the chronic vertigo.

I used to keep dermestid beetles in order to clean skeletons (road kill mostly) and have the preserved skeleton of one of my pet rats in a shadow box in the dining room.

After years of dying my hair, it all broke off and for a long time I had to keep my hair buzzed to 1/4".

As an infant, around the time I was in commercials, I was bitten by a dog, on the face, and almost lost my left eye and sinuses.

My left hand was crushed when I worked at the animal shelter (1998) during a tornado. I still don't have full mobility or strength.

I met 2 of the original animators for Walt Disney Studios when I was in Junior High School and had no idea what to ask. I think I asked something about drawing Bambi's mother's death and tried not to cry from nerves.

In 2009 I met Tom Savini, Jason Mewes and Corey Haim at Monster Mania. I should have taken Jay up on his compliment that he like my tattooes and "pretty mouth" and asked what he would like me to do with it.

Lost my well paying job with full benefits to cutbacks, and home to a flood in the same week in 2005. That's how I ended up where I am. In the house we still might not be able to keep. Doing what I'm doing to survive and hopefully making new stories for my memoire.

Maybe I'll get to meet Isaac Marion in real life and make some inappropriate suggestions...

Fucking bananas

And no, I don't mean I've gone fucking bananas. I mean "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING BANANAS!"

The last time I intentionally ate a banana, I was in elementary school. I've been allergic to them now for about 3 DECADES. Within the last two years, my allergy has gotten exponentially worse. Think "peanut allergies on a plane" bad. Like, I probably should not go to small ice cream parlors where they serve banana splits, bad. I discovered this delightful turn of events at my telemarketing job over a year and a half ago when a coworker peeled a banana to snack on during work and I immediately began to itch and lose my voice, he was behind me 20 feet away. I never saw the banana. It became policy that there were to be no bananas peeled at all in the office while I was there. But apparently some people always have to push the envelope; "What if I bring it already cut up in fruit salad?" "What about banana yogurt?" "What about if it is just in its skin in my bag?" "What if I eat it over there?"

FUCK YOU ALL! I have two, count them, TWO, allergic reactions to these fucking fruits. One causes me to itch like crazy. The other CLOSES MY THROAT and CONSTRICTS MY LUNGS!

I do not have a doctor.

I do not have an epi-pen. (Yes I know that sucks, but I just don't.)

I should not be afraid to go to work because people just have to have a fucking banana at snack time.

Needless to say, there was a banana peel in the lunch room garbage when I got to work tonight. After 2 hours, I sounded like Minnie Mouse and had started scratching holes in my hands. I got sent home.

I'm going to lose my sick/personal/vacation time, because someone didn't think that I would react to something that was left in a communal area that I use.


Oh and by the way, I'm also allergic to benadryl and will likely die if I take it. Last time I was given it I was a toddler and I went into a coma.

Fuck you allergies.

Tired. Are we surprised?

So I'm pet sitting this week.

Job number three. Not including parenting, which is the first and most important vocation in my life at this point. (Now that we got that out of the way...)

I have a few pet sitting clients that hire me several times a year. They are the absolute opposite in requirements. One has me go every other day to scoop the cat boxes and refresh their food and water and feed the turtles. Maybe medicate the one cat if I can catch him. But the client I'm working for this week, she's different.

Four cats, two rats, one high needs client.

I have to go twice a day (medication for one cat does require it, I understand this). She expects me to play with the one cat with "his" flashlight before meals. I have to portion out their food between five bowls (one is a puzzle bowl to increase activity). I must socialize the rats, as well as investigate for any illness. Take in the mail (that makes sense), put out the garbage and this time, do the dishes. And you should see the notes she leaves me. Also phone calls. With lots of weird laughing. She's odd.

Honestly the cats and rats are fantastic and all this is pretty easy, but I do have to drive there twice a day. Since we only have one good car in the family, I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that what I would do is go over before I head to work and then again after I'm done with the cam modeling. This way Hubby has the car during the day to go to and from his job.

