Girls with Tattoos

Things bore me. I pick up a book—an interesting book with lots of fucking at the beginning—put it down, and start another with less fucking and less descriptions of the female form. I begin a short story—or a post, or a poem—just to save the draft and forget about it. This listless ennui disheartens its prey so that it just sits and waits, never making a move and it is never taken.

And people bore me, too. As a youth, I jumped from crush to crush. When I felt that pang of nostalgia, I returned to an earlier fantasy girl and indulged myself. Maybe I’m just bored of myself.

This morning, Katie sent me a text message. She feels alone in this world, reaching out for some comfort. I replied, “Me, too. But probably not the in the same way.” My aloneness involves the need to wrap my hand in her (the royal her, not subjective her) hair and pull with just the right amount of force as I’m entering her from behind. The sudden urge for semi-violent sex—no, let’s call this what it is, fucking, because even sex is sweet with a hint of romance, even though it’s illusion—has filled my head. And while I do have my preference, I’m willing to sacrifice the want for the need of fulfilling these sexual urges.

Early into my adolescence, the pages of Playboy provided the entire erotic experience necessary to ease my imbalanced hormones. Later Penthouse and sexually explicit films that I obtained through various sources, could only get me off. Still, the sex in the films were rather vanilla. And the women were cut from the same fabric, pulled from the same mold. Plastic and silicone and saline. When I came (no pun intended) across Suicide Girls, it was a welcoming gateway into “alt porn.” It’s just like porn, only alternative. The girls here were a little more natural, though still very airbrushed. In my mid to late twenties, the works of Eon McKai enraptured my attention. Porn stars like Sasha Grey, Stoya, Lexi Belle—those willing to up the ante, as it were—became subjects of my fantasies, which I wrote down throughout my days of writing porn for a year.

The world fell into a crudely explicit scenario for me in which I began to question the kinks of those around me. The younger me might have masturbated until he is red and raw had he known what was going through the mind of my adult self. Not to mention shocked by the fact that what I once considered a turn off has become the focal point of my lusts. Girls with tattoos spread across large areas of their bodies, girls with nipple and facial rings, girls who aren’t socially accepted as beautiful. And the violence. Oh the violence.

Not abuse. Not rape. Nothing that isn’t consensual, but the roughness of fucking. The hair pulling. The choking. The pushing up against the wall, while letting our lusts take our respective pilot seat. The devouring of each others sins.  The perfect marriage of things both beautiful and depraved.

Kiss, Don't tell
Kiss, Don’t tell (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I Don’t Care if It’s Klingon or Na’vi”

Exhibit A
Exhibit A

Every now and again, I have a spike in visitors and views. Today is one of those days. No idea why, though. “Bailey Jay nude pics penis hard on” hasn’t even made an appearance (though after this post, I can guarantee that it will). So that just leaves a sudden interest in reading what I have to say, which, if you really want to know, is very little. Hell, most of this blog is just complaints.

Yesterday marked my first week of being a thirty-year-old. I have to say, I feel no difference from the time I spent being, say, twenty-six – mentally. Physically, I’m a wreck. The parts that I want working still function. I still have my hair and my sight. However, stamina and flexibility have gone out the door (get your head out of the gutter). However, that has little to do with age. It has more to do with my lifestyle up to this point. And age.

Gay Pride Parade 2007 NYC
Exhibit B.

And with age comes looking back to my younger self. I never beat around the bush (when asked) about my sexuality. That is to say, I claim to lack one. This isn’t admittance of being asexual (I have a child, though that doesn’t mean a think, actually). All I’m saying is, I don’t see things as gay, straight, or whatever. Why limited yourself, is all I’m stating.

I find myself attracted to several facets in a person, not just what’s between their legs or what decorates their chests. Some asshole decided to give this “non-subscription of sexual labels” a label. I’m a postmodern sexual being, or a PoMo Sexual.  Of course, I’ve discussed this before. Several times, actually. On various places.

Exhibit C.
Exhibit C.

In high school, if one were to ask me, I called myself bisexual. Now that isn’t true. While I did get the opportunity to kiss a boy I crushed on hard, it wasn’t him being a boy that turned me on to him. It was his charisma. Other men (post high school) that I found myself attracted to were philosophers in their own respect.

For me, love is one part sexual/physical attraction, one part intellectual attraction, and one part emotional attachment. If I can’t learn anything from you, it’s likely that there’s no future for us. Trust is big in any relationship, though I couple it with emotional attachment. Sexual attraction, though I’ve denied other wise, is also important. Usually, though, I attribute the animal urges to my attraction to the metaphysical. Though, as I’ve said, redheads catch my eye nine times out of ten. They’re trouble and I’m just attracted to the trouble. Moving on, though.

