Remembering one or the other of some Anniversary of Stonewall, thanks to several articles in Takimag.
It was one of the round-numbered anniversaries of Stonewall, the World Cup, some United Nations thing, and a BDSM convention in New York City, all at the same time.
I happened to book myself a room in a “stew zoo” hotel which also happened to be crawling with World Cup fans from all over the world. This has been a repeating inexplicable pattern in my life. I have been to the cities holding so many World Cup events that my CIA/NSA/ABCdefg… record must include the notation that I am a rabid soccer fan. I’m not. I couldn’t care less about any organized sports event even though I was a regular at the hotel which the U.S. team deigned to grace, upon the debut game of the new stadium in Hugo Chávez’s home state. I’m sure that it’s not in the least bit a coincidence that the game was U.S. v. Paraguay. (You guys can thank me for assisting with your menu specifications, albeit a whole lot of good that did you, right?)
It is not the least bit of coincidence that I was a regular at the hotel where Michael Rupert was poisoned (years before he decided to cash it in with poison of his own selection). Actually, it was a coincidence. There have been so many of them that I’m practically the Forrest Gump of transcended former teenaged runaways. But no, I’m not Chuck Barris. LOL
I could go on, because the World Cup and I are apparently karmically linked but it is of no significance. There.
I have often wondered whether the universe has created in me a sports muse, such that my powers of prognostication by way of travel itinerary are only effective when I could not care less about the event in question. My record is impressive!
It is also no significance that I have been present at various other iconic sports events which, when I mention, causes the eyes of some fans to mist over, and have shaken the hands of various iconic sports heroes. Nice guys but, sorry. I could not care less. I even slept with one of them, with ‘sleep’ not being a euphemism. We slept! ZZZZZZZzzzzzz. What a sweetheart. Thank you! You know who you are!
It was all a mistake. I had been mistaken for some sort of _____ groupie by his agents. When they offered to take me to “a party” to introduce me to _______, I said, “Party? Where? OK!”
For the record, he was furious with them. What a gentleman! Big kiss for you! You look so handsome these days! (I should have taken advantage of you and hope the commercial filming went well.)
Back to New York City cerca…’90’s…I don’t care to go look it up: There was a fire or something like it in the middle of the night and so the entire hotel was flushed out onto the streets of Manhattan. I was awake already because my married/not/married/almost divorced/divorced Dominant at the time, a Filipino pacemaker designer/engineer/consultant, who I was desperately in love with, had had a flight debacle which had delayed his arrival. While we were all outside, his taxi pulled up and discharged him.
Rather than accepting the offer to share a room with a world famous bullwhip artist and his (I don’t know) wife/slave/another slave/submissive/whatever(s) I wanted to share the room exclusively with Mr. Designer because I am not designed to be part of a harem. Besides, Mr. Designer desperately wanted to learn what I was all about because he was feverishly in love with me, or as manifested upon some other woman who told me so while displaying the characteristic marks Mr. Designer was so fond of imparting. I didn’t buy it. Asshole. How would you like it if I screamed the wrong name during my orgasm?
So, we went to the BDSM convention, attended a few lectures, and then we left and did the town. Mr. Designer bought me a lovely pair of Ferragamo shoes which, to him, resembled the shoes worn by Catherine Denevue in the movie, Belle de Jour, and then he left, forgetting his cufflinks in the drawer next to the bed. No. I didn’t pick them up. I didn’t even look in the drawer. I couldn’t care less.
I spent the rest of the weekend, drinking, flirting, and eating. This was before that tanker disaster off the coast of New Jersey, when the clams were big fat and juicy, and cost nearly nothing. I remember my linguini with clams just off Christopher Street, as my consolation prize for not getting nearly enough of the attention I expected for attending a national BDSM convention, where I knew maybe 15% of the attendees on sight if not by anything more. The shoes were for him. I couldn’t care less. I hated them all really. I never wanted to attend another BDSM convention. What a bunch of morons. Why not just have a stupid parade or something. Do you guys have any idea what true connection and intimacy is about? Hint. It’s not just a bunch of costumes, props, and a list of fetishes. Any child can adopt a costume, prop, and list of fetishes. Perhaps that is the whole point, you creepy creeps!
Months later when I crawled out of a bungalow at the Hotel Bel Air Christmas morning in which lay a different married man who I had no feelings for whatsoever, I realized that I could no longer afford a wealthy man. They always cost more than they gave, and all I would end up with would be some clothes or some crap that I didn’t even care about, plus another double scoop of bitterness.
Naturally, by the time I met up with my international con artist husband, I had forgotten all about that vow. I thought that he genuinely wanted and needed me. Scratch that. He needed me all right. But he couldn’t have cared less about me.
Similarly, I started attending BDSM events again with Axel but that’s because we had such magic and the spectacle we made was all part of the fun. It is amazing how easy it is to hide behind a charismatic erstwhile aspiring rock star turned BDSM star. Nobody need know that I am shy and uneasy in crowds. I was admired simply for being with him and I could keep silent and not disabuse admirers of their illusions by opening my mouth.
Here’s the thing. Although I’m not exactly “sugar baby” material now, then, or ever, it would be nice if my time were compensated in some manner for those things which I’m good at and particularly those of which that tend to make my bosses rich, along with the notion that I am adhering to an authority who I can actually accept as that authority. It would also be nice if sex to my liking were involved. It would be nice. Perhaps I might even get some love thrown into the occasion. Such would not be the case if I chose for my Dominant the U.S. Government or any government I’ve ever known or any corporation I’ve ever known. However, it would seem that the U.S. Government wants to be my Sugar Daddy if only I debase myself utterly, abandon my ethics, and submit myself to torture that gives me no pleasure whatsoever, over and over and over again. I do not consent! (Translation: I don’t want or need health insurance.)
I’d rather drink the contents of a super tanker. I’m a great swallower!
The problem with our Atheist Government is that they believe that we all want to live forever and are willing to obey and comply just for that.
Must I write a celebrity-tell-all gossip memoir in order to survive?
If any of you guys are reading this, consider this post a piece of soft extortion for your attention, in particular a certain iconic character actor who drove me out of my fucking mind with desire. Does a hot blonde wearing a black silk shorts outfit just outside of Tana’s, back when it was full of smokers, ring a bell? OK. You’d probably like it if I put your name into my memoirs because all I got from you was a few of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had. Wow. I still rub one off to your movies once in a while even though you never play the character you truly are. Click this Baby.