Even though I generally stay up stupid late (and make bat Twitter decisions during the wee hours), this having to drive out after caming is killing me. I just can't seem to come back and head straight to bed. This morning I ended up having a bath at 3:30 a.m. Then the Wildflower Child wakes up by 9:00 a.m. most mornings. Sometimes she will let me stay in bed until 10:30 a.m. if I am very very lucky.

I need sleep.

This week I work Saturday morning at the telemarketing job. So unless I can nap Saturday afternoon, I don't see much chance for sleep until Sunday.

And yes, I'm whining. I'm tired. I love cam modeling, and I'm grateful for my shitty telemarketing job, and I am so happy I get to be Mama every day for so much of the day, but damn it, I'm tired.

I want a vacation. I can't go on vacation. But I want one.

Wildly aroused...

Sundays on my cam site are generally greatly disappointing. I don't know if everyone is simply exhausted from their weekend, or too stressed about the coming week, but I rarely make good money or have satisfying sessions. And yet I continue to sign on, week after week. Always optimistic.

Last night started out same as most. Several individuals popped in and out of my room with increasingly odd requests. At one point I asked my steadfast friends if it was "Fucked Up Fetish Sunday?" I'm very open-minded and not much shocks me, but I was once again confronted with an incest fetish, someone asked if I had bubblegum, another wanted to get me pregnant and left when I said that wasn't possible. (Yes, I can likely have more children, but I'm 37-years-old and pregnancies in my lineage are often complicated, the risk isn't worth it at this stage, also I don't want to get pregnant by some anonymous asshole who wants to knock-up random women just to prove he can. So I wasn't willing to play along.) And I know there was another bizarre request, but for some reason I can't remember it.

I was blessed to have several friends spend great deals of time in my free room. I'm always happier when I have friendly handles keeping me company. And they were there when a new member came in. I don't know if he wanted to shock me or was truly discovering his sexuality. I asked him what he had been doing this evening as he had told me he just come home. "Sucking cock miss."


"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes miss."

The repeated use of "miss" clued me into his submissive nature. Or at least his appearance of being submissive, as there is only so much I can take for granted on the cam site. He went on to tell me his girlfriend had set up a scene in which he was supposed to be humiliated, but he wasn't. He enjoyed it. He wanted a master. I wanted a sub.

My concern was, if any of this is real, that his girlfriend was taking advantage of his submission and tried to push him passed his limits without consent. Of course I have no idea what the details were, I was only guessing, but if it was true, I wanted to take away the taint of desired humiliation and give him what I enjoy, control, with respect. And my dominant side clicked into place firmly. I rose up on my knees, thighs spread, hands on my legs and stared into the camera and continued asking him questions about the scene and his desires.

My friends kept commenting privately that seeing me like this, even though I was only wearing a blue t-shirt and lace panties, not anything particularly outlandish or sexy, was turning them on or intriguing them. Which was a nice side effect. I felt powerful and magnetic. Eventually I ordered him to take me private. Which he did, immediately.

I promised him a fantastic orgasm, but he had to do everything I said. Even without a cam, he agreed, and I proceeded to work him through a controlled masturbation session that would result in my orgasm as well. Unfortunately he hit his daily spending limit before we were done, but he did come back to free chat and agree to be my sub, which is great.

Needless to say (after a lot of words), this has me wildly aroused, still! I took some of that sexual energy to another session that was completely delightful and satisfying and mutual, and the continued approval and lust from different sources just has me ready to take on the world! I feel like Messalina the Younger without all the cruelty and ultimate execution. ;-)

Meditations on being a switch

"You would be a good ruler. Submissives always make the best rulers."

I'm my free chat room last night, a friend was joking about how I should have my own ladies in waiting and a duchy. I was laughing about whether or not I'd be able to fuck the ladies in waiting and how many gentlemen callers I'd have, and that I'd be fair and equal to my subjects, when a new member made a comment about me being submissive. And it took me by surprise. To be fair I was wearing a tight black brocade corset, lace boyshorts, black lace top thigh highs and my killer black ruffled heels. And the makeup was totally vamp. I had commented that the corset was bothering me so I changed my position to kneeling to take the pressure off my ribs. The member typed "sit up." No "please." And I did. Then settled back down on my heels for the conversation.