I’ve denied myself any relationship with someone of the same sex (that shipped sailed when I held one higher above the rest). Nor have I ever been with someone of the “third sex.” But people and their genders aren’t notches on a belt. It’s just realizations. Damn, I was young once. But that fun and fancy free bullshit wasn’t for me, anyway.

I’m sure I had a purpose to this post, but the poetry reading starts in about ten minutes. In summation, though, talk nerdy to me. Yeah. I’m sure that’s the moral of this post.

Bailey Jay at AVN Awards 2011
Exhibit D

Naughty by Nature

“Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.” –Marilyn Monroe

A Vegan Tale

In college, the honor society I belonged to was stationed next door to the vegan organization. We became sworn enemies after a situation that transpired between them and an unknown assailant. We joked about it, they overheard, words were said, and a thirty-minute feud began. It ended with them calling us lost causes. They were insulted because we meat-eaters were bashing their beliefs. None of this matters; it has no important role in the post I’m about to type. In fact, the only reason I bring it up is because of what happened the morning of the feud. When they found about what the unknown assailant’s actions, I was there to overhear their reaction. One sentence left them open to fair game.

“People don’t like to be told they’re living the wrong way.”


The trailer for the “film,” Harmless, graced my Google Reader. If you haven’t heard of it, count your blessings. It’s a cross between Paranormal Activity and a piece of religious nonsense. Don’t believe me? Watch it. I’ll wait.

Right?! Okay. Lemme quote from the webpage:

 Society learns their morals and values through music, film and television. Pornography is such a huge problem that simply telling someone how dangerous it is usually doesn’t work. You have to tell a compelling story to catch someone’s attention and then educate them while they’re being entertained.

The problem with pornography isn’t pornography itself, it’s addiction. Pornography does not tear families apart. It doesn’t cause rape. It doesn’t distort relationships, doesn’t fuck up children. Most of all, it doesn’t bring ghosts to your house, doesn’t possess your children.

It’s just the same way that drugs don’t tear people’s lives apart. It’s the addiction to them. The same way that Muppets don’t make children Communists. The same way that Harry Potter doesn’t turn children toward witchcraft.

A culture of cowards

Recently, some Catholic commentator stated that pornography makes men cowards. I find nothing cowardly about indulging in one’s pleasures, expanding one’s sexual palate.  And I find it a bit ironic, considering that I find nothing more cowardly than hiding behind imaginary friends in hopes to give our lives meaning.

What’s my point?

A while back, we had this book in the children’s department at the library that caused a stink with one parent. Apparently, she found it offensive. Therefore, no child should ever read it. Now, I don’t know who the don-mega bitch was, but it irks me that parents still do this. When they find something inappropriate for their children, they deem it inappropriate for all children.

I’ve only been a parent for a month, so I don’t have the “expertise” that this woman claims she has, but I can say that being a parent gives me license to watchdog what my child is exposed to. It does not, however, give me license to parent the whole world.

Christians and misguided individuals (to me are usually the same) think that because they are offended by something – or are wildly attracted to something that makes them feel guilty – then the whole world must not have it. So what I’m saying is, if you don’t like porn, don’t watch it.

But for fuck’s sake, don’t go forcing your beliefs down my throat like a an immense cock.

Writing & Writers

I was a teenage mascara boy

During my A.D.I.D.A.S. phase (aka my Korn phase)

It’s a nickname – a moniker, if you will – given to me by an ex-girlfriend’s older sister. I don’t know where it came from. As memory serves me, I never once wore mascara. I wore eyeliner on occasion – mostly for Halloween. The habit of having Miranda dress me up like her masochistic Barbie doll played a role, maybe. It’s nothing to think about, just something that popped into my mind.

[There is a message here, but the signal’s breaking up]

Error 404

This disease eats people from the outside in. That way, their souls are the last to go. Some travel to Shangri-La for cures, only to find the land barren – a waste zone of decay and boredom.

For centuries we looked to the skies in hopes to find our significance. When nothing happened, we started making up gods and fictions to explain our higher reason. To mark our dominance over the terrain and fauna. Created rules. Social norms bestowed upon the people.

We covered our histories in myths. Fabricated our origins. Created messiahs. Sacrificed them to feel closer to our fictional creators. Then huffed the opium in.


“C’mon, you telling me you’re asexual?”

“No. I just don’t prescribe to sexuality.”

“Which means, you’re asexual. No?”

“No. I like sex. I don’t like to limit myself.”

“So you’re bisexual?”