I'm used to posing as asked, it is one way to get private sessions. I tend to demand a please, depending on my mood, or make a comment about how that's all you get in free.

That comment wiggled around in my brain for a moment and I just had to ask, "what made you think I'm a submissive? I'm actually a 'switch.'"

We ended up having a very interesting and intriguing conversation about "the scene" and his involvement in it.

I have had only virtual encounters recently, and only with D/S (Domination/Submission), I don't participate in Bondage/Domination or SadoMasochism. But the encounters I've had, have been incredibly fulfilling and I shared a bit of that with this new member.

About a decade ago I was very into B/D with light restraint (four part tie down, no handcuffs, blindfolding) and sensation play (feathers, fingernails, hot wax, no beating/flogging/whipping). It has been years since I've tied, or been tied down. Might be time to try it again...

I have a current partner who's particular flavor of play made me go to the great internet to figure out exactly what we were doing. I have known him for about six months now and every single one of our sessions, from the very start, has been wildly fulfilling and eye opening. He is nothing but respectful and appreciative and humorous. The first time he came to my room on the cam site, I knew he was different. I don't remember the exact series of events, or why I submitted so quickly and easily to his directions, but I was comfortable, and safe. Never saw his face, or heard his voice, only the typed directions and his responses to my obedience. I had at least three orgasms that first time. I was stunned. Simply by submitting to his directions and following them exactly, my arousal was heightened dramatically. He never once called me a derogatory name, never threatened, never showed any signs of disappointment. If I accidentally sped up or slowed down, he would gently correct me, and he was right. The slow steady buildup and down to the second control of my masturbation was wildly effective. Still is. And no, he doesn't require me to call him "Master" and has not called me his submissive, even though we are in a D/S scenario.

What is fascinating, and apparently true from what I have read and heard through my limited grapevines, is I have most of the "power' in that situation. It is my pleasure he is working toward, his orgasm is held off for as long as possible and it is only when I become completely overwhelmed with pleasure that he cums. I have been able to see his face the last several sessions, and I can see what my behavior does to him, how tightly he controls his own responses in order to maintain the session for as long as possible. And I tease him and tell him that I would love to reverse the roles, although I believe he is incapable of being a switch. He is always amused.

These sessions always leave me satisfied and content. I have willingly let go of control for a little while, and have regained a sense of balance and calm. What makes this work so well for me, besides the financial benefits of being paid well for my time, is the mutual respect and trust between us. I know, truly know, that he would never try to hurt me or push my limits too far. And he knows that I will do whatever he asks of me, knowing what my limits are. It is a perfectly balanced and completely erotic scenario that I enjoy passionately. Also he calls me things like "perfect sexy goddess" and that gets you very far.

There is also a man who comes to me specifically to be told exactly what I'm going to have done to him. He has a certain fetish that I am particularly well suited to. He wants forced body modification. Not for real, just to imagine sitting in that chair at the piercing studio and forced to be visibly, heavily, modified. I don't even have to take off my panties. He has actually said that I am "too good!" at this scenario as he orgasms relatively quickly from the detailed nature of my suggestions. He feels badly that I lose out on money because he won't stick around after he cums. He keeps coming back though, so it works out in the end.

Another client likes to worship me and show me his body and do whatever I tell him to do while he masturbates. I am kind, but firm, and try to keep him going as long as possible (time is money) and also because I know that if I bring him to the brink and then keep him there, he will have an amazing, body encompassing orgasm. The blissful look on his face when he finally comes, is a great reward. Often I will play with myself during the scenario and make sure that I have at least one, if not multiple orgasms before he is allowed his. Win-win for all.

Do I want to don a latex dress and six inch heels and have random anonymous encounters with people draped in whips and chains? Never. I'm allergic to latex. Also I don't particularly enjoy anonymity. Yes that is how I make the majority of my cam living, masturbating or posing for people hiding behind a handle and obscuring their faces. But for a truly successful and enjoyable scenario that involves any sort of Domination/Submission, I have to know the other person at least a little bit. Unless you are as perfectly matched to me as that first partner I discussed. And it has only gotten better as we have had numerous sessions over the last six months.

Why do I enjoy these control games so much?

I believe because it removes the impulse to over think. When I am being directed, I trust that the directions will lead me to a place of deep and intense pleasure. And so far I have not been disappointed. When I do the directing, I know I am giving a gift of pleasure. And with both I am filled with mutual respect, trust and admiration. These scenes stand out in my new career as a sex worker, because they require more intimacy and trust than just grabbing the nearest toy and getting myself off. And the members involved know this, totally. A good D/S scene for me is all about pleasure and respect and knowing how to play each other to the best frequency. And I am so blessed to have found the partners I have to express this side of me.

Yet another stream of consciousness daydream...

Away from you, I imagine your smell and your taste. Your touch. Your breath. The rise and fall of your chest. The pulse in your neck. Your hands on my hips. The comforting crush of your arms holding me tight. The familiar sound of your voice whispering in my ear.

I laugh quietly to myself, thinking of the fun we've had, will have. Planning, imagining, anticipating. Feeling my fingers in your hair, teeth on your flesh, nails in your skin. Wanting to kneel before you, drag my fingers gently down your body to your thighs, spread your knees. Your breath catches as you feel me come closer, teasing, promising. Vulnerable before you, but in control, I take you, all of you, steal your strength. Drink you dry.

"Lay back." Two small words filled with promise.

I lay back, naked and open before you, welcoming your attention. The weight of your gaze feels like fingers, stroking my face, my breasts, the belly I'm so self-conscious of... I spread my legs wider, wrap them around you, feel your breath on me, warming what is already hot and eager.

Your hair tickles my thighs and I squirm, you grab me around the hips and hold me tight, keeping me still so I can enjoy what you enjoy giving. Mouth and tongue and fingers, you play me like a musical instrument, crescendos of pleasure crashing over us both.

All the wanting and waiting and tension and frustration and desire explodes over me. Ecstasy fills me as the reality is better than any passing dream.

I pull your hair and lift your head, lock our eyes together and drag you too me. I want to wrap myself around you, swallow you whole, feel you in me. Be one. For as long as time will let us.

My mobile umbilical cord

I vaguely remember a time when I would haunt the mailbox waiting for a long love letter. Or come home from school and wait for the phone to ring, unless I was already on the phone wrapped around 10+ feet of cord listening to someone breathe on the other end. If I was in my NJ home I'd be lounged on the steps leading out of the kitchen. If I was in NH, I would either be in my room or perched on the kitchen counter, or maybe even on the back stoop with the cord snaked out through a crack in the door jam. (Divorced parents.)

If I wasn't home, I wasn't waiting.

Even in college, I almost never checked email, and mostly looked for actual physical mail in my second to the very last mail box in the University Post Office. I went to college between '93 and '97, bulletin boards and chat rooms were becoming the thing. Even MySpace didn't exist. And virtually no one had a mobile phone. Hell I remember the first car phones (wired in) and then mobile phones the size of a small suitcase that weighed more than my toddler.

Hubby and I got our first cell phones maybe a decade ago, for emergency use only. I don't even remember the phone number. I almost never used it. It was a Motorola bar style phone if I remember correctly. I'm not sure why or how I got my first "smartphone." It was a T-Mobile Sidekick. Not the first model, because the screen was in color. I know I had it when we moved to our current home in 2005. Having that phone got me checking email obsessively and following random Google searches for hours.

That phone died in 2008 and I got my second Sidekick with the lime green body and better screen. But the service was starting to be a real problem. And I was now on Facebook every single day and taking my phone to bed to surf porn or follow more random Google searches.