Once I might have labeled myself. I suppose we all do at one time or another. If you deny this, you’re a bold-faced liar. Truth is, sexuality isn’t black, white or gray. It’s really not existent. It’s something we created.

I’m not sexually attracted to men. I’m not sexually attracted to women. I’m sexually attracted to humans, their minds. Their emotions.


Please don’t make me drink it. The force of the syrup slips through my lips, fills my mouth and slithers down my throat. I’m intoxicated by the flavor. I’ve been off the junk for weeks. Months. It’s hard to remember. The days here just bleed into the next. The clocks on the wall are all broken. They’re all stuck on the sixth hour. Lined up in a roll like that. They say that it’s a fiction here. We come here to forget. Some of us don’t even remember why we came.

My memories aren’t so erased. Not yet. The junk spews from every faucet, on every street. A buck fifty will get you the better shit. You thinking that things like this ain’t a big deal.

At the disco, forty-year-old men consort with the eighteen-year-old dancers looking for a good time. Their money isn’t worth shit here. They’ll suck out their souls, leaving behind the husks they’ve allowed themselves to become.

In the corner, the redhead tosses her head back in laughter. She’s seducing. She’s venom. She’s the moon. She’s the sun. She’s young and fishing. I knock back my drink and leave, escaping to the streets. Feeling nothing for  the others. Emotions aren’t here. They don’t exist. There is no guilt. Fuck it.

A couple of days longer and this will all be over, anyway. I won’t remember. I’ll be back on the train out of here. Memories erased.

Another Version of the Truth

Here I am. And yet, I’m not.

Books · Doldrums · Writing & Writers

Erotica? Why not?

Need I say more?

Disclaimer: In respect with the terms of service this site asks me to uphold, the links posted here are very “work safe.” That is, they link to sites like Wikipedia and the Daily Beast – a news blog of some sort – and other sites in the same manner. The nature of the post isn’t to promote pornography – or even discuss it, for that matter – but to talk about why I like erotic literature. With that in mind, I don’t know why I’m calling this italicized paragraph a disclaimer. It should be called a major let down. Am I wrong?

It’s no secret. In fact, I’m proud of it. I used to write blog for a porn site a few years back. It paid and I was in need of money, so why not? The site has since gone defunct – which, I like to state the runners were just using the site as a front and were really dealing drugs (but I’m a fiction writer, so what do I know?).

The gig asked to write short, 100-word entries about the porn clip I embedded. Which meant, I had to watch the clip – the secret is to watch the first few seconds, a few seconds in the middle and see how it ends. That gig lasted a year – 12 months, actually – before I threw in the towel and didn’t ask to renew my contract – yes, there was a contract involved.

Image via Wikipedia

Around the same time I was writing for the site, I also applied to write porn reviews. I got the job, but realized I had to pay for the membership to view said pornographic films and I’m just not the sort of guy who wants to pay to watch porn. I mean, who does that anymore? Not to mention the gig was reviewing homo-erotic films, which didn’t bug me. I’m not like most men who feel weirded out when two guys get it on – I did like the flick Shortbus, mind you, and laughed my ass off during the three-way scene. Coupled with the fact that I can’t write a review worth a lick of spit led me to turn down the job. Besides, pornography doesn’t amuse me in the way it’s supposed to, you know what I mean? Even during the times I was writing my posts for the blog, I felt silly. Even silly.

Where pornography fails to amuse me, Erotica attracts me. It always has, truth be told. While Erotica is usually (in theory, or stereotype) aimed toward women and gay men – at least market wise, considering there are several straight or “non-labeled” men who like reading erotica – I prefer reading over watching. Rather than watching porn, I prefer to watch erotic movies or shows. Where sex is presence, but isn’t gratuitous. Erotic holds sex in its purest state, in other words, where pornography bastardizes it, turns it into a caricature. And while the new wave of pornography is attempting a more arty, romantic and/or less cheesy stance – just look at the “arty,” skin flicks of Eon McKai – or don’t, I don’t care either way – it’s still porn. It’s like what Scott McGowan said about Eon’s films, “If people jack off to your art, then you’re not the artist you think you are.” Whereas erotica has merit, has a purpose and isn’t pretentiously calling itself art because others are doing the labeling for it.

And it’s not that I’m a prude – I have a sex shelf containing books of erotica and sex studies and philosophies – something I’ve been labeled because the lack of sex in my stories – trust me, there’s plenty of sexual frustration in my tales, what else motivates my characters to do the things they do? I’ve surprised a couple of people when admitting my admiration toward the erotic. It’s always the same reaction, “You? Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.” To which I reply, “I just never write about sex because I suck at it.” And you, like everyone else I say that to, can take it to mean anything you want.


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