For the last two and a half years I have had a Droid 2. It is beat up and slightly cracked (body, not screen) and looks absolutely ancient in comparison to the latest models of smartphones. But it has this one little thing I can't live without. At the upper right corner of the phone, there is a teeny tiny little light that flashes if I have an email or text or other notification. I spend hours looking for that light. For a teeny tiny indication that someone has reached out to me. I look for that light to distract me from the tedium of telemarketing, to assure me I have been heard by someone to whom I've sent a text or email, to feel connected.

I just had to change my phone plan to save us money while we try to save the house. My father wanted me to get rid of data all together, and went on a rant about how I use the internet to cocoon and insulate myself. I see it as just the opposite. I reach out and connect with those around me through my Facebook accounts and emails and texts. I feel so alone if I don't see that flashing light.

I kept 1GB of data on the plan, just so I can check email and Facebook while I'm away from home.

So what's up with the tattoos Kir?

If you've seen my show, or know me in real life, you know I have several tattoos. I currently have four (five if you count the one that's covered up).

I have two on my chest that make up one chest piece of four roses.

One large double cat portrait on my leg.

One life sized red spotted purple butterfly on my right inner forearm.

Next week I am getting another butterfly, a common buckeye, on my right outer forearm.

So why do I have the tattoos?

Firstly, because I think tattoo art is beautiful. I love body modification in general but a good tattoo is a living piece of art. Permanently part of the temporary flesh. Constant, and transient. Not to mention the connection between the person who has the art on their skin, the artist who put it there. It is a trusting and intimate act to allow someone to put their mark on you like that.

Unfortunately it took me a long time to be that clear in my view of tattooing. I have a fairly large piece of flash tribal art under the roses on the right side of my chest. I went with my younger sister to her tattoo appointment, and decided I needed one, but I didn't have any money, so I had to find something that would cost what she could afford to give me.

Not a good way to pick out a tattoo by the way. I hated it almost immediately. But it took nine years to find the right artist to cover it up with roses. Then I had her do the other side to make it a chest piece. I've now had my roses for almost 7 years. Roses are my birth flower by the way. And I absolutely love them. I am however allergic to virtually everything rose scented.

The cats on my leg are Luna Moth and Penelope Jane. Luna Moth was the first kitten (not cat) that the Hubby and I adopted after we became engaged. Penelope was the first cat I adopted from the veterinary hospital at which I worked for three years. Luna had a congenital heart condition and wasn't expected to live a full life. So it was important to me to get the tattoo while she was still alive. Seven and a half hours in one sitting for that tattoo. Hurt like hell, but I'm so glad I got it. And the artist was absolutely fantastic. This was way back in 2009 and her shop was tiny then. Glad to see she's getting so successful.

The butterfly is actually the start of what will eventually be a sleeve (wonder if I should have told the artist that). It is placed where my daughter would rest her head when she was cuddled or breastfeeding as an infant. Also it is blue, which she keeps saying is her favorite colour. Eventually I will have ten butterflies. When she was born, the Wildflower Child was a bit fussy. I wouldn't call it colic, but she did have reflux and would not be soothed easily sometimes. I had symptoms of PPD (although was not treated or evaluated and couldn't talk about it at the time) and would be so scared she would never stop crying. My mother was visiting once and started singing "Ten Little Indians" to her which seemed to help. But seriously, I can't sing that. So I changed the words to "Ten Little Butterflies." 

I've sung that little ditty thousands of times. Even painted a canvas for her second xmas with ten butterflies and the words. 

1 little, 2 little, 3 little butterflies
4 little, 5 little, 6 little butterflies
7 little, 8 little, 9 little butterflies
10 little butterflies
Watch them fly...

So that's what each of them mean. And gives you an idea that I am willing to travel for good artists. But why now? Why am I getting tattooed now, and so quickly getting piece after piece? 

Because I feel like I'm running out of time. I just found Matty, the artist doing my butterflies, and I honestly don't know how long I'm going to be in the region and able to have him work on me. And not only is his work outstanding, I'm comfortable with him, which is rare and beautiful. And I don't want to lose the chance for him to work on me if we have to move. 

Also, the tattooing keeps me from doing something worse. 

I'm a cutter. Have been for as long as I can remember. Long before adolescence and being a typical damaged teenager. As a middle school child I would stick straight pins in my fingers and arms. Pick at scratches until they ripped open, poke at bruises. 

I know the general image of a cutter is a high school or college aged, underweight overachiever or recluse who is just vying for attention or will grow out of it. 

Well here I am, 37-year-old, mother, wife, cam model, telemarketer, sometimes pet sitter or artist. And my fingers tremble almost every time I change the razor blade in my shaving razor (which happens to be a double sided safety razor by the way). My scars are old and mostly white and some are fading, but I can tell you about all of them. They were all hidden and lied about. Never used to get attention. I bled to ease the pressure and pain that I live with and have lived with most of my life. Like some archaic kinship with the surgeons of ages past that would open a vein or apply leeches to treat the vapors, I would rend my flesh because I couldn't cry, or when crying wasn't enough. I would draw a blade across my wrist or ankle or arm, to live. 

Oh the irony of using wrist cutting as a way to avoid suicide. 

That's what I did. The sharp, hot/cold sliver of pain. The liquid smear of scarlet and then burgundy on my skin. Focused me. Brought me back from the fog of disbelief in a future. The simple acts of cleaning and bandaging reminded me that I have to take care of myself. 

It was a coping mechanism. One I do not allow myself, ever, anymore. 

I haven't cut in over 7 years. But damn the urge is there. And with everything going on right now, the house, the DUI, life in general, I feel like I'm sinking sometimes into a hole of despair. Not all the time, but enough. But I do not reach for the blade. Ever. 

Now when I look at my wrist, I also see the butterfly on my arm. And I am reminded in bright colour, what not to do. That I have to stay strong and whole and intact for my daughter. I need to model better coping skills (anyone have an idea of what?) for her. 

So turn to art and creation. And make something beautiful out of an ugly urge. 

Also tattooing feels very similar to how cutting did. So that helps. 

First day of Alcohol & Highway Safety classes

At 8:55 a.m. I'm sitting the basement of my counties offices building with a strange cross section of humanity. Our only shared traits being our species, and that at some time in the recent past we were arrested for DUI.

There are people I would guess to be college students, a pair of what look like stay-at-home moms, at least one possibly hardened criminal based on the tattoos I can see scrawled on his neck and knuckles, and everyone in between, which includes me.

I've been awake since 3:00 a.m. No matter how many times my family tells me to shake this off, I can't. I still feel the stomach churning guilt and shame I did when the officer put the handcuffs on me.

I'm so tired.

As more people come in, the room fills. The instructor, or whatever she is called, pops in to tell us that she normally waits until about 10 passed to let people get there. She actually seems quite nice and down to earth. Not at all like the vulgar and bitter bitch that conducted the "ARD interview" several months ago and said we all lie through our teeth and will probably fuck up again.

There is a startlingly beautiful young man sitting diagonally behind me. Which makes me feel frumpy and fat in my old gray fleece, week old jeans and scuffed combat boots. I should have done my hair...

The woman sharing a table with me is perfectly coiffed and made up and very pretty, if a little hard around the edges. I think she might actually be a little younger than I am, but looks older around the eyes. Turns out she is a single mom (not stay-at-home), and was arrested inside her home for DUI.

We eventually share our arrest stories and it is astonishing the so many of us really were just trying to get home, or don't normally go out. One (the beautiful boy), had found a safe place to park his car because he had worked all day, had two drinks with his boss and was too tired to drive home. Arrested for being in his car with a 0.08 bac.

Some are obviously hard drinkers. Several have multiple offenses. One just got out of jail after over two years for a second DUI.

I am embarrassed and horrified by the behavior of police officers in too many of the stories. Where are the good cops, the ones I have known all my life? The ones who don't terrorize children while arresting their parents, or keep people in the patrol car for two hours before taking them to a hospital after a crash?

Next week I have to dress better.

The class is actually easier than I thought it would be and we get out in a timely manner.

And on a whim and because I needed to, I stopped by my newest tattoo artist's shop to schedule the next butterfly. I'll be inked again in a